The two-lane road we walked up was filled with European cars: Škoda, Renault, Volkswagen, Citroën. On the sidewalk, people looked at their feet as they made their way to work. A woman with flat, yellow hair walked ahead of us. She was young, but her shoulders were stooped under her jean jacket. She stopped to talk to a round-headed man with gelled hair; her thin lips were painted in too-pink lipstick.
The sun couldn’t break through the layer of clouds. The crust of snow on the ground was black and icy, and we had to walk carefully to keep from slipping.
“There it is.”
Low and rectangular, the structure looked like a school, but something was off. There were several grated windows on the upper floor, but none on the ground one. The roof looked to be little more than a flimsy layer of crumbling shingles. Around one side, we could make out a dirt yard in which sat a neglected swing set.
We fell silent. The ice squeaked under our steps. An oily smell permeated the dry, cold air. Discarded plastic and dead grass mingled in a patch of snow. I didn’t recognize the place; nothing looked like the website.
We climbed the steps as though walking into a church. As we announced ourselves on the intercom, I was seized with emotion.
The director greeted us with a firm handshake and let her eyes linger on me. She didn’t look me in the eye, but stared instead at the tinted glasses on top of my head. We sat patiently on peeling leather armchairs as she reviewed our adoption folder. She was ageless, her face a plaster mask of makeup. She wore a white wraparound dress with a tag pinned to her chest, on which her name was written in pink: Vonda. The dress was very low-cut and Gregory couldn’t stop ogling her chest. I took out a tube of hand cream to occupy myself while I waited.
“Everything looks fine,” she announced in a crisp French. “You can take the children when you come back tomorrow.”
Gregory asked her to repeat herself, and she confirmed we could sign the release forms the next day. We’d expected a number of short visits in the days to come. It was an
essential adjustment period; it could take over two weeks to complete the process, Giselle had advised us. I’d bought open-ended plane tickets for this reason. Vonda didn’t register our surprise and rose briskly, giving us an artificial smile. She led us through the corridors of the orphanage without really bothering to show us around.
The smell of bleach was suffocating. Craning our necks here and there, we tried to get a feel for the labyrinth of the place. The hallway opened onto different-sized rooms. I thought I saw a TV room, cluttered with wheelchairs. We passed a dormitory lined with the beds of older residents. The dormitory for the little ones was farther on, crowded with dozens of numbered metal cribs. We took the main staircase upstairs. Several children sat on the steps. A damp little hand grabbed mine. The child smiled at me through creased eyes. He wouldn’t let go of my hand. Vonda pushed him back, and, on seeing my expression, explained with a wave of her hand, “These ones are vegetables. There’s no hope for them.”
An uneasy feeling overtook me. What was this place?
The second story had two extra dormitories, for severely disabled children. The rooms were crammed with beds with retractable bars, and various pulley and support systems. Even the hallways were overcrowded. A soundtrack of cries and moans accompanied our passage. Vonda quickly walked us past a bathroom containing a clump of towels and children slopping in puddles.
Green dominated the decor. An indefinable green. Watery green. Dirty green. Drowning green.
I clung to Gregory’s arm. Even he was a little unstable.
The door to the playroom opened with a slam. A racket escaped from within, freezing us for a moment on the threshold. A single barred window lit the room. Low bookshelves and white melamine furniture covered nearly all the walls, containing few books or toys. But that all disappeared once the director pointed to the left-hand corner of the room.
There they were!
I was paralyzed for a moment with vertigo. My breath sped up and the ground beneath my feet went soft.
I had made it.
With tears in my eyes, I hid a smile behind my hand; I had to catch my breath before taking a few uncertain steps toward them.
They were watching the activity in the room. I got down on my knees to bring myself to their height. Gregory pulled up his pant legs and bent down as well. His hands shook a little.
The boys looked at us, perfectly still, and blinked slowly. My cheeks were wet with tears and my nose had started to run. I pulled a tissue out of my bag, laughing, finally relaxed.
“Vanya?” I guessed.
Although he didn’t respond, I knew I was right. I turned to his brother.
“Hello, Daniil,” I said.
But he also remained there, slack-armed. Their hands were clean, their nails cut short. Their big blue eyes were fixed on us, passing from Gregory to me without batting an eyelid. They didn’t smile. Their cheeks were pink with mild eczema. Both wore T-shirts and light grey shorts. Their resemblance was striking.
The noise level was hard to endure. Dozens of children were shrieking at the same time and no one was trying to console them. The twins were not crying, but neither were they overjoyed at our presence. Seated side by side and straight-backed, they seemed interested in nothing in particular. They were waiting patiently for something, we didn’t know what. They seemed fine just to be there, together. They weren’t
