air, and was gone, as if dissolved.
Tatiana let go of Dora’s hand.
Beside them and before them, others were turning away.
If only there was music always, Dora thought, there would be no need to speak.
Tatiana blinked. She stood as if waiting for permission to move.
Dora led her forward. She was looking for an empty tub, but everywhere she looked the tubs wereoccupied. Orderlies and nurses stood or sat beside their patients, turning on taps and wielding hoses as though they stood and sat in gardens, watering wilted flowers in the hopes of bringing them back to life.
At last, they came to an empty tub and Dora planted herself behind the Countess, knowing there would be a moment of panic before her patient could be persuaded to disrobe and climb down into the depths.
The tubs were four feet deep and lined with Connemara from Ireland, its marbled streaks and curlicues green as any seaweed flowing in a tidal pool. The waters here were salted and softened, giving off Atlantic vapours and shining with phosphorescence. The whole effect was of standing on a rocky shore on a warm and misted day.
There are no waters on the Moon, the Countess had said. No waters—no tides—nor anything but dust and ashes. We bathe in ashes! she had cried triumphantly. We bathe in ashes and powder our bodies with dust!
Dora had wondered how they slaked their thirst.
There is no thirst, the Countess had told her. No thirst, no hunger, nothing human. No wants. No desires. No yearning. Nothing. We are free.
How sad that must be, to have no yearning, Dora had replied. You must want something.
Never. Nothing. Only to dance. To float beyond the pull of gravity.
There must be a great deal of happiness there if you want so much to go back.
The Countess had turned away at that, but only for the briefest moment.
Dora placed her hands on Blavinskeya’s shoulders. It was time to remove the robe and lead her to the steps which descended into the water.
“Undo,” Dora said.
Obedient and uncomplaining as a child, the Countess undid the cord and buttons of her robe and moved away from Dora. Dora folded the robe on her arm and watched the Moon Lady climb down the steps.
Dora moved forward, one hand ready to steady the Countess should she fall. The feet were tiny, arched and supple—the legs and arms were plump and round—a dancer’s arms and legs—and the buttocks were firm as porcelain moons. The breasts…Dora closed her eyes. She could not bear to think of them.
Blavinskeya descended into the water with a sigh.
Watching her, Dora sat on the edge of the tub. Below her, the Countess was seated on a built-in bench with her arms spread wide and her head thrown back, eyes closed, lips parted—almost as though she expected to be embraced.
It was impossible. To love someone and not be able to kiss, to touch, to embrace.
Impossible—and yet, endurable.
15
Pilgrim was seated in a Bath chair with a tartan rug across his knees. He was dressed in blue pyjamas, a grey hospital robe, white stockings and chamois slippers lined with fleece. His wrists were bound withsurgical gauze and lay exposed in his lap—a reminder of his brief stay in the Infirmary.
Kessler had taken him, under Doctor Furtwängler’s instructions, to the glassed-in sun porch which overlooked the gardens. In the far distance beyond the trees, the mountains on the far side of the Zürichsee could be seen, but not the lake itself. Now he sat in perfect silence, expressionless and seemingly without emotion. The mountains meant nothing. The sky meant nothing. The sun, beyond its zenith and deep in its decline, was a stranger to him. He had understood it, once, and even considered it his friend, but now it lacked a name and could not be identified.
My wrists hurt.
Ached.
He did not know why.
He remembered nothing.
Bandages.
White.
Snow…?
He knew the word for snow and recognized its presence beyond the windows.
He also knew the words for mountain and for window. But not
Tatiana let go of Dora’s hand.
Beside them and before them, others were turning away.
If only there was music always, Dora thought, there would be no need to speak.
Tatiana blinked. She stood as if waiting for permission to move.
Dora led her forward. She was looking for an empty tub, but everywhere she looked the tubs wereoccupied. Orderlies and nurses stood or sat beside their patients, turning on taps and wielding hoses as though they stood and sat in gardens, watering wilted flowers in the hopes of bringing them back to life.
At last, they came to an empty tub and Dora planted herself behind the Countess, knowing there would be a moment of panic before her patient could be persuaded to disrobe and climb down into the depths.
The tubs were four feet deep and lined with Connemara from Ireland, its marbled streaks and curlicues green as any seaweed flowing in a tidal pool. The waters here were salted and softened, giving off Atlantic vapours and shining with phosphorescence. The whole effect was of standing on a rocky shore on a warm and misted day.
There are no waters on the Moon, the Countess had said. No waters—no tides—nor anything but dust and ashes. We bathe in ashes! she had cried triumphantly. We bathe in ashes and powder our bodies with dust!
Dora had wondered how they slaked their thirst.
There is no thirst, the Countess had told her. No thirst, no hunger, nothing human. No wants. No desires. No yearning. Nothing. We are free.
How sad that must be, to have no yearning, Dora had replied. You must want something.
Never. Nothing. Only to dance. To float beyond the pull of gravity.
There must be a great deal of happiness there if you want so much to go back.
The Countess had turned away at that, but only for the briefest moment.
Dora placed her hands on Blavinskeya’s shoulders. It was time to remove the robe and lead her to the steps which descended into the water.
“Undo,” Dora said.
Obedient and uncomplaining as a child, the Countess undid the cord and buttons of her robe and moved away from Dora. Dora folded the robe on her arm and watched the Moon Lady climb down the steps.
Dora moved forward, one hand ready to steady the Countess should she fall. The feet were tiny, arched and supple—the legs and arms were plump and round—a dancer’s arms and legs—and the buttocks were firm as porcelain moons. The breasts…Dora closed her eyes. She could not bear to think of them.
Blavinskeya descended into the water with a sigh.
Watching her, Dora sat on the edge of the tub. Below her, the Countess was seated on a built-in bench with her arms spread wide and her head thrown back, eyes closed, lips parted—almost as though she expected to be embraced.
It was impossible. To love someone and not be able to kiss, to touch, to embrace.
Impossible—and yet, endurable.
15
Pilgrim was seated in a Bath chair with a tartan rug across his knees. He was dressed in blue pyjamas, a grey hospital robe, white stockings and chamois slippers lined with fleece. His wrists were bound withsurgical gauze and lay exposed in his lap—a reminder of his brief stay in the Infirmary.
Kessler had taken him, under Doctor Furtwängler’s instructions, to the glassed-in sun porch which overlooked the gardens. In the far distance beyond the trees, the mountains on the far side of the Zürichsee could be seen, but not the lake itself. Now he sat in perfect silence, expressionless and seemingly without emotion. The mountains meant nothing. The sky meant nothing. The sun, beyond its zenith and deep in its decline, was a stranger to him. He had understood it, once, and even considered it his friend, but now it lacked a name and could not be identified.
My wrists hurt.
Ached.
He did not know why.
He remembered nothing.
Bandages.
White.
Snow…?
He knew the word for snow and recognized its presence beyond the windows.
He also knew the words for mountain and for window. But not
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