Текст книги "House of Sand and Fog"

Автор книги: Andre Dubus

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

 

I FELT RESTLESS. I WAS SWEATING IN THE CAR BUT THE SKY WAS GRAY,and I knew a fog was unrolling itself down in Corona. I could smell the ocean. It was the weather I was used to, the way a normal day looked, and this made me even more antsy; what I really wanted to do was drive my car down the coast highway for hours and not come back until Les got here with the check. But I knew I couldn’t, not in my red Bonneville. We would probably have to leave it here for good anyway, wouldn’t we? And how would we get time to cash that big county check? Tie up the Behranis again? And it was Wednesday. Banks closed early. If Les didn’t get back soon, we would have to wait till tomorrow morning and then keep the family tied up overnight. I felt sick at the thought. And I kept thinking of Lester having to run away with me from his whole life, his kids. I was outside, but I could hardly breathe.

I went back into the house. I heard the low Persian music. The air smelled like tea and flowers. I walked over the carpet and down the hall and I could feel my father like he was standing there in the dim hallway in his beige Nicolo Linen uniform, a smoking Garcia y Vega between his fingers, his eyes big behind his glasses, looking at me like he always did, like I was a rare bird he was still getting used to seeing in his own front yard.

When I stepped into the darkened bedroom, Mrs. Behrani was lying as still as I’d left her. Her hands were crossed over her stomach, and her sleeping face looked pale in the shadow of the room. I wanted to do something for her, though I didn’t know what that could be. On the cassette player a young woman’s voice was reciting what had to be poetry, and there was a backdrop of drums behind her, that, and men letting long open-throated sounds out of themselves. My eyes were used to the dark now and I could see the rise and fall of Mrs. Behrani’s breathing, her hands on her stomach. I remembered the way she looked at the bruises on my arm like it hurt to see them. I remembered her face as she washed my bleeding foot, then laid it on that thick white towel, her eyes full of warmth. I thought about wetting a cloth with cool water, laying it on her forehead, but for all I knew that could make a migraine worse. So instead I went into the kitchen and came back with a glass of ice water, set it near the tape player on her bedside table. The glass tapped against the base of the lamp and she squeezed her eyes as tightly shut as if someone had yelled in her ear. I stood as still as I could. Her face began to soften again and I tiptoed out of the room and went into the kitchen.

The back door was shut, shards of broken glass still in the lower windowpanes. There was a trash container in the corner and I carried it to the door and started to pull the glass out. The big pieces were easy to get free, but for the smaller ones I had to use a butter knife I’d pulled from Mrs. Behrani’s dish rack. I squatted on the floor and dug the broken bits from the frame. Sometimes the knife scraped against the glass and made me shiver. I felt dirty: my skin and hair, my teeth and eyes and tongue, my lungs and stomach and the blood in my veins, still laced with what I took last night. I thought about taking a long hot shower, but then I would have to step back into these stolen clothes and Lester had already been gone close to an hour and I didn’t want to be in the shower when they came back.

But I had to do something. I pushed the trash container back into the corner and stood there. On the refrigerator was taped a color photograph of the Behranis’ daughter and her husband, I guessed, holding hands in front of a luxury hotel, all canopy and marble columns and gold fixtures on glass doors. The sun was on them, and they were dressed in matching polo shirts and baggy shorts. The husband wore glasses and was small, a camera hanging from his wrist by its strap. The Behranis’ daughter was petite and beautiful, her smile posed but toned-down somehow, like she didn’t want to flaunt too much what she knew she had. And looking at her on my refrigerator, I felt old, worn-out, and cheap. I wanted Lester here, but not because I wanted him to hurry up and finish all this; I just needed to see him look down at me with those sweet eyes and that slightly dumb-founded smile under his crooked mustache, like I was the answer to every painful question he’d ever asked himself and he still couldn’t believe I was his. I hoped he still felt that way. I hoped this past night and day hadn’t changed that.

 

I WANT ONLY MY SON.

They have sat me upon a soft chair in a new office and they ask the same questions they asked me moments ago, and I answer, but I want only to go to my son. They have freed my wrists and a large detective offers to me a wet towel for my hands, but I refuse it. The men regard one another for they fear my son’s blood. I look down upon my red fingers. The skin has tightened as the khoon has dried and I do not want it to dry. I fear washing it from my hands.

