“You, too.” She was standing, clutching the railing of his bed for support.
“I have to get going,” Delia said. She and Soraya embraced.
“Later,” Soraya whispered into her ear.
“You’re full of shit,” Peter said when Delia was gone. “As always.”
Soraya laughed, touched his knee beneath the overstarched bedclothes just to reestablish the link between them that she found so important. “I’m glad you’re still here.”
He nodded. “I wish I could say I’ll be as good as new when I get out of here.”
Her heart turned to ice. “What do you mean? What have the doctors told you?”
“The bullet didn’t hit my spine.”
“That’s good news!”
“I wish it had.”
“What d’you mean?”
“The impact shattered it. Pieces lodged everywhere, including my spinal column.”
Soraya felt a sudden dryness in her throat, and she swallowed convulsively. She met his gaze head-on.
“I have no feeling in my legs,” Peter said. “They’re paralyzed.”
“Oh, Peter.” Soraya felt her heart beating faster, a certain churning began in the pit of her stomach. “Are they sure? It’s early yet. Who knows what will happen next week, or even tomorrow?”
“They’re sure.”
“Peter, you can’t give up.”
“I don’t know. The president going after our asses, you talking about leaving, then this happens.” His laugh sounded weak and hollow. “That’s three, isn’t it? It’s the end.”
“Who said I’m leaving?” It was out of her mouth before she had a chance to think about it.
“You did, Soraya. Remember our walk in the park, you said—”
“Forget what I said, Peter. I was just shooting my mouth off to a friend. I’m not going anywhere.” Much to her astonishment, she realized she meant it. While moving to Paris sounded great, it was a pipe dream. Her life was here with Treadstone, with Peter. Looking into his face, she knew she couldn’t leave him in this state, perhaps she never would have, even if this hadn’t happened to him.
“Soraya.” He smiled.
He seemed more relaxed now. She could see how heavily the thought of her leaving had weighed on him, and she was sorry she had ever mentioned it.
“Take a pew.” Blood had come back to his face; he seemed more himself again. “I have a lot to catch you up on.”
In his dream, Don Fernando walked at the edge of the sea and the shoreline. The odd thing was that he was walking on the water, not on the sand, which seemed to steam and bubble, as if it were being stirred in a vast cauldron. His feet were bare, his trousers rolled up to his calves. His feet looked pale and indistinct, as they would if viewed underwater. He walked and walked, but the curve of the landscape never changed, he never seemed to get anywhere.
In the next heartbeat, he was awake, a shadow like a giant bird passing over him, so close he could smell it. It had Martha Christiana’s scent. For the instant she was above him, and he felt paralyzed, as if stuck between two dreamworlds, one where he walked on water, the other where Martha spread her wings, flying above him.
Then the shadow was gone, Martha was gone with it, and he heard, like the cathedral bells of Notre Dame, the sound of shattering wood and glass. In the space of the next heartbeat, a chill breeze off the river invaded the room.
He turned over, still half-asleep, and saw the curtains billowing crazily, the window’s panes and sash demolished as if by a great force. It wasn’t until he heard the screaming from outside that he rose, curious, and, then, as he approached the ruined window, his curiosity turned to a mounting horror.
“Martha,” he called over his shoulder. And then more loudly, “Martha!”
No answer. Of course there was no answer. He stuck his head out the window, unmindful of the glass shards that penetrated his palms. He looked down, and saw her, spread-eagled on the cobbles of the narrow street. Around her, like a princess’s bed of diamonds, glass shards glittered wetly. Blood leaked from beneath her, running in rivulets, as a crowd gathered. The screaming continued, even after the unmistakable sounds of police and ambulance sirens made their way along the quay, coming ever closer.
My dear Senator Ring,” Li Wan said, “let me be one of the first to express my sincere condolences for your loss.”
Ann Ring smiled wanly. Inside she was pleased that Li had made an appearance. “Thank you,” she murmured. How stupid words are, she thought. How inadequate, how mendacious. She was disgusted by the dog-and-pony show inherent in funerals, eulogies, mourning periods. The dead were gone, let them go in peace.
Li Wan wore a black suit, as if he, rather than she, were in mourning. Belatedly, she recalled that white was the Chinese color of death and mourning. Well, she thought wryly, he is wearing a white shirt, so crisply starched it appeared as if the collar points might at any moment do him harm.
Ann, in an ox-blood St. John nubbly wool suit, sat in the cloistered family room at Vineyard Funeral Home on Fourteenth Street NW. Even in mourning, she was the kind of woman who radiated sex and allure. She was surrounded by her usual entourage, along with a smattering of friends. The official viewing, which would attract hundreds of her colleagues, allies, and enemies from inside the Beltway, was mercifully a day away. Now it was quiet. The air was perfumed with the huge wreaths and bouquets of flowers that lined the walls and exploded from vases set on tables and even on some unused chairs.
“There was a history,” Li Wan was saying now in a low monotone, “and history means everything.”
“That’s something we have in common, Mr. Li,” she said in an even tone.
He bowed his head slightly and risked a slight smile as he handed over a wrapped parcel. “Please accept this inadequate token of my sorrow.”
“You’re too kind.” She took the package, laid it squarely on her lap, and watched Li’s face. She was waiting, and she thought he knew she was waiting.
At last he said, “May I sit with you a moment?”
She gestured. “Please.”
He sat primly, almost as if he were a turtle, trying to pull its arms and legs into its shell. It was an almost womanly attitude she found repellent.
“Is there anything I can do, Senator?”
“Thank you, no.” Curious, she thought. He’s acting like a mainland Chinese, not like a Chinese American. Because of the special nature of this man and the relationship with him laid out for her by Chris Hendricks, she felt the need to explore that notion. “And please call me Ann.”
“You are far too kind,” Li said, ducking his head again.
What is his behavior telling me? she asked herself.
Li looked across the room to the flowers bedecking the console table against the opposite wall. “I have many memories of your husband, Senator.” He paused a moment, as if debating whether or not to continue. “Memories that might, in time, be shared.”
Now comes the light, she thought. But it was altogether unclear whether he was on an official mission. Her heart leaped at the thought that it might be a personal one, that something had happened between Li and Charles that might have changed their dynamic or, if not that, Li’s own goals as opposed to his government’s.
“You know, Mr. Li, I have my own memories of my husband. It might be pleasant to hear some others.”
Li’s thin shoulders twitched infinitesimally. “In that event, I would welcome the opportunity to invite you to tea, Senator, when you feel up to it, of course.”
“How kind of you, Mr. Li.” She had to be careful here, very careful. “I have a full slate of subcommittee and budgetary meetings that have been thrown into disarray. You understand.”
“I do, Senator. Of course I do.”
She turned on a wistful expression. “On the other hand, it would certainly be refreshing to speak of matters unrelated to Capitol Hill.” She fingered Li’s present. “Perhaps this evening, after my vigil. I have allotted time for a meal.”