“You should have kept it. For the boy.”
“I kept enough for him.” Todor lost the breast, and she guided his head back to it. “I was so happy that you remembered him, that you cared for him. I did not dare to dream that you would be able to come to Macedonia to see him with your eyes.”
“I wish I could have come sooner.”
“It is good that you waited. He was so red and shriveled when he was first born! You would not have liked him.”
“I’d have loved him anyway.”
I went to the fire and used a branch to push the smoking logs closer together. I sat down again at Annalya’s side. She switched Todor from one breast to the other. He fussed at first, but then his hungry little mouth found what it wanted, and he devoted himself wholeheartedly to the business of feeding. I watched his eyes. They would fall slowly shut, then snap open, then drift shut again, but through it all he kept on eating ravenously.
When he had finally finished, she carried him to the little straw mattress at the left-hand side of the hearth. She set him down gently and covered him with a pair of knitted blankets. He did not open his eyes. She returned to my side and sat close to me.
“He is a good baby,” she said. “He will sleep for hours.”
“He sleeps well?”
“Like a young lamb.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” I said. Of course it could hardly have been otherwise; Lamarckian genetics and the inheritance of acquired characteristics have been rather thoroughly discredited, and even Lamarck would have hesitated to suggest that my shrapnel-induced insomnia would be passed on to my children. Still, it was reassuring to know that chance had not visited this particular malady upon little Todor. That sort of idiosyncrasy could be more readily coped with by a Manhattan-based ghost-writer than by a Macedonian peasant and revolutionary leader.
“Evan? Will you be here long?”
“A few days and nights.”
“And then you return to America?”
I shook my head. “Not at once. I have business to the north.”
“In Belgrade?”
“Farther than that.”
“I wish you could stay longer, Evan.”
I stretched out on the dirt floor. She lay down beside me. Her sweater buttoned down the front. The buttons were made of dark brown leather. I opened them one by one and put my hands on her breasts.
“See what the little one has done to them? They are empty now.”
“They are magnificent, my love. My little bird.”
“Ahh…”
We lay side by side on the floor with our arms around one another. Her mouth tasted sweet and warm. My hands played merrily upon her lush breasts, and she giggled and told me that she knew now why Todor was such a fine nursing baby. “He takes after his father.”
“I told you as much.”
“Ah, Evan…”
Lazily, pausing for kisses and caresses, we removed our clothes in the flickering firelight. Childbirth had not harmed her body in the least. I touched the shallow bowl of her belly, the rich, sloping thighs.
“You have other women?”
“Some.”
“And other children?”
“No.”
“Todor is the only one?”
“Yes.”
She sighed, contented. We kissed and clung to each other. We parted, and she drew me over to her own straw mattress on the other side of the hearth from Todor’s.
“Todor will need brothers,” she said.
“That is true.”
“And it has been half a year since his birth. It is time.”
“Yes. But what if we produce a girl?”
“A daughter?” She considered this while I handled her fine body. “But it is good for a boy to have sisters. And you will return again, Evan, so that there will be time for more sons.”
“For Macedonia.”
“For Macedonia,” she agreed. “And for me.”
And I touched her some more, and we kissed, and she ran out of words as I ran out of thoughts. Her thighs parted in welcome, and her arms and legs gripped me fiercely, and the rude straw mattress groaned beneath our passion. I forgot about the Letts and the Colombians and the pudgy man from Washington. I even forgot my sleeping son, for once I cried out in passion, and Annalya gripped me tight.
“Hush,” she whispered. “You will wake Todor.”
But the little angel went right on sleeping.
Later, a long while later, I put a few more logs on the fire. Annalya rounded up a jug of honey wine, and we sat in front of the fire sipping it. It was too sweet to drink very much of, but in small sips it went down nicely and helped the fire warm us.
“In a few days you must leave,” she said.
“Yes.”
“It would please me if you could stay longer. But you have your work to do, do you not?”
“I do.”
“Tell me where you are going.”
I took up a twig from the woodpile and scratched a rough map on the floor of the hut. She watched with interest as the map took form.
“Here is Macedonia,” I said. “And here is Kavadar, and Skoplje, and Tetovo. And here” – a line to the south – “is the border between Greece and Yugoslavia. And the other parts of Yugoslavia – Croatia and Serbia and Bosnia-Herzegovina and Slovenia and Montenegro. You see, here is Belgrade, the capital.”
“I see.”
“And here to the east is Bulgaria, and above it Rumania. And west of Rumania is Hungary, and above it Czechoslovakia, and then Poland. You see?”
“Yes. You must go to Poland?”
“Farther than that. Here, above Poland and to the east, are three small countries. First Lithuania, then Latvia, then Estonia. They are all a part of Russia.”
“So you go to Russia.” She drew in her breath. “Is it not very dangerous to go to Russia?”
“They are a part of Russia in the same way that Macedonia is a part of Yugoslavia.”
This she understood. “They too would fight for freedom,” she said. “And you go to make a revolution there?”
“I hope not.”
“Then, why else would you go there?”
“To get someone out of Latvia.”
“It is difficult to leave Latvia?”
“It is nearly impossible.”
“It will be dangerous?”
I told her that it would not be particularly dangerous. Evidently my voice lacked conviction, because she shot me a glance that told me she did not much believe me. But we dropped that subject and drank more of the fermented honey and talked of the struggles of Macedonia and the beauty of our son and the warmth of love.
After a while the boy woke up, crying lustily, and she fed him and put him back to sleep again. “Such a good boy,” she said.
“He will need brothers and sisters.”
“And we have worked to provide one for him.”
“This is true,” I said. “But can one be certain of the results?”
“I do not understand.”
“When one wishes to grow a tree, one puts more than a single seed into the ground.”
“We have planted two seeds already,” she said, grinning.
“Would not a third seed make matters trebly sure?”
She purred. “You will be here several days. By the time you leave, I have a feeling that the ground will be overflowing with seeds.”
“Would the ground object?”
“The ground shall have no objection.”
“After all,” I said, “one ought to leave as little as possible to chance.”
“Especially when there is so much pleasure in the planting.”
“This is true, too.”
“I love you,” she said.
And so we undressed a second time and moved again to her straw mattress and labored there most happily for the greater glories of Macedonia. Once more my marvelous son slept placidly through the joyous cries of love. And when it was over, I clung to her until she appeared to drift off to sleep. Then I drew away from her and covered her with blankets.
“I wish you could stay with me forever,” she murmured.
“So do I.”
“Why must you go to Latvia?”
“It’s a long story,” I said. And she stirred, as if prepared to ask for that long story, but instead she abruptly relaxed and this time she slept as peacefully as Todor.
I put my peasant clothing on once again and sat cross-legged in front of the fire, glancing now at my son and now at his mother, then turning my attention to the map I had drawn on the earthen floor. It would not do to leave the map there, I thought. Once I left Macedonia, it would be better if no one knew where I was going. I used another twig to obliterate the map, then pitched it into the fire and watched it burn.