with each other. Rolfa took off her blouse, but held it over herself, something she had never done when she had fur. Her skin had been stripped, cut, outraged. There were long straggles of fur that the razor had missed. Milena sawed at the fur on her back with the kitchen knife and used soap from the showers to get up a lather. Then she used the razor. Rolfa mewed quietly as the hair came off in soapy clumps. 'I'm cold,' she complained. To Milena, she felt hot, feverish. 'We'll put you under a blanket,' she said. She left Rolfa wrapped up on the bed and looking at her with a trust that made Milena doubt herself.
Well, Milena thought. I've got her. Now what do I do with her? The gift had been too sudden, too complete.
Milena went to each of the overstaffed information desks at the Zoo. She asked the Tykes who worked mere not to tell anyone where she lived. 'Say you've never heard of me,' she told the children. 'Say there is no record of me.'
Milena did not know the forms that love could take. She lived alone. She could not remember her childhood friends. Her memories of her mother were faint; she saw her mother only as a dim, warm, mauveness. How did people live with love from day to day? Milena was full of misgivings.
Milena came back to her tiny room, with its bed, its sink, its cooker. It was now covered in paper. Rolfa had found the books and papers that had been rescued from her ruined nest. Rolfa lay on her stomach, filling the floor. Broken-backed books and loose sheets of paper filled the sink. They were piled on the cooker. There was a smell of burning. Fire! thought Milena in alarm and went to the cooker. The papers were untouched, though there was an acrid stench of scorching. How, wondered Milena did she manage to do this?
'Look what I found,' Rolfa said and held up a book. It looked rumpled, as if it had been left out in the rain, and there were ring stains on the cover.
'Oh,' said Milena. The title was unreadable.
'Do you think,' Rolfa asked, 'that you could possibly call me Pooh?'
The word Pooh meant something very specific and unpleasant to Milena. It certainly did not mean teddy bear.
'Why on earth would you want me to call you that?' Milena asked.
'Pooh,' repeated Rolfa. 'Pooh. You must have heard of Pooh. He's a bear. He's in a book.'
A GE novel? Milena had sudden visions of an entire Polar literature. 'Is it new?' she asked.
'No, no,' said Rolfa and stood up. 'Here.' She showed Milena a drawing of Pooh.
'He's not part of the culture,' said Milena, meaning there was no virus of him. She reads, thought Milena in admiration, unheard-of books.
'You could call me Pooh. And I could call you Christopher Robin.'
'Why?' said Milena warily.
'Here, look. That's Christopher Robin.'
There was a drawing of a small neat person with a page-boy bob and shorts and sandals and loose blouse and a large umbrella. There was no doubt. Milena did indeed look exactly like Christopher Robin.
'No,' said Milena.
'I was going to call you Eeyore,' said Rolfa. 'He's grumpy too.'
'I'll tell you what,' said Milena, 'If I call you Pooh' — it really was very unpleasant — 'do you promise, promise not to call me Christopher Robin?'
Rolfa nodded solemnly, up and down. Her hair still dangled into her eyes. She blinked. She saw Milena looking at the state of the room.
'Pooh's very untidy,' said Rolfa.
'Yes,' said Milena nodding.
'But she does have other qualities.' Rolfa paused and bit her lip. 'I'm sorry about the beans.'
'What about the beans?'
'I was feeling peckish, and all I could find was some bamboo full of beans, so I tried to warm it up.'
Underneath most of the score for Peer Gynt, Milena found her only saucepan. Light, crispy, burned-black beans were now a permanent part of it.
'I'll buy you another one,' said Rolfa.
'Good,' said Milena, wiping the charcoal from the tips of her fingers.
She took a deep breath, to calm herself, and began to explain the house rules. Dirty laundry in this bag here. Clean
Well, Milena thought. I've got her. Now what do I do with her? The gift had been too sudden, too complete.
Milena went to each of the overstaffed information desks at the Zoo. She asked the Tykes who worked mere not to tell anyone where she lived. 'Say you've never heard of me,' she told the children. 'Say there is no record of me.'
Milena did not know the forms that love could take. She lived alone. She could not remember her childhood friends. Her memories of her mother were faint; she saw her mother only as a dim, warm, mauveness. How did people live with love from day to day? Milena was full of misgivings.
Milena came back to her tiny room, with its bed, its sink, its cooker. It was now covered in paper. Rolfa had found the books and papers that had been rescued from her ruined nest. Rolfa lay on her stomach, filling the floor. Broken-backed books and loose sheets of paper filled the sink. They were piled on the cooker. There was a smell of burning. Fire! thought Milena in alarm and went to the cooker. The papers were untouched, though there was an acrid stench of scorching. How, wondered Milena did she manage to do this?
'Look what I found,' Rolfa said and held up a book. It looked rumpled, as if it had been left out in the rain, and there were ring stains on the cover.
'Oh,' said Milena. The title was unreadable.
'Do you think,' Rolfa asked, 'that you could possibly call me Pooh?'
The word Pooh meant something very specific and unpleasant to Milena. It certainly did not mean teddy bear.
'Why on earth would you want me to call you that?' Milena asked.
'Pooh,' repeated Rolfa. 'Pooh. You must have heard of Pooh. He's a bear. He's in a book.'
A GE novel? Milena had sudden visions of an entire Polar literature. 'Is it new?' she asked.
'No, no,' said Rolfa and stood up. 'Here.' She showed Milena a drawing of Pooh.
'He's not part of the culture,' said Milena, meaning there was no virus of him. She reads, thought Milena in admiration, unheard-of books.
'You could call me Pooh. And I could call you Christopher Robin.'
'Why?' said Milena warily.
'Here, look. That's Christopher Robin.'
There was a drawing of a small neat person with a page-boy bob and shorts and sandals and loose blouse and a large umbrella. There was no doubt. Milena did indeed look exactly like Christopher Robin.
'No,' said Milena.
'I was going to call you Eeyore,' said Rolfa. 'He's grumpy too.'
'I'll tell you what,' said Milena, 'If I call you Pooh' — it really was very unpleasant — 'do you promise, promise not to call me Christopher Robin?'
Rolfa nodded solemnly, up and down. Her hair still dangled into her eyes. She blinked. She saw Milena looking at the state of the room.
'Pooh's very untidy,' said Rolfa.
'Yes,' said Milena nodding.
'But she does have other qualities.' Rolfa paused and bit her lip. 'I'm sorry about the beans.'
'What about the beans?'
'I was feeling peckish, and all I could find was some bamboo full of beans, so I tried to warm it up.'
Underneath most of the score for Peer Gynt, Milena found her only saucepan. Light, crispy, burned-black beans were now a permanent part of it.
'I'll buy you another one,' said Rolfa.
'Good,' said Milena, wiping the charcoal from the tips of her fingers.
She took a deep breath, to calm herself, and began to explain the house rules. Dirty laundry in this bag here. Clean
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