Orfe by Cynthia Voigt Page A

what I said next more bluntly than I might have, because I was disappointed, in myself more than in him. “You come off it,” I said. “I think I’ll say goodbye here.”
    He wasn’t so thick as not to know what I meant. He thought for a minute, anger and chagrin mixing with the embarrassment on his face. “Just because I told you the truth about yourself? Just because I saw through you?”
    â€œBecause you saw into me and thought you were seeing through me,” I said.
    Which was the end of that. I turned around and walked away, back to the apartment. When I opened the door they were busy talking about the wedding, when and where, what kind of ceremony, what to eat. I took my plate and chopsticks out of the sink and sat down to join in.
    *  *  *  *  *
    When Orfe was grieving over Yuri, she reminded me of that evening. “I always meant to say how glad I was when you broke up with Tommy,” she said. “I like Michael,” she told me. “I’d like it if you fell in love with Michael.”
    I already had.
    â€œI think,” Orfe said, “that love is like being alive, in this respect, or peace too. Yeah, all three of them have the quality of—you never feel as if there has been enough. You never say, okay, that’s my fair share, that’s good enough for me. You always say, More. More, please. I want more, I need—there’s never enough, that’s what I mean, that’s what I think. You get to the end, I—”
    Here Orfe stopped speaking for a minute, lowered her face, and then raised it to look out with sorrow like tears but without them, and the worse for that.
    â€œI got to the end and I don’t feel like it’s been enough. Love. Even though I know it’s fair, that love for any amount of time, however little time—to be deeply loved ever is more than any of us has a right to. I know that. But I feel like I could use more, need—”
    And she was gone, following her music, her head bent over the guitar.

FOUR
    It’s not that I can remember so clearly. I only remember shreds, shards, patches. But what I can do is re-create, from these fragments, the memory; and the re-creation becomes memory itself.
    On the morning of the day Orfe and Yuri got married, sunlight filled the air. Even the asphalt paths that criss-crossed the park sparkled under the sunlight or shone under shade. Celebrants in their wedding-guest finery brought forward platters and bowls of food, set them on the table, and stepped back to become a crowd. Brightly colored skirts—red, blue, yellow—and brightly colored shirts—purple, green, orange—milled about.
    I can see how it looked, see the Graces all in a cluster, turning and waving andsmiling. I can see Orfe in the dress we found after hours of searching the used clothing stores, a long-sleeved, long white dress with a broad lacy collar. A crown of white flowers floated in the cloud of her red hair. I can see Yuri in a slightly oversize tuxedo jacket, also found in a used clothing store but requiring fewer hours of searching, and the pleated shirt underneath, stiff with starch, white with bluing. I can see his black broad-brimmed felt hat, with the high curved feather rising from its band. I can almost see myself, leading the wedding pair forward into the center of the circle.
    Until I remember how the sounds ceased when Yuri turned to Orfe and Orfe turned to Yuri, I don’t remember the sounds. But they were there, conversations and laughter, the wash of wine pouring into paper cups, the clink of fruit punch being served out of a glass punch bowl. Some of the guests were uninvited. They were strangers caught up into the occasion as they were sitting around or walking by; some of those were glad to have the adventure added to their day or grateful for the hour’s distraction; a few waited patiently to eat, their eyes not on the wedding couple but