The fire bore down on the crowd at the quay. The roof of the American consulate caught. Flames climbed the movie theater, scorching the marquee. The crowd inched back from the heat. But Lefty, sensing his opportunity, was undeterred.
“Nobody will know,” he said. “Who’s to know? There’s nobody left but us.”
“It’s not right.”
Roofs crashed, people screamed, as Lefty put his lips to his sister’s ear. “You promised you’d find me a nice Greek girl. Well. You’re it.”
On one side a man jumped into the water, trying to drown himself; on the other, a woman was giving birth, as her husband shielded her with his coat.
“But if we lived? You’d marry me then?”
A nod. That was all. And Lefty was gone, running toward the flames.
On a black screen, a binocular-shaped template of vision sweeps back and forth, taking in the distant refugees. They scream without sound. They hold out their arms, beseeching.
“They’re going to cook the poor wretches alive.”
“Permission to retrieve a swimmer, sir.”
“Negative, Phillips. Once we take one aboard we’ll have to take them all.”
“It’s a girl, sir.”
“How old?”
“Looks to be about ten or eleven.”
Major Arthur Maxwell lowers his binoculars. A triangular knot of muscle tenses in his jaw and disappears.
“Have a look at her, sir.”
“We mustn’t be swayed by emotions here, Phillips. There are greater things at stake.”
“Have a look at her, sir.”
The wings of Major Maxwell’s nose flare as he looks at Captain Phillips. Then, slapping one hand against his thigh, he moves to the side of the ship.
The searchlight sweeps across the water, lighting up its own circle of vision. The water looks odd under the beam, a colorless broth littered with a variety of objects: a bright orange; a man’s fedora with a brim of excrement; bits of paper like torn letters. And then, amid this inert matter, she appears, holding on to the ship’s line, a girl in a pink dress the water darkens to red, hair plastered to her small skull. Her eyes make no appeal, staring up. Her sharp feet kick every so often, like fins.
Rifle fire from shore hits the water around her. She pays no attention.
“Turn off the searchlight.”
The light goes off and the firing stops. Major Maxwell looks at his watch. “It is now 2115 hours. I am going to my cabin, Phillips. I will stay there until 0700 hours. Should a refugee be taken aboard during that period, it would not come to my attention. Is that understood?”
“Understood, sir.”
It didn’t occur to Dr. Philobosian that the twisted body he stepped over in the street belonged to his younger son. He noticed only that his front door was open. In the foyer, he stopped to listen. There was only silence. Slowly, still holding his doctor’s bag, he climbed the stairs. All the lamps were on now. The living room was bright. Toukhie was sitting on the sofa, waiting for him. Her head had fallen backward as though in hilarity, the angle opening the wound so that a section of windpipe gleamed. Stepan sat slumped at the dining table, his right hand, which held the letter of protection, nailed down with a steak knife. Dr. Philobosian took a step and slipped, then noticed a trail of blood leading down the hallway. He followed the trail into the master bedroom, where he found his two daughters. They were both naked, lying on their backs. Three of their four breasts had been cut off. Rose’s hand reached out toward her sister as though to adjust the silver ribbon across her forehead.
The line was long and moved slowly. Lefty had time to go over his vocabulary. He reviewed his grammar, taking quick peeks at the phrase book. He studied “Lesson 1: Greetings,” and by the time he reached the official at the table, he was ready.
“Name?”
“Eleutherios Stephanides.”
“Place of birth?”
“Paris.”
The official looked up. “Passport.”
“Everything was destroyed in the fire! I lost all my papers!” Lefty puckered his lips and expelled air, as he’d seen Frenchmen do. “Look at what I’m wearing. I lost all my good suits.”
The official smiled wryly and stamped the papers. “Pass.”
“I have my wife with me.”
“I suppose she was born in Paris, too.”
“Of course.”
“Her name?”
“Desdemona.”
“Desdemona Stephanides?”
“That’s right. Same as mine.”
When he returned with the visas, Desdemona wasn’t alone. A man sat beside her on the suitcase. “He tried to throw himself in the water. I caught him just in time.” Dazed, bloody, a shining bandage wrapping one hand, the man kept repeating, “They couldn’t read. They were illiterate!” Lefty checked to see where the man was bleeding but couldn’t find a wound. He unwrapped the man’s bandage, a silver ribbon, and tossed it away. “They couldn’t read my letter,” the man said, looking at Lefty, who recognized his face.
“You again?” the French official said.
“My cousin,” said Lefty, in execrable French. The man stamped a visa and handed it to him.
A motor launch took them out to the ship. Lefty kept hold of Dr. Philobosian, who was still threatening to drown himself. Desdemona opened her silkworm box and unwrapped the white cloth to check on her eggs. In the hideous water, bodies floated past. Some were alive, calling out. A searchlight revealed a boy halfway up the anchor chain of a battleship. Sailors dumped oil on him and he slipped back into the water.
On the deck of the
The anchors surged up out of the water. The deck rumbled underfoot as the destroyer’s engines were thrown into reverse. Desdemona and Lefty watched Asia Minor recede.
As they passed the
The Silk Road
According to an ancient Chinese legend, one day in the year 2640B.C., Princess Si Ling-chi was sitting under a mulberry tree when a silkworm cocoon fell into her teacup. When she tried to remove it, she noticed that the cocoon had begun to unravel in the hot liquid. She handed the loose end to her maidservant and told her to
