Their lips touched.
Her arm slipped around his neck. He put out a hand and touched the curve of her hip.
It was a long time before either of them could speak.
“You were going to tell me about the Greeks,” Yashim said.
Amelie smiled and touched a finger to the tip of his nose.
“Right now,” she said, “I’m more interested in Ottomans.”
71
SUNLIGHT slid across the divan as the afternoon wore on.
He broke away from her once: from her interest. She had understood. She soothed him back to her with little cries, like a bird. She had put her fingers to his lips.
“Max never kissed me like that,” she said finally.
He left her reading the Gyllius; it was the least he could do.
“Remember, Gyllius is writing about a vanished world. Perhaps something in this will spark a memory.”
He caught a last glimpse of her on the divan: her hair in the sun, a finger on her chin, and the curve of her hip like a wave that could drown him.
72
PALEWSKI was not at home; Marta said he’d gone for a walk and invited Yashim inside to wait.
“I’ll sit out here,” Yashim said.
He wanted the light—he needed air. He had walked all the way, hoping to drive the agonizing tedium from his limbs, breath into his constricted lungs. It was no good: Amelie that afternoon had invaded him, opening the space in his mind that he always kept closed.
He sat at the top of the steps with his back to the wall, in the sun, watching the little boy playing in the yard. He was kneeling by the front wall and digging in the earth with a stick.
The little boy didn’t look up when Yashim came and squatted down beside him.
He carved the stick into the dirt again, then laid it flat and began to polish the sides of the trench he had dug, a short, shallow trench that sloped gently from one end to the other.
At the lower end the boy had dug a small hole in the ground. He laid the stick aside and began to smooth the sides of the hole.
When it was done to his satisfaction he sat back on his heels and surveyed his work. Yashim gave him a smile but he did not receive it.
The little boy stood up and walked away.
Yashim stared at the figure on the ground, puzzled.
The little boy was gone a few minutes. He came back carrying a jar and a ball. The ball was made of tin and had a big dent in it. The boy placed the ball in the trench, with the dent uppermost. Very carefully he stood the jar on its base and began to tip water from the jar into the trench. The ball floated a short way, then rolled over slowly and came to rest on its dented side.
The boy sighed. He looked up at Yashim for the first time and there were tears in his eyes.
“It’s only because the ball’s got a dent in it,” Yashim said quietly.
The boy looked down, but made no effort to touch the ball.
“I can get you another one, just like it,” Yashim said.
The boy didn’t move.
“Where did you get this one? From your daddy?”
The boy looked up, and his head seemed to shrink into his shoulders. He doesn’t speak, Yashim thought: his words are soundless shapes inside his head.
Yashim stood up and held out his hand. “Show me,” he said.
73
AMELIE lay on the divan, fiddling with a lock of her hair, her attention focused on the old book her husband had left behind in Yashim’s flat.
