The first task at hand was consuming. Doro was busy instructing me on how to shop for my mourning toilettes—I kept nearly calling them costumes—and so we began at once.
I had always liked black, but only when I chose it. Not like this. I resented the way the foyer to this new life would be decked in black. All to hide his blood. Even in death, it seemed, I would dress for him. Even in death I would make false names because of him, would deny my lover because of him. And, of course, the color would be black. The black madness I knew so well from him now poured over my whole life in a flood after his death. I had killed him hoping to free myself of it and of him, to save the little world I hoped to make without him, only to discover there was no corner of it where he did not reach. The blow I had struck rang still, the rays of it spreading, and now I would see if what was left without him could hold. But as I donned the new black dresses I would spend the year in, I knew there was every chance that destroying him was as likely to destroy me.
After several days of such shopping, I found myself in front of a window to a store that seemed to sell only Chinese things. I had been to a milliner nearby, examining black hats and toques, black-jet hair combs, and any number of veils. I was rebelling, drawn to any color, first the beautiful gold thread and then the jewel colors in the satins, and so I stepped inside.
I found myself before a case of coins, Chinese coins, curious to me because of their square centers.
You want to see how they work? the proprietress asked, and drew the case out of the vitrine. She put them in her hand and shook them so they jingled lightly. She was Chinese also, with a whiskey voice, her skin white like a mushroom, the wrinkles on her face ridged like the veins of leaves. She had spent her life before this in the sun and was, I could see, much older than I had thought at first. Her silver hair she wore tight in a bun where it sat like a tin cap.
If it’s a coin, I know how it works, I said.
She laughed. I will show you, she said.
She lit a piece of incense, handed me the coins, and directed me on how to shake and throw them like dice, six times. She counted out whatever this measures, and in ink drew a character much like I could see on the coins. She looked at it long and hard, and this is what she said to me: When the earth opens up under your feet, be like a seed. Fall down; wait for the rain.
Wait for the rain, I repeated.
Yes. Rain is coming, she said. Everything you lose you get back. She folded the paper into my hand and pressed it shut.
It would be the first time, I said, as I pocketed it. I thanked her, offered to pay her, which she accepted.
Back out on the streets of London, each person passing me appeared like the shape of a Fate, and the feeling didn’t leave me until I shut the door to my hotel suite, alone with Doro and the British cook she’d hired for me, there with supper ready.
I asked the new cook if she believed the fortunes of fortune-tellers when she set my plate down.
I’ll show you your future, milady, she said, and then she smiled as she pointed at the plate.
§
When Aristafeo came at last, I nearly shouted when I read the ad; I had almost given up.
Here is your lost falcon, I wrote, and included a card from Brown’s. He came the next evening to take me to dinner and met me with a cab at the hotel.
I suppose I thought he would expect me in mourning dress. His eyes lost some of their light when he saw me. I was dressed in an evening cloak trimmed in black mink over my black dinner gown, a black hat covered in black feathers, a trim little veil. I had even bought black furs, anxious to at least enjoy myself.
Must you, he said, as he took my arm and led me from the lobby.
I must, I said. Six months, a year.
Even the veil? he asked, as he sat beside me.
Yes, I said.
It’s like looking at him every day, he said.
Yes it is, I said. For me as well. I took the veil off then, and as I did, I made sure he saw the ring.
That’s better, he said, and then he kissed me chastely, as if we were being watched.
By the end of the first evening, we were restored to each other. Soon we were making plans for our trip to Saint Petersburg and our audience there. He spoke of how Un Ballo in Maschera was being performed there at the Royal Opera, and we agreed we should see it. He said he would make the arrangements so we could write to the Verdis of it as we left for Russia.
§
A single item consumed me, however, more important than any of these mourning clothes.
The flask.
I could think of nothing else other than how to get it back.