I stand. “Please, I must—”

Lieutenant Alvarez enters the room. One of the detectives rises from his seat. “Burdon corroborates the whole deal, Lieutenant.”

The Lieutenant does not look at the detective, keeps his eyes on me only. “Mr. Behrani, this is your recourse.” He begins to speak to me of pressing charges, but I see only the movement of his lips, the fashion in which his shirt collar presses into the flesh of his neck.

“Please, hospital. Where is the hospital, please?”

The lieutenant points to the large window overlooking the parking compound of officers’ automobiles, the shops along Broadway Avenue in the sun, a large gray building among others. He tells to me this is where I must go, and there is the offer of an escort, a deputy to accompany me, but I cannot urge my legs for walking quickly enough. Soon I am among the people upon the sidewalk and I begin running. A woman steps away as I pass by and her face is frightened. It is the blood, the khoon, on my hands and shirt, my bloody peerhan. It is that I am running, but I see only the face of Esmail as he held the heavy weapon on the man who would rob us, my pesar’s eyes so dark with the question of what he should do next, the fashion in which he regarded me, his father, and I told to him, “Keep the gun pointed at his heart, do not be afraid.”

There is across the street a sign for EMERGENCY. Into the khiaboon I am running and an automobile screeches to a stop. Another driver sounds his horn, and then another and another and I turn and curse them in my language, disgracing their mothers and grandmothers and sisters as whores. My throat aches and in my eyes there is a stinging sweat. A Mercedes-Benz drives very close by me and I hear the shout of a man inside but I do not care. I spit upon these people. I spit upon this country and all of its guns and automobiles and homes.

But inside the hospital it is cool, clean, and quiet. A kind desk woman looks directly at my son’s blood and directs me to the area for emergencies. The corridors are wide and gray, shining from the light tubes above. The air smells of cotton bandages and floor cleaner. And I feel I cannot breathe. I follow the large signs for EMERGENCY. There are now many people in the corridors, some are in chairs with wheels and a husband or wife pushes them. Others walk with flowers and small children. They see the blood upon my hands and peerhan and look immediately to my eyes. And there are many sounds and voices and footsteps but I hear only my breath and I see my son’s face as I pressed down upon his wound, his eyes were open but he no longer seemed to see me and I told to him to hold on, to keep his feet upon the ground, to grip his toes to his skateboard for he is descending very fast down a long hill and he need only hold on. Do not let go, Esmail-joon. Do not let go.

I am breathing with difficulty, speaking with a tall nurse who has as many years as I. There are deep lines in her face, and she does not fear the blood on my hands as she leads me to a sink and tells me to wash and I do not hesitate. Soon we are in the elevator and as we move upwards towards my Esmail, she holds a clipboard and asks me for the name of my son, my name, our address. I tell to her 34 Bisgrove Street, Corona, California, this property that is still completely my own, Burdon in the custody of his own officers; he has lost and I have won—the nurse two times asks a question of insurance but I do not speak: I must see Esmail. I must see him very carefully, I must see him.

The doors open and I walk along the empty corridor following the tall nurse who does not press me any further but only leads me. There is a sign for Surgery, a small waiting area with magazines and cushioned chairs, a window overlooking the streets and buildings below. The nurse tells me to please sit and she disappears behind a heavy door. But I cannot sit. Nor can I stand still. I walk back and forth over the thin carpet, and I see the magazines, the colorful covers of famous men and women, the rich and beautiful, and I remember my hand in Shah Pahlavi’s; his palms were smooth as the face of babies and on his smallest finger there was a ruby ring as large as a grape.

For our excess we lost everything.

I kneel beneath the window, turn to the east, and bow my head to the carpet which smells of dust, and I curse myself for ever weeping over my lost position, for the respect I had lost among strangers. I must make nazr to God as did my uncle Hadi when I was a boy and his wife, Shamsi, lay sick in bed and my uncle made nazr to God that if he would heal Shamsi, Hadi would give thousands of tomans to a poor Kurdish family in the lower hills, and to seal this nazr, Hadi drove each day to the largest mosque in Tabriz and fed seed to the pigeons there, and after only five days my aunt Shamsi was well.

