Orfe by Cynthia Voigt Page B

on the table offood. It seemed as if everybody must be talking—voices pitched loud and louder, soft velvet voices, gruff, rough voices, piercing nasal voices, high and low voices, musical or flat, pompous or serene, eager, laughing, sarcastic, flirtatious, intent—a babble of sounds that ceased when Orfe turned to Yuri and Yuri turned to Orfe, at the center of the circle.
    â€œI promise myself to you,” Orfe said to Yuri, “my heart and all the works of my hands.” “I promise myself to you,” Yuri said to Orfe, “my heart and all the works of my hands.” Orfe held out her hand, and Yuri put a ring onto her finger. Yuri held out his hand, and Orfe put a ring onto his finger. They were married.
    They turned around, facing away from each other, standing back to back, and opened their arms out. The circle moved around them.
    It was a song and everyone was singing. The Graces had gone to their instruments. Music filled the sunlit air. We sang the song through and then unclasped hands, to clap in applause for the occasion and the wedding couple and ourselves. Orfe laughed and curtsied low, almost sweeping the ground with her arm. Yuri laughed and swept his hat fromhis head to bow to the four points of the compass.
    The bowls and platters were uncovered. The guests, invited and uninvited, helped themselves to cakes and little cookies, to paper cups of wine or fruit punch.
    *  *  *  *  *
    They came in a parade, holding a square metal cake pan overhead, as if it were the platform with the god riding on it. These were the people from the house, and they were too late for the exchange of vows, the ceremony itself, if they had ever intended to be in time for it. Yuri and Orfe had signed the back of the marriage certificate, and the Graces and I had witnessed the signatures, before the little parade ever entered the park and came toward the wedding—cake tin held high, garlands of honeysuckle and ivy hung over their shoulders.
    I was with Michael. He and I were serving drinks when they arrived. I ladled out fruit punch and he poured red or white wine. We listened to the music, Orfe and the Graces, and watched the dancers, Yuri with various partners. I had danced with Yuri once myself that day, he danced with every woman there, sometimes just one,sometimes gathering two or three or four around him for the dance. Michael and I watched and sometimes commented. The music wasn’t amplified and neither were the voices.
    Watching Yuri dance, Michael said, “If I were the jealous type, I’d be jealous of him.”
    â€œBut you’re not.”
    â€œNope. I’m the scientist type. The weedy scientist type. So I’m only almost jealous.”
    â€œNot over me, I hope,” I said.
    â€œNo. Although I could be—”
    â€œIf you were the type.”
    â€œIf I were the type. This is just sort of a general jealousy. I don’t even know what it is that he has. Do you?”
    â€œSort of.”
    â€œIt’s not the usual attraction he has, except for his good looks. I’m not putting him down as unmasculine or anything,” Michael said. “Just observing.”
    â€œI’ve never heard you put anybody down.”
    â€œWhat’s the point?” Michael asked me. Then, “Who’s that? Looks like—I don’t know what it looks like. Look.”
    The people from the house, in a procession, came up to the music. They hadlong hair and many had bare feet. They wore ragged jeans and belts with studs, black T-shirts, denim vests with studs. Their colors were black and silver or black and steel—like the night sky with safety pins and zippers and studs for their stars. Their eyes were dark and shadowed. Their parti-color hair looked dark, whether it was hennaed, bleached, or blackened, or arose in a crest of green or orange spikes. Twisted vines lay across their shoulders, trailed down their chests and backs, swayed