reached around and pushed shut her mouth. The snoring stopped and then started again. Milena's hand brushed Rolfa's shoulder. It was as warm as a radiator, made piquant by the stubble of whiskers.
Piglet, Milena decided, also smelled of childhood sick.
Finally she slept, as if in a fever, a skittish sleep with dreams. She dreamt that Rolfa rose up all around her and covered her and that they made love. It was a bit like being rubbed by warm sandpaper. Milena could feel the bristles against her cheek and with the tips of her fingers. She awoke in the dark, overjoyed, thinking it had been real, and reached out to find the bed empty and cool.
There was a sizzling sound. Milena looked up and saw a flame. Rolfa was frying something in the light of the single-ring stove. There was a smell of fish.
'You've got fleas,' said Rolfa, huffily.
'No I haven't,' said Milena, sleepily settling back onto her pillow. It was not possible for human beings to have fleas.
'I'm being eaten alive!' exclaimed Rolfa.
Milena was dimly aware of a stirring in the bed. She turned her head. There were mites on the pillow. She sat up and examined them.
'Oh,' she said, remembering. 'Oh. That's my immune system.'
'What, trained fleas?' said Rolfa. When she was angry, Rolfa became something of an aristocrat.
'No,' Milena said, mortified and miserable. To have forgotten this only showed so nakedly that she had never been in love. 'No, we call them Mice. They eat fleas. And bilharzia, and hookworm. They live in our skin. They were engineered for us when the weather got warmer. You're a foreign body. They think you're a disease.'
'Charming,' said Rolfa.
'They get used to you. It's what happens to us. It's what happens when people become lovers.'
Lovers? Oops. Milena's eyes popped back open in alarm, and she watched Rolfa, waiting for a reaction. Rolfa went on cooking.
'But. We're not lovers, are we?' said Milena, after a little while.
'No,' said Rolfa lightly, and looked at her. 'I'm making fried bread and sardine sandwiches. Want one?'
'No thanks,' whispered Milena. She sat up in bed, and propped her head on arm and looked at Rolfa. It wasn't going to be like her dream, or like the sickness, either. Living with Rolfa was going to be something calmer and more certain.
'Here, we go, fleas and all,' said Rolfa and sat cross-legged on the bed and began to munch. The bed, thought Milena, will be full of crumbs and smell of fish for weeks. She didn't mind.
In the morning, Milena got up and went to rehearsals. She left Rolfa reading one of the torn books. As she went down the stairs and walked along the pavements that reflected the low morning sun, the thought that Rolfa would be in the room when she got back was like a hand-warmer. People carried them in winter, little boxes in which an ember of charcoal smouldered. She didn't even mind going to Love's Labour's Lost.
Inside the bare rehearsal hall, there was an air of high excitement.
'Oh Milena, you missed it!' said one of the Princess's ladies. She and Milena did not normally speak.
'Missed what?'
'Oh!' said the actress, wondering where to begin. 'We're not doing the old production any more, we're doing a new one, our own.'
The director came in. He looked feverish, eyes glistening. Milena thought he might be unwell. 'Right!' he said. 'All ready for the Birth of the New, Part Two. Milena. You weren't here yesterday. We're going to do Dull's first scene. Now.'
Brisk, brisk, thought Milena, what's got into him? She did Dull as she always did him, but now each time that she spoke there were affectionate chuckles from the cast.'
'You see what I mean?' the director said.
'Dull's not dumb, he's smart,' said Berowne.
What is going on? wondered Milena. They liked my Dull?
And Milena felt a kind of giddiness.
I know this feeling, she thought. I think I know this feeling from childhood. There's something new, and you don't understand it, and so there is confusion.
It was the strangest
Piglet, Milena decided, also smelled of childhood sick.
Finally she slept, as if in a fever, a skittish sleep with dreams. She dreamt that Rolfa rose up all around her and covered her and that they made love. It was a bit like being rubbed by warm sandpaper. Milena could feel the bristles against her cheek and with the tips of her fingers. She awoke in the dark, overjoyed, thinking it had been real, and reached out to find the bed empty and cool.
There was a sizzling sound. Milena looked up and saw a flame. Rolfa was frying something in the light of the single-ring stove. There was a smell of fish.
'You've got fleas,' said Rolfa, huffily.
'No I haven't,' said Milena, sleepily settling back onto her pillow. It was not possible for human beings to have fleas.
'I'm being eaten alive!' exclaimed Rolfa.
Milena was dimly aware of a stirring in the bed. She turned her head. There were mites on the pillow. She sat up and examined them.
'Oh,' she said, remembering. 'Oh. That's my immune system.'
'What, trained fleas?' said Rolfa. When she was angry, Rolfa became something of an aristocrat.
'No,' Milena said, mortified and miserable. To have forgotten this only showed so nakedly that she had never been in love. 'No, we call them Mice. They eat fleas. And bilharzia, and hookworm. They live in our skin. They were engineered for us when the weather got warmer. You're a foreign body. They think you're a disease.'
'Charming,' said Rolfa.
'They get used to you. It's what happens to us. It's what happens when people become lovers.'
Lovers? Oops. Milena's eyes popped back open in alarm, and she watched Rolfa, waiting for a reaction. Rolfa went on cooking.
'But. We're not lovers, are we?' said Milena, after a little while.
'No,' said Rolfa lightly, and looked at her. 'I'm making fried bread and sardine sandwiches. Want one?'
'No thanks,' whispered Milena. She sat up in bed, and propped her head on arm and looked at Rolfa. It wasn't going to be like her dream, or like the sickness, either. Living with Rolfa was going to be something calmer and more certain.
'Here, we go, fleas and all,' said Rolfa and sat cross-legged on the bed and began to munch. The bed, thought Milena, will be full of crumbs and smell of fish for weeks. She didn't mind.
In the morning, Milena got up and went to rehearsals. She left Rolfa reading one of the torn books. As she went down the stairs and walked along the pavements that reflected the low morning sun, the thought that Rolfa would be in the room when she got back was like a hand-warmer. People carried them in winter, little boxes in which an ember of charcoal smouldered. She didn't even mind going to Love's Labour's Lost.
Inside the bare rehearsal hall, there was an air of high excitement.
'Oh Milena, you missed it!' said one of the Princess's ladies. She and Milena did not normally speak.
'Missed what?'
'Oh!' said the actress, wondering where to begin. 'We're not doing the old production any more, we're doing a new one, our own.'
The director came in. He looked feverish, eyes glistening. Milena thought he might be unwell. 'Right!' he said. 'All ready for the Birth of the New, Part Two. Milena. You weren't here yesterday. We're going to do Dull's first scene. Now.'
Brisk, brisk, thought Milena, what's got into him? She did Dull as she always did him, but now each time that she spoke there were affectionate chuckles from the cast.'
'You see what I mean?' the director said.
'Dull's not dumb, he's smart,' said Berowne.
What is going on? wondered Milena. They liked my Dull?
And Milena felt a kind of giddiness.
I know this feeling, she thought. I think I know this feeling from childhood. There's something new, and you don't understand it, and so there is confusion.
It was the strangest
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