I press my head to the hospital’s carpet, my eyes tightly closed: man nazr meekonam, I am making nazr for—but I know no poor families to whom I can give. I think only of the old Vietnamese Tran. Perhaps it is to him I must give. I again begin the words of nazr, but when I pray Tran’s name I feel I am lying, telling dooroogh, and I do not know why, but this frightens me for there is very little time and I must be only pure in the nazr for my son. There must be nothing dirty or hidden in this prayer and now, at the thought of dirty, of kaseef, I know it is Kathy Nicolo, this beggar whore to whom I must make nazr. It is her.But I cannot. How can I give to this woman whose actions have led to my son’s injury? This woman who has brought the weapon to our bungalow that resulted in Esmail’s shooting? This woman who we took into our home when she was as mast as a drunk in the street? To whom we gave our son’s bed? Prepared for her a hot meal? Offered her our bath which she defiled in her weakness before we saved her life again? How can I make nazr to this woman whose boyfriend has kept us hostage? How can I give to her anything from my heart but the poison she has given us? And I will press criminal charges against this Lester V. Burdon. I will sue the entire Sheriff’s Department for what he has done. And I will sue the two deputies who shot my son. I will take from them their jobs and their homes—but I must not allow these thoughts to dirty the water of my nazr. I am weeping, seeing again my son’s eyes as I pressed upon his wound. They were Nadi’s eyes, and Soraya’s eyes, and my father’s, but they did not see me, but something else, a thing I cannot see. God,I am making nazr to this woman, Kathy Nicolo, and I to You promise if You heal my son I will return her father’s house. I will also give to her all the money I have. Please, my God, Khoda, I make nazr for my only son.

“Sir?”

I beg you.

“Sir?”

I will do whatever is Your will. I will purchase ten kilos of the finest seed and I will find an American mosque and feed them to all the birds.

“Mr. Behmini?”

I will go to other holy places as well. I will feed pigeons in front of the churches of Christians. I will feed them at the doors of Jewish temples. I will let the birds cover me and then I will return with more seed and feed them again.

“Sir?”

And again.

“Mr. Behmini?”

My nazr is in Your hands.

I rise slowly. Beside the nurse is a man. He is short and very dark. An Indian or Pakistani. But as he introduces himself and offers his hand he speaks with no accent of any kind, and his eyes are black and he is dressed in the green clothing of surgeons, a paper mask hanging beneath his throat, and he does not release my hand and I know why and I begin pulling my hand from his, but it is too late, he has already released the words and they hit me like debris from an explosion. There is no air. No light. No sound. Only the dark vacuum of God’s closed door, of his no to my nazr, of his no to my son to whom they now lead me, my executioners, this man and this woman, to Esmail who lies upon a raised stretcher.

Esmail Kamfar Behrani.

A white sheet covers him to the shoulders. They are bare and smooth and brown from his days in the sun, and the sheet is clean except for a spot of khoon at his hip, and evil rose in the snow. The doctor speaks softly, delivering to me the specifics of God’s answer, but I see now only my son’s face. It is turned slightly towards the wall. His eyes are closed but his lips are parted, as when he sleeps with a stuffed nose. His jawbone is long and beautiful, and I touch the soft black hairs on his cheek near to his ears. His skin is cool and does not feel natural. At once it is too hard and too soft, and I know my son is no longer here beneath my hand. There is a loudness in the corridor, the vibration of it in my head and bowels. It is me, silenced by my son’s head as I hold him to my chest, his hair inside my mouth, his nose and lips pressed to my throat, and I would joyfully lie naked in flames for one thousand years to put life back into this boy. There is a hand upon my shoulder. It belongs to one of my torturers, but it does not pull me or push me, simply rests upon me as if it knows what it is I have lost, my son, who as a baby walked before he had one year, his small brown legs as bowed as a wrestler in the zur khaneh—at one and a half years, his first words to me over the telephone at Mehrabad: “Salome, Bawbaw-joon”—his bare feet in Paris, black with dirt from the street where he led French boys in play we did not know—his ease with computer games which were sometimes as complicated for me as the controls of a jet—his kindness and character, waking me with tea at the pooldar apartments, telling to me in the early dawn he is sorry for his bad behavior, he knows how hard it is I work, he made mistake—

I cannot breathe. I cannot see. My sound curls inside of me, releasing in the scream of his name. I kiss his closed eyes. His cheeks. His soft lips. There is a hand upon my back, the woman’s, patting me, but she does not know how I have failed this child; she does not know I encouraged him to stand still with the gun, to stay in the line of fire of his killers. The sound that comes from me is that of a beast, a weak and primitive animal not even worthy of sacrifice. My Esmail’s face is wet from my own and he must be washed.

