piece of staved paper from a tidy pile of paper. And she began to work.
Milena was orchestrating the Comedy. A year after Rolfa had left, she had worked her way to the beginning of Canto Eight. There were one hundred cantos in all. Dante and Virgil had come to the river Styx. Milena looked at the tiny notes of music, one for each syllable. Why were some of them in red? In the corner, in pencil, words said:
How, she wondered, how can you make horns sound sombre
She could only do what she was able to do. Pretend the Comedy is a transcription, she told herself. Pretend that it’s a vocal version of an orchestrated original. Pretend you are reversing cause and effect and remember that horns in G will be written in C. No sharps or flats. The viruses will help.
Milena started to write, lost in work. She did not realise that she and Little Berry were humming in unison.
dear fish
Milena remembered a letter. She saw all of it, in memory, the light on the page, the clots in the ink. It read:
sorry about the name, but i think of you as fish — i dont mean any harm by it but tell me if you really hate it and ill try to mend my ways — to answer your question — i actually think of myself as Canadian — the arctic is different from the antarctic — more grass, more trees — the antarctic is a desert — but i still love it — now rolfa’s father he is definitely english tough which is how we ended up trying to live in south ken from which god preserve me
well im back now in the antarctic — place doesnt look any different — all blue ice and blue sky — my dogs still knew me — good lord — the love in dogs — you wouldnt believe — yipped and yelped whined and widdled — you sure knew you were wanted — dogs simply feel more than we do — im sure of it — never saw people get so happy to see anyone — never mind me I am just trying to get you to think of dogs a bit more kindly after what happened last year
anyway here i am sitting under my old alcohol lamp and im going out digging tomorrow with my dogs and im eating a greasy stew thats still frozen in the middle and i couldnt be any happier — rolfa didnt come with me — said she didnt want to and she should know except that right now i think she doesnt know what she wants — never saw anyone so confused as that poor girl — she went for the weediest little fella, a squidge, real tiny with a pudding basin haircut, blouse, shorts — papa’s hair turned spiky over it — then that all passed just as quickly as she took it up — she said she ate the little guy for breakfast and I can believe it — believe it or not my great soft lump of a girl is getting real aggressive these days — just before i left she THRASHED her first cousin — now he is one huge devil — size of a house — he said something and suddenly he was swallowing all of his teeth — last i heard she was reading up on ACCOUNTANCY — you keep writing — i really like your letters — they make me laugh — though i know the real reason you take such an interest in an old antarctic lady is that you want to know whats happening with rolfa — thats OK — ill let you know when i hear things
your friend
Milena stopped spinning.
Someone was holding her down. He was very tall and very thin and his smile seemed to have been cut out of the tension of his face with a knife.
‘You shuffle forward, one step at a time, knees bent,’ he was telling her. His accent was American. ‘You try to keep your balance. That is the posture of weightlessness.’ He took his hands away. Success. Milena stayed where she was. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘That sure was some introduction.’
‘Yep,’ said Milena. ‘I threw up all over you and dislocated your shoulder.’
‘My name’s Mike Stone,’ he said. ‘Astronaut’
Milena dared to reach forward and shake his hand. She had finally found her feet.
Outside, the heavens were full of stars, the stars of memory. Rolfa, they seemed to whisper. Where is Rolfa?
The Reading was over.
Milena woke up. That was what it felt like. She found herself lying on a floor. At first she thought it was the Bulge. The floor was warm and soft and alive. Milena was covered in sweat. Across the room, which was dimly lit, a huge woman in white was talking, hand on her chin, shaking her head. It was Root, the nurse. And there was Mike Stone, astronaut, sitting in some strange sling chair.
When was this? thought Milena. When did this happen? I don’t remember this. Where is my Now?
Root glanced over her shoulder and saw that Milena was awake. Her eyes widened, and she cut off her conversation with a nod. She half-ran towards Milena, her round arms held aloft and swaying from side to side with her hips. Root leaned over Milena, and her hands were pressed between her knees.
‘I’m sorry, love,’ said Root. ‘But we’re going to have to Read you again.’
‘Again?’ croaked Milena. She felt horribly ill.
‘They don’t have everything. I guess there’s just so much of you to have.’ Lightly, Root stroked Milena’s thin hair. ‘You’re fighting it, aren’t you, love?’
‘What else does it want?’ Milena asked. The Consensus had everything else.
‘Well. It got nothing from your childhood, nothing at all. And there’s Rolfa. You kept back all your memories of Rolfa. She’s very important to you. They need Rolfa too.’
Oh, do they? thought Milena. Do they indeed.
‘You mustn’t fight, you know,’ said Root. Her eyes were full of sadness, but her face was deadly serious. ‘You fight, you could hurt yourself She gave Milena a steady, examining stare. ‘Ready?’
‘Why do they want the Past?’ Milena asked. ‘If they keep telling us the world is only Now?’
‘Because the Past is you,’ said Root, and stood up. Milena heard her rustle away.
My whole life, thought Milena, my whole life has not been mine.
Then space was twisted. Space shivered as when heat rises up from roadway. The shivering space rose up, and began to roll, quivering towards her. It was a wave, a wave in
Rolfa, where is Rolfa? Where she always is, Milena thought. Here with me.
Now, where is my Now? My now is here, where I fight the Consensus.
The wave slammed into her, washing over her, through her, racing up the channels of her nerves, as if to wash them clean, as if to wash all of Milena away.
It was as if her memories of Rolfa were a rock to which Milena could cling. Milena held them and preserved them.
Everything else was surrendered to the roar.
CHAPTER TEN
An Audience of Children
(The Tree of Heaven)
Milena remembered being in the womb.
All sensation was nameless, wordless, unshaped by any kind of grammar. There was light, orange light, passing over her, through her. There was a pulsing, a rush that seethed through her, warm, thrilling, delicious.
