She can’t turn the wheelchair around, but Katie still doesn’t dare to flout the doctor’s order and suggest walking. She decides to pull me backward to the small room we started from. “We’ll go out through the main floor of the museum,” she says. “The ambulance can meet us there. Besides, the museum will be closing soon, so we’ll be able to move around without curious stares.”
Katie has moved behind me. She is just grabbing the handles to pull me back when the stuck door in front of us suddenly opens. In the door, in the bright light, stands a bespectacled man; I recognize him from his athletic posture and wiry physique. He is tense, trembling, ready to dash away . . . but first he has a task to complete. He lifts his hand . . . Polina, will you please make up the rest.
Polina continues:
Well . . . The marathoner stands before you. He lifts his hand. Maybe he’s holding a heavy object wrapped in gray fabric? And he starts to beat you. His blows land where he intends . . . the forehead . . . and the temples. You lose consciousness. They are forceful, blunt blows that leave no external marks on your head. Numberless internal tissues rupture, causing your brain to swell. Your breathing slows. You will never regain consciousness. You die . . .
The murderer flees the scene. He leaves your assistant screaming next to your body slumped in the wheelchair. He knows a secret way out . . . Maybe he’s in league with the museum caretaker. Maybe the caretaker thought you were evil incarnate. Maybe the caretaker had that look too . . .
Whatever lies behind it, you die, Shlomith. You die from your brain injuries, not malnourishment. Are you satisfied now?
And what about my death? Are we going there too? I’ve given it a lot of thought. I always return to the same point—a warmth, an all-encompassing, tingling warmth. That’s my end. I sense a bright, yellow light, even though I keep my eyes shut. And the tingling . . . It doesn’t focus on any specific location, like the skin. It’s everywhere. Things like “skin”, “head”, “limbs”, “pointer fingers”, “little toes”, no longer exist. Existing that way has ceased. I’m not lying much if I say that at the moment of my death I was at one with the universe. Do you understand what I’m talking about? I didn’t accept the light like Saint Teresa of Ávila. Do you know the statue? Bernini’s Teresa: mouth open, slumped uncomfortably, a cherub nearby threatening her with an arrow? It wasn’t like that. First of all, I wasn’t in any particular position.
And can you imagine divine love? No matter how I turn it over in my head, I can’t come up with a better expression for what I felt. . It has to be said in Russian because no other language has words that penetrate this feeling in the same way. Listen: BooŽEStvennaya LyuBOF. That was how I felt, exactly how I felt. A bright yellow light that requires no eyes to perceive: BooŽEStvennaya. A tingling warmth that requires no body to feel: lyuBOF. Taste it. Taste those words!
All my earthly fears ceased in the moment when that celestial warmth filled me. The warmth came first. Yes, the warmth came first. I closed my eyes as if someone had whispered quietly in my ear: “Now you don’t have to fight any more, Polina. No one is threatening you.” As if someone had kissed my eyes closed: “Polina, they can’t hurt you any more. Submit. Submit!” Then came the light. And I relaxed. I stopped fearing and died. Why, I don’t know, but that’s what happened. I wish I could return to that moment, but it’s gone now.
What about you, Nina? What do you remember?
Nina said:
They stopped moving. Every now and then, Little Antoine and Little Antoinette stopped moving. As if by mutual agreement: “Haha, let’s be really still and scare Maman . . .” Then they moved again. “Yoo-hoo, here we are! We tricked you!” It was OK. I got to know them. Their movements and when they didn’t move. There was a certain logic to it. They slept when I moved and woke up when I lay down. They had a sort of rhythm like that. They were—how do you say?—les noctambules . . . like owls . . . yes, “night owls”. They were night owls. Just like their father. Jean-Philippe often put his ear to my belly and listened. When he felt them kick, he would yell, “Ça commence alors!” Then he twisted one hand in the air as if he were swinging a rope, le lasso, yes, the lasso: “La-la-la-la discoooooooo!” Those moments were the best. We laughed a lot. Jean put a toilet roll tube against my belly, put his ear to it, and listened, taking one hand away and said “Shhhhh,” and there they were, two hearts and their quick beating. He heard them.
Those