He must be wrapped in white for his journey to God’s door.

And Nadi must do it.

His mother must do it.

But how can I tell to her? How is it possible to tell her our youngest child has left before us? How do I tell my Nadi I could not protect him? How do I explain I ordered him to point the weapon at Burdon until the police arrived? These American police who shot down our son?

I lay Esmail down, lower my head, and rush into the wall, feeling too little, only the jolting warmth and confusion of impact. The surgeon’s hand is upon my arm but I struggle away from this man who has killed me. The nurse calls my name but I am again running.

In the elevator I cannot stand. I cannot sit. I push myself from one wall to the next. In my mouth there is blood and I now know my dear brother Pourat was spared this torment, when at this hour he was shot instantly. But I have not been given this courtesy. And I will not spare the man who did not spare my son.

Again I am running. The streets are full of American people who walk along the sidewalks or stop in the shops or step into the office buildings as if my son had not just perished on this very ground. In my path walk two men in suits, their backs to me, and I force my way through their lack of respect, pushing them to the side, hearing their curses, the weak cursing of gentlemen, their voices high with fear and surprise that anyone would dare upset their calm water. In my mind I am spitting upon them. In my mind I am already preparing how careful it is I must be when I enter this Hall of Justice building, how it is I must walk through the clean glass door over the hard and shining floor to the elevators with no sweat or tears upon my face, no intent in my eye, only the impassive face of a man with business above.

And soon I am no longer in my mind but in the Hall of Justice. Men in suits walk by and they study my face and see the blood on my peerhan. I board an elevator, pressing the button which closes the door. I am moving towards the floor of detectives and Internal Affairs officers and I am certain I will find Lester V. Burdon, the tall thin lover of whores, the killer of my son, I will find him, perhaps being questioned in a soft chair, his friends and colleagues his only interrogators.

The elevator doors are brass and in their reflection is a man with blood upon his head, the dripping of it on his forehead and eyebrow. The doors open and I am not upon the floor of detectives and lieutenants but only deputy sheriffs in their blue uniforms seated at desks conducting their business. One views me, and then another, and both regard the blood upon my face, my peerhan. They call to me: “Sir, step out of the elevator. Sir?” But my hands press the buttons quickly and the doors close, the elevator descending when I want for it to rise, rise to the detectives, to where they are holding their fallen colleague. But now the door opens at the lobby, clean and spacious but full of men and women in the formal dress of courtrooms. A security officer walks across the shiny floor, his eyes upon my blood. I turn, but the elevators have closed their doors.

“Sir?Hold on there.”

Once again I am running. Outdoors the sun is upon my head and face. The air smells of engine exhaust, of cooking meat from a vendor’s cart, transportation and hot meals continuing as if this moment were any other. My eyes burn. I breathe with difficulty and stop running. I look once behind me but there is no guard. Across the khiaboon, in front of the tax office, many officers and men in suits talk behind the yellow tape of the Sheriff’s Department. Men and women stare, talking amongst themselves, watching as one of the men stoops to investigate Esmail’s blood. Who are these people to witness this? To invade my heart like soldiers with dirt upon their boots? I step into the khiaboon, but no cars sound their horns and I move quietly to the other side, to the rear of the crowd, searching for the men who shot my son, and I regard one of them standing in the shadow of the tax building, speaking with two men dressed in badly tailored suits. He is a young deputy. Round white face. His hands are upon his hips and he looks down at his shoes. One of the detectives speaks and the young man looks only at his shoes. He shakes his head. His lips move as if he might talk. He continues to shake his head. At his side his hand trembles and I would like to see him dead upon the ground but I have no desire to harm him. Only Burdon, our captor and his beggar whore, who is with Nadi still, and I feel suddenly my wife is in danger.

The highway is bright. I drive very fast, the white lines of the road becoming one. My drawn breath seems to reach only my skin. My fingers shake. I wipe the khoon from my eye and feel beside me the empty seat where sat my son, my abdomen heaving with crying I do not hear. The day’s work was only beginning and the air was cool, the third day of Ramadan, and when I ate breakfast with Nadi before dawn she told me it was soon, and at dusk my driver Bahman was smiling, and before I entered the auto he spoke the news, that I had a son, Captain Massoud Amir Behrani is father of a son.

