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There is a small boat tied with a length of leather to a tarnished silver pier. It is not Gabriels gondola, but it sweeps in slender fashion from end to end in same general manner, and there are garlands on it, of seaweed and of marigolds. Lyudmila holds out her hand, intending in some genteel forgotten way to communicate that he ought to help her aboard, and Oleg hurries to her.
The river is milky and thick as before, the cream in it a long golden ribbon. Lyudmila sits primly at the head of their craft and it drifts tranquilly downstream. She neither steers nor rows, but they keep their course. She gives him a smile like a present wrapped in red.
“I will take you anywhere you wish to go,” she says brightly.
Oleg touches her foot with his foot. Her color is high in the honey-sweet wind, he has never seen her like this. She is beautiful, he realizes, she grew up to be beautiful.
“Take me to a place where you and I may lie on a long bed with our knees tucked together. Take me to a place where I can make smoky tea that you will love to drink, where lemons grow and also where plovers sing at dusk. Take me to a place with a little mirror where I can shave, and a basin full of water where you can wash your hair. I could be happy in a place like that, I think. I could watch you sleep there. I could boil eggs for us, and bake bread for you.”
“You want so little.”
“Not so little.”
They pass an hour in silence. The parasol-foxes chew at fleas and snap at passing mayflies, the jeweled bodies crunching between their vulpine teeth. Palimpsest yawns enormous on one side of the river, towers and leviathan flying buttresses ablaze with hanging lanterns, falcons screeching down the long canyons between them. On the other side, small towns stretch lazily along the greening mud, the clotted river thickening in the shallows, the polished logs of underwater nets floating sleepily on the yellowish currents.
“Look to the banks, Olezhka,” Lyudmila says finally “And the moon falling there, on the spires and houses.” The knotted white buildings sleeping on the right-hand bank are warped like gnarled bones, many of them half-crushed, their dust feeding the river. There is a cathedral of a sort, and on its roof a lonely monk blows a long black trumpet. The moonlight is brighter than day there, and only there. The river remains in shadow. Men and women crawl out of the ruined houses and hold great glass jam jars above their heads, their long hair spilling back to the earth. The moonlight pours into the jars; the women screw on brass lids with muscled arms, piling their shelves with them, jar upon jar.
“There was a war once,” Mila murmurs. “It began here. In this very spot. It was not a very long time ago.”
“How can there be war in this place?”
Lyudmila shrugs, her eyes downcast. “War likes best those towns that have grass growing on their roofs and apples on their trees, and especially those with industrious women who have lovers with strong brown backs. This was a town like that on the shores of the Albumen River, whose yolk was once rich and young. Before Casimira and her chariots, before the fires, before the moths with their awful wings and poisons. The cider was so fierce here it would take you off your feet in a swallow.”
“Who is Casimira? What happened? How did it end?”
But Lyudmilas face is shadowed, as if she grapples with some private grief he cannot touch. Instead, like a good brother and a dear one, he lays his head in her lap and wraps his arms around her knees. The boat wavers, but rights itself and passes the mournful town in utter silence. The last jar is screwed tight, and the moon goes out. It is very dark on the river now, and the stars shiver. Lyudmila smoothes his hair absently.
“In the land of the dead,” she says finally her voice clear and cold across the water, “a boy who died of a fever wished to make his fortune in the munitions factories of that unfortunate land. And so he went to the districts of those who had died in battle, and begged from e
ach of them the bullets that had pierced them, which they each carried in their tin lunchboxes. There was one girl only who would not give over her bullet-”
“Lyudmila,” Oleg interrupts softly, “why don't you drip water from your mouth when you speak anymore?”
She is quiet; her hand freezes on his temple.
“Do not ask me that, Olezhka. Let it be just a little while longer.”
“All right, Mila.”
Clouds sweep over the stars, and there is no light left on the long, white river.
FOUR
PEREGRINATIONS
Nerezza cradled Ludovico's head in her arms. She did it awkwardly, not being by nature a nurturing dove of any breed, unused to ailing men in her bed, in her kitchen, in need of her coffee grinder's shrill whirring and her boiling water, in need of her. But she tried, gamely, as another woman might try to swallow fiery spices out of politeness.
“Ludo, drink. You have to.”
He turned his head from her, for a moment thinking he might throw up.
“Lucia,” he groaned.
Nerezza rolled her eyes. “Yes, Lucia. I know. It doesn't mean you don't need to drink when I tell you to.”
Ludo drank. It was bitter and thick and duskily sweet. Lucia had often ordered him about—he required it, flourished under it, as he could never remember that eating remained vital even when a book was overdue and so beautiful it cracked his sternum with the force of it. She had had to curl his fingers around a spoon once, when a new American translation of the Bucolics was on the press and unconscionably late. Ludo had not tasted the carroty soup or the bread, but she had tasted for both of them.
“If you cry in my house,” Nerezza said, “I shall call security.”
