group of vans approaches, laden with mangled carcasses. The Nords follow single file. Perhaps they intend to add Itubi to the pyre. Why not incinerate him along with the rest of the defective equipment? The Auditor finds this a satisfying thought. A man reaps what he has sown; destruction awaits all destroyers. Itubi has earned his Inferno.
Vera never leaves the house. She sleeps in one of the high-ceilinged bedrooms upstairs. The canopied bed is her grandmother’s; rococo mahogany posts twist up past a fringed vault, carved pinecones ensure fertility. The blood-red satin sheets, however, are from a shop on La Cienega Boulevard, a gift from some forgotten Oscar winner. On the floor is the skin of a tiger Vera shot from elephantback while the guest of the Maharajah of Cooch Behar. The room is a delight, filled with the favorite possessions of a long lifetime: hand-painted porcelain dolls, a collection of glass paperweights, mechanical tin orchestras, all childhood relics lost along with the family heirlooms and furniture when a crippled Flying Fortress jettisoned its bombload on the Mitlovic estate before crashing in the mountains. Every day, Vera turns up another souvenir from her past: a scrapbook of publicity stills stolen from her Hollywood apartment, boxes of misplaced jewelry, dried flowers pressed between the pages of unread bestsellers, a tiny crystal vial filled with tears shed at the funeral of her noble Italian husband.
Across the hall in an empty bedroom are several old steamer trunks, brass-bound and beautified with collages of faded travel stickers. The trunks are packed with Vera’s clothes, fashions four hundred years old, yet every dress and gown seems fresh from the showroom. Vera often spends the day here, changing in front of a full-length mirror. She flings what she’s worn on the floor like a spoiled child; but when she returns, everything is neatly folded and hung in its place. And every night she climbs the stairs to find her bed freshly made, the sheets clean and smelling of sunlight, the pillows fluffed, a slender candle flickering in a silver wall sconce.
There are no clocks in the house. Vera rises when it pleases her. A dish of sliced mangoes or a tall goblet of orange juice is always on the bedside table. And when she grows hungry, she knows she will find an elegant breakfast waiting under the arbor in the garden. Luncheon and dinner are served inside. Fresh-cut hibiscus decorate the center of the heavy Florentine table. Vera neither prepares the food nor clears the dishes. She never learned to cook and, even as a child, there were always servants to do the chores. The mysterious appearance of her meals and the magical way the house keeps clean and tidy are taken for granted by Vera. She expects her help to be unobtrusive.
Life is perfect in the house. Each day provides the joy of discovering another forgotten treasure: some bauble belonging to her mother or a bundle of perfumed letters from an old admirer. Every meal is a masterpiece, the work of a cordon bleu chef. A trained sommelier presides unseen in the wine cellar, sending up bottles of exquisite vintage. Even the garden, tropical and efflorescent, is trimmed and tended by a skilled hand. Yet sometimes at night Vera is lonely and wishes her grandmother’s bed wasn’t so large and empty. Her sleep is dreamless. In the mornings, she wakes fulfilled and happy. Stretching out her hand, she finds the other side of the bed always warm.
Swann moves along the top of the pyre, checking bodies as the men work with the vans, sorting arms, legs, and heads to match the dismembered trunks. The bodies are arranged according to ritual, facing the east, arms, when there are arms, folded across the chest, faces powdered a chalky white. Swann scatters sacred amulets and talismans among them: cowrie shells, iridescent feathers, fragments of beadwork. As a healer, it is Swann’s duty to perform the Rites for the Dead. Because these bodies have never
Vera never leaves the house. She sleeps in one of the high-ceilinged bedrooms upstairs. The canopied bed is her grandmother’s; rococo mahogany posts twist up past a fringed vault, carved pinecones ensure fertility. The blood-red satin sheets, however, are from a shop on La Cienega Boulevard, a gift from some forgotten Oscar winner. On the floor is the skin of a tiger Vera shot from elephantback while the guest of the Maharajah of Cooch Behar. The room is a delight, filled with the favorite possessions of a long lifetime: hand-painted porcelain dolls, a collection of glass paperweights, mechanical tin orchestras, all childhood relics lost along with the family heirlooms and furniture when a crippled Flying Fortress jettisoned its bombload on the Mitlovic estate before crashing in the mountains. Every day, Vera turns up another souvenir from her past: a scrapbook of publicity stills stolen from her Hollywood apartment, boxes of misplaced jewelry, dried flowers pressed between the pages of unread bestsellers, a tiny crystal vial filled with tears shed at the funeral of her noble Italian husband.
Across the hall in an empty bedroom are several old steamer trunks, brass-bound and beautified with collages of faded travel stickers. The trunks are packed with Vera’s clothes, fashions four hundred years old, yet every dress and gown seems fresh from the showroom. Vera often spends the day here, changing in front of a full-length mirror. She flings what she’s worn on the floor like a spoiled child; but when she returns, everything is neatly folded and hung in its place. And every night she climbs the stairs to find her bed freshly made, the sheets clean and smelling of sunlight, the pillows fluffed, a slender candle flickering in a silver wall sconce.
There are no clocks in the house. Vera rises when it pleases her. A dish of sliced mangoes or a tall goblet of orange juice is always on the bedside table. And when she grows hungry, she knows she will find an elegant breakfast waiting under the arbor in the garden. Luncheon and dinner are served inside. Fresh-cut hibiscus decorate the center of the heavy Florentine table. Vera neither prepares the food nor clears the dishes. She never learned to cook and, even as a child, there were always servants to do the chores. The mysterious appearance of her meals and the magical way the house keeps clean and tidy are taken for granted by Vera. She expects her help to be unobtrusive.
Life is perfect in the house. Each day provides the joy of discovering another forgotten treasure: some bauble belonging to her mother or a bundle of perfumed letters from an old admirer. Every meal is a masterpiece, the work of a cordon bleu chef. A trained sommelier presides unseen in the wine cellar, sending up bottles of exquisite vintage. Even the garden, tropical and efflorescent, is trimmed and tended by a skilled hand. Yet sometimes at night Vera is lonely and wishes her grandmother’s bed wasn’t so large and empty. Her sleep is dreamless. In the mornings, she wakes fulfilled and happy. Stretching out her hand, she finds the other side of the bed always warm.
Swann moves along the top of the pyre, checking bodies as the men work with the vans, sorting arms, legs, and heads to match the dismembered trunks. The bodies are arranged according to ritual, facing the east, arms, when there are arms, folded across the chest, faces powdered a chalky white. Swann scatters sacred amulets and talismans among them: cowrie shells, iridescent feathers, fragments of beadwork. As a healer, it is Swann’s duty to perform the Rites for the Dead. Because these bodies have never
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