I do not see clearly and this does not matter. I drive into the fog of the hills towards Corona. I wipe my eye and nose upon my sleeve. The air here smells of the ocean, of rotted weed in the sand, of sea salt and garbage. My hands steer the automobile up the hill past the bungalows on the left which are small but newly painted, their stoops and sidewalks swept clean, the grasses of their lawn cut very short. This is an ugly street, zesht, and now I see our widow’s walk rising from our roof, a foolish thing. My foot and leg are only the wood of a dead tree, and the engine responds with sound, carrying me and all I have done and not done to the drive. At the window, there is the parting of the drapes before they fall still and I slip from my automobile like black oil. I move to the front door of my home and for a moment my limbs are heavy as iron but then I am only empty clothes, the front door opening with a force that surprises me for I do not remember touching it. There is the startled hand of Kathy Nicolo as she raises it to her mouth. Between us is a sea of carpet from the house of my mother but now I am across it and I believe there is sound coming from the beggar whore’s mouth but I cannot be certain for my limbs are again iron and my hands are fixed to her neck and throat. I seem to watch her face from a place higher, this struggling statue of a man and woman, her flesh warm and soft, the tendons of her neck I begin to break each at a time. Her hair has fallen over half her face, her eyelids fluttering, her sound quite ugly, a wet ripping, her tongue pink. Her fingers grasp my wrists and her nails pierce what was once my flesh. There is blood, but not enough, and I lift her from the floor, her feet kicking and dragging beneath her. I shake her once, twice, again, and again, her head jerking backwards and forwards. There is no end to my strength or how long I shake her, then her hand slips from my wrists and the bungalow grows silent.

There is only my breathing, the crash of khoon between my ears. I lower Kathy Nicolo to my mother’s carpet. Her hair falls away, and her face is the purple-red color of saffron, her mouth open, a furrow between her closed eyes as if she were in the midst of dreaming badly. My hands release her and I sit upon her for a moment and I am once again in my flesh. In my chest is my thrusting heart, my palms are wet against my legs, and now I wait for the sound of Esmail’s skateboard in the drive, the kick of it into his hands as he steps upon the stoop and enters his home. He has been away all the day long, on a journey he had not expected, and now I have called him home. I stay seated upon the dead woman’s chest and I wait for my son, but I hear nothing.

Nadi. Where is my Nadi?

I rise and find her upon her bed, in her darkened room. Her small face is at rest. Her forehead is free of wrinkles and I see upon the lamp table her headache medication. I sit in the chair Lester V. Burdon carried here. I remember clearly how he watched over his gendeh, how he regarded her as if she were a precious stone. And now she will be a stone shot through him, and I pray his love for her was even greater than I witnessed. In the shadowed darkness of this room, Nadi’s face has lost thirty years of living; the migraine has passed and she is in the deep sleep that comes to those relieved of their pain. It is a small face, with the soft skin of a girl. Her lips are dark, her jaw no longer set tightly with judgment, her closed eyes incapable of becoming narrow with fear and regret. Is it possible that from this rest she will rise to hear of her lost son? Is it in this small and pitiful bungalow she will know the final end of what we once were? And once again, while Bahman and my wife and children wait in the Mercedes, its trunk full of luggage for a week or weekend at the Caspian Sea, I am inside our empty home for something I had forgotten, my briefcase or perhaps a favorite pair of shoes, a last-minute call to Mehrabad, all these things that must occur before we can take our safar together, our long happy journey, these last-moment details that can be trusted only to a father and husband, my hands over Nadi’s nose and mouth and eyes, this discipline to stand firmly in the face of her struggling, her grasping and twisting and kicking. My eyes fill and she blurs beneath me but I tell to myself it is only a small suffering she must endure before she is free to join our son, before she is free to return to the flowers of Isfahan and the mosques of Qom and the fine hotels of the old Tehran, before she is free to give money to the beggars in the bazaar, before she is free to claim her destiny—my wife’s arms fall to her sides, and she is silent. I remove my hands from her face. Her brow is arched, as if she were on the moment of receiving a long-awaited answer, and her mouth now is open and I kiss her lips. Her tongue is warm. I kiss her nose and cheeks and closed eyes. Sleep, Nadereh. Rest for your safar. Rest.

