I walked for another half hour before coming on the couple.
That’s what I would call them ever afterward. They wore wolf masks, only their mouths and lips exposed, and beautiful clothing. The man wore an ancient cutaway, the kind of jacket George Washington wore, with knee-length pants—plus fours—and a blond wig of some sort over his scalp. The woman dressed in the style of Marie Antoinette, with a full gown of brocaded material, and she wore a gray wig on top of her head and a narrower, more vulpine mask extending upward from the bridge of her nose. Their appearance made no sense whatsoever. Initially, I could hardly credit my eyesight. What did costumes out of the 1700s have to do with the festival? But before I could advance toward them—they stood near a working fountain, the water splashing up in a white arc of light—I heard their music. The male wolf—that’s how I came to think of him—put on a vinyl record on a tiny turntable and stood back to make sure it ran properly. When the music came on fully—it was a waltz of some sort—he turned and bowed toward the female wolf. She curtseyed and moved into his arms.
Then they danced.
They danced quietly, expertly, and as they moved, the spray from the fountain sometimes seemed to leap and ask to be ice. They danced on cobblestones, and I was the only witness. I couldn’t say for certain, but I believed they danced only for one another. They did nothing theatrical besides their outlandish costumes. They did not turn to look at me or engage me in any way. They merely continued to move and spin, the vinyl record spotty with pops and clicks, the fountain water providing a glimmer to their movements. I watched and felt my eyes filling. I yearned to see it as a sign, as a token that I would find Jack, but a part of me didn’t even care for that hope. No, it was enough to see them dance, to believe they were sufficiently in love to bring a portable turntable onto a plaza in the small hours of the morning in order to waltz with one another.
I watched them another minute or two, then backed away as silently as I could. In the muted light of the fountain, I saw them spin and revolve together, a wolves’ dance on a cold spring night.
56
The next morning, I ate breakfast in Mr. Roo’s dining room. He made good oatmeal. He served it with cinnamon and a thick piece of black bread from the night before.
I told him the story of seeing Jack for an instant. Of thinking I had seen Jack, anyway. In no time, it became an idée fixe with him that I must find my lost boy, as he called him. But he had no solid plan to offer. He kept saying destiny would have a hand. He liked the word destiny and said it often. He said when we stop looking for something, it usually shows up. Then he asked how I liked the oatmeal. I said it hit the spot.
My phone rang before I finished my oatmeal. It was Amy. I excused myself and walked away to an empty table to talk with her in privacy.
“Are you okay?” she asked as soon as we connected. “Tell me you’re okay.”
“I think I saw Jack last night.”
“What do you mean, you think you saw him?”
“It was crowded, and he was only there for a second. I couldn’t get to him fast enough. And he was with another woman, I think.”
Amy drew in her breath. She didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she spoke.
“You’ll find him, Heather,” she said.
“I will.”
“I know you will.”
“I will.”
“But if it becomes torturous, don’t feel you have to stay. You are captain of your own ship, remember? You are the wild, new, freer Heather. The one who takes off and tells her employer to fuck himself.”
“I’m not torturing myself. And I did not tell Bank of America to fuck itself. I give the company good value. I’m a good employee.”
She didn’t say anything for a second.
“Is the festival fun?” she asked.
“Yes, it is. In a strange way, it’s very fun. I’m having a wonderful time. I’ve never been to anything like it.”
“I’m worried about you. I’m also more inspired than you might know. You’re doing one of the bravest things I’ve ever heard about.”
“I’m all right, Amy. I’m strong enough for this. I am. Maybe it wasn’t even him that I saw. It’s hard to say. People were dancing, and the light wasn’t good. Maybe I imagined him. Maybe I conjured him into existence just because.”
“Was there really a woman near him?”
“Maybe. If I saw him at all, then yes, yes, there was. I’m okay, Amy. Honestly. I feel stronger, in fact. I feel like he is here,” I said, understanding it to be an honest statement even as I spoke it. “And it’s not just about him, Amy. You know that. It’s about what we had. If what Jack and I had wasn’t real, didn’t mean as much to him as it did to me, then I need to know. I need to know life can fool you that profoundly. If it does, then okay, I’ll keep going, but I’ll have a different feeling about it all. It will hurt, but it will be a lesson learned.”
“It will make you cynical. I’m worried it will make you give up on things.”
“Maybe it will. Maybe it’s part of growing up. Sometimes growing up seems like a simple process of casting things off. What do I know?”
“Stay as long as you need to. Don’t do it halfway.”
“I won’t, I promise. Honestly, the old Heather might have done it halfway. Not now. I’ve changed. But the festival isn’t enormous. If he’s around here, I would probably run into him eventually.”
Amy blew out air in a hopeful release. I tried to imagine what time it was there, but my brain couldn’t handle the calculations.
“When do you go to Japan?” she asked.
“Next week.”
“Okay,” she said. “That’s good. Go to Japan and get a new haircut or something. Buy a samurai sword. Shake it up. Good luck today.”
“Mr. Roo says it’s all about destiny.”
“Mr. Roo? Who is Mr. Roo? That can’t be his name.”
“It is today,” I said, and I disconnected.
*
I walked. And I looked.
Gradually, I learned the form of the festival. Dancing went on at all times. In fact, it was the job of the festivalgoers to keep the dancing continuous so that winter would not have a chance to take root again. Several people told me this. The sound of cowbells permeated everything. It dug so deeply into my consciousness that it disappeared eventually like the noise of a clock ticking or a railway car going by. Bells, dancing, Batak. Surva Festival.
As I walked, I wondered what in the name of God’s last word I was doing in Batak, Bulgaria. I tried to imagine what I must look like to the passersby. Here was a young woman, reasonably attractive, dressed well, who seemed to wander aimlessly throughout the day. She was obviously American, obviously a tourist, obviously out of her element. She lived now in a single room, sleeping on a nunnish cot, while a white Cupid-faced heater blew hot breath over her to keep her from freezing.
It was absurd.