“Forgive me, but could I have a bath instead? I haven’t had one in years; at Lark House I use the staff showers.”
It was a luminous afternoon, and through the large window next to the bathtub there was a panorama of the bustling city, with its traffic, sailboats, streets crowded with people on foot, on bikes, or on skates; customers sitting at sidewalk tables under orange awnings; and the nearby Ferry Building with its gigantic clocks. Shivering, Irina sank down into the hot water up to her ears, and felt her tense muscles and aching bones slowly relax; yet again she blessed the wealth and generosity of the Belascos. Shortly afterward, Seth shouted from the far side of the door that the food had arrived, but she stayed soaking for another half hour. Eventually she dressed without much enthusiasm, feeling sleepy and with her head in a spin. The smell from the cartons of sweet-and-sour pork, chow mein, and Peking duck almost made her retch. She curled up on the spinach sofa and fell asleep, not awakening until several hours later when it was already dark outside. Seth had slipped a pillow under her head, covered her with a blanket, and was sitting on a corner of the sofa watching his second movie of the night—spies, international crimes, and Russian Mafia villains—with her feet on his lap.
“I didn’t want to wake you. Kallet called and said the operation on Neko was successful, but he has a big tumor in his spleen and this is the beginning of the end,” he told her.
“Poor thing, I hope he isn’t suffering . . .”
“Kallet won’t let him suffer, Irina. How’s your headache?”
“I don’t know. I’m very sleepy. You didn’t spike the tea, did you, Seth?”
“Yes, I put ketamine in it. Why don’t you get into bed and sleep properly? You’ve got a temperature.”
He led her to the room with Alma’s photo in it, took off her shoes, helped her get into bed, covered her, and then went to watch the end of his film. The next day, Irina woke up late, having sweated off the fever. She felt better, but her legs were still like jelly. She found a note from Seth on the black kitchen island: “The coffee is already measured, just turn on the machine. My grandmother is back at Lark House; I explained about Neko. She’ll tell Voigt you’re sick and are not going to work. Get some rest. I’ll call later. Kisses. Your future husband.” Together with the note were a carton of chicken soup with noodles, a small box of raspberries, and a paper bag with a muffin from a nearby bakery.
Seth was back before six that afternoon, after spending the day in court. He was anxious to see Irina. He had called her on the phone several times to check that she hadn’t left, but he was afraid she might vanish at the last minute. When he thought of her, the first image that came to mind was of a hare ready to leap away; the second was her pale, attentive face with half-open mouth and eyes wide with astonishment as she listened to Alma’s stories, believing every last one of them. As soon as he opened the door, he could feel Irina’s presence. He knew she was there before he saw her: the apartment was lived-in, the sand-colored walls seemed warmer, the floor had a satin glow he had never noticed before, even the air seemed somehow friendlier. She came out to meet him on unsteady legs, her eyes puffy with sleep and her hair as disheveled as a whitish clown’s wig. Seth opened his arms wide, and for the first time ever she took refuge in them. They held each other for what to her seemed like an eternity, and to him seemed to be over in a flash. Afterward she took his hand and led him over to the sofa.
“We need to talk,” she told him.
She had decided to follow Catherine Hope’s advice. When she had heard about Irina’s past, Cathy had made her promise she would tell Seth, not merely to tear out the malignant growth poisoning her, but also because he deserved to know the truth.
* * *