The bungalow is quiet as a desert. I pass my son’s room. No breath enters me and I must discipline myself to continue moving forward, to walk into my office, remove my clothes, and slide open the door. Take down my uniform which in this country I have never worn. Pull it from its clear plastic covering from a dry-cleaning shop in Bahrain, the fabric heavier than I recalled, the smell of its cedarwood hanger. The trousers fit perfectly at my hips, and the shirt is of soft cotton but needs pressing. I stand with no mirror and tie the cravat into the full windsor knot I then always wore. Inside the jacket pocket are gold cufflinks and a tie fastener, an engraved lion of the Pahlavi dynasty. I fold my shirtsleeves back one time and secure each with a cufflink, my family name carved in each one. To Nadereh’s room I walk. I take from the bureau drawer my formal socks, black silk with small dark green diamonds sewn deep inside the leg. Nadereh lies behind me upon the bed, but it is no longer her; it is only a dress or overcoat she has forgotten to pack for our safar.

In my office I unwrap my uniform shoes, black and shiny and free of dust. I tie them securely with a double knot, then rise and slip into my jacket, each shoulder heavy with red-and-gold epaulet, my breast pocket covered with the ribbons, emblems, and badges of my service.

I secure the middle buttons and I stand at full attention, Genob Sarhang Behrani, Honorable Colonel Massoud Amir Behrani.

I pull paper from its box upon my desk, and in the kitchen I stand at the bar counter and begin to write in my mother language:

Soraya-joon,

I have done all that I could. Do not be sorry for us. Your mother and I await you upon your return. We love you more than we have loved life.

After your dear brother name your first son.

Bawbaw

An automobile passes on its way down the hill and I must hurry for I recall the lieutenant’s orders as I left for the hospital, his request for a patrol car to be sent here. For the shooting of a boy they are efficient; for the rescuing of a woman held hostage they are late.

I take the second paper and write in English that I, Colonel Massoud Amir Behrani, leave to my daughter this bungalow and all of its contents as well as my automobile and all monies remaining in our accounts. I print my full name upon the document, then sign it.

This should be sufficient, but now I am troubled by the words “all of its contents,” for I cannot leave the body of this gendeh and killer to my daughter, who I am quite certain will sell this bungalow as soon as she is able. I take up the pen and write again in Farsi at the bottom of my letter:

Soraya-joon, live here if you like, but if you sell it take no less than one hundred thousand dollars.

I place both papers upon the refrigerator door, securing them with a magnet beside the honeymoon photograph of my daughter and son-in-law. They stand in the sunlight. They appear quite happy. I kiss my finger and press it to Soraya’s heart.

I am too warm in my uniform. I feel the sweat at my forehead and neck and beneath my peerhan. There is very little time remaining. I stoop upon my mother’s carpet, position my hand beneath Kathy Nicolo’s arms, then lift and drag her into the kitchen area across the floor and outdoors onto the rear grasses. She is quite heavy, her hair loose upon my arms. I drag her through the tall hedge trees to her automobile. The air has grown cooler, but my eyes burn with sweat, and I lay her upon the earth beside the bungalow and open the rear door of her auto. There is the tired smell of cigarettes, and the seat fabric is still warm from the sun that is no longer. I look down upon her. Her mouth is open, one hand twisted beneath her. I think of Jasmeen, my dear cousin. I lift the whore and pull her onto the seat and bend her knees to shut the door and I think of what I will tell to Jasmeen, that I loved her always, that Kamfar and I wept for her. And I will embrace Pourat. I will kiss both his eyes and tell to him how I have missed him.

There is very little time. Inside the bungalow, I pull from the cabinet beneath the sink the roll of tape we used for our moving boxes. In my office I retrieve the plastic covering of my uniform. Then I enter the darkness of my wife’s room, my heart once again thrusting inside my chest. My face and neck release sweat, and my uniform is fitted too tightly at the upper back; it is all the work here I have done, it is all those days in the heat and dust and fog, a garbage soldier working with men who before would have bowed their heads if I passed by. I sit upon the bed. I pull sufficient tape free of its roll, the sound like the cracking of ice over a frozen lake, what I felt beneath my feet as a boy with my father in the north mountains. I hold with both hands the tape and lean to kiss Nadi once more. Her lips are still warm but I feel if I do not hurry she will have left me behind. I apply one end of the tape to my knee, and my fingers shake as they did when I first undressed my wife on the night of our wedding, our new home silent as it is now.