He closed the refrigerator, then reentered the room where the Rat still lay, now weakly lifting her head and smiling. He recalled with fascination what he had but dimly perceived in all the commotion that had ensued. The memory of his lips on her flesh, the soft feel, that odor.
“Are you feeling better, dear lady?” he asked.
The Rat nodded. And, regarding him again with her expressive eyes, she once again reached down and drew her dress upward, commanding him to look.
“Ach!” cried Felix as he began to comprehend. He dropped to his knees beside her, his eyes fixed with on the handprints burned into her flesh. “Yes,” Anna’s eyes seemed to say to him. “Yes, it is true. The Monk.”
“Rasputin’s?” Felix asked, his lips almost numb.
“Exactly,” the Rat replied, and her head fell back, her body twitching.
Felix stared at the large burned-in handprints on the little Rat’s withered thighs. The prints seemed to vibrate, to sizzle ferociously even as he looked. A sulfurous steam rose upward, smoldering. “Look elsewhere, everywhere. Feast your eyes on her. You have our permission,” they said. “She is almost unconscious. You can do what you want with her. She is already corrupted; take her now!”
Gently, although he did not wish to do so, Felix smoothed Anna’s dress once more over her body.
She lay curved like a fishhook and concealed before him. “I have come as a supplicant,” she murmured. “It is I who beg of you.” She reached in a small convulsive movement toward the built-up toe of Felix’s heavy reinforced shoe to press her lips against the leather. She now desperately wanted him to seize her in his arms.
“No!” cried Felix, dragging her to her feet. “I am a doctor. I am a scientist,” he cried. It was enough. He recalled the kitchen, his laboratory, the specimens. They needed tending; he must not forget responsibilities. “It is enough. Enough for one night.” He half carried the Countess into the entryway.
Anna blinked, seemed to come to her senses. She allowed Felix to find her coat. He wrapped the mousy fur about her shoulder, found the armholes, the sleeves, closed the lapels, and buttoned them tenderly. She did not resist. “Come, dear lady, the night air. It is not good. I shall see you home.”
Out on the street, the cold wind hit them both, reviving them. A taxi darted toward them, a winged dragonfly in the night, and stopped, quivering, at Felix’s call. Then it bore both passengers away.
Felix held her little hand in his own, patting it from time to time.
“May I come to you again? Another time?” the Countess asked timidly.
Felix’s body swelled with pride. He squeezed her hand, then kissed it in answer. “We shall manage. Come to me again next week. Without the child.”
Chapter 22 BLESS ME
“Bless me, Little Father,” Anna murmured to Herbert. She hadn’t slept all that night. Now, still in her best dress, her temples throbbing, she stood at the threshold. She handed him a cup, his morning tea, milky and sweet. In her other hand was a crumpled wad of papers.
“Perhaps you would like to come with me today,” Herbert suggested. He was going to the Automat. His normal routine. He found Anna’s mouse-fur coat and put it around her.
Maria, waking lazily on her side of the small cot, lying in the still-warm imprint of the Rat, watched sleepily. What were they whispering about, those two old people? She stretched, sighing, the length of her body falling back into sleep like the scent of apples. In that sleep, she felt kisses on her face, like apple blossoms. “Sleep, my little girl,” the Rat whispered. And she bent also to kiss Philip.
Herbert waited, watching. They walked outside, and the fresh morning air hit them, waking Anna and soothing her headache. Anna turned to him. “You know what I am going to say to you,” she began. “It is my time.” She looked at him deeply. “I am ready. Thank you for saving my life,” she continued, looking at him firmly. Herbert tried to avoid her gaze, but met it finally. “Yes, you saved my life,” repeated Anna. “But now it is enough.”
She turned to him, unable to say more. Her velvet gaze looked long and deeply into his rheumy eyes. “Here, my oldest, dearest friend,” she said. “This is for you.” And she handed him the packet of papers, the scratchy marks on yellow lined paper, the codes and false names and numbers she had stolen back from Felix, who had taken them from under Herbert’s mattress long ago. “Here, this will tell you everything. It is my last gift to you. Act quickly.”
“My dear little Rat,” Herbert said, pocketing the papers immediately. And he knew he must let her go. He recognized her desperation, had seen such cases before. People, rescued from the jaws of death, so to speak, rescued from the most horrible suffering, would, after a time, find it unbearable to live in a halfway normal manner again. Survival affected particularly the women. They would manage heroically, despite all loss and deprivation. The men might perish right away. But the women, living on, were broken forever. No matter what might happen. They could not later survive the ordeals they had undergone in a numbed dream.
“Can you not at least wait a little bit longer?” Herbert asked mildly, taking her arm as the two rounded a corner. The wind shook them and they staggered toward each other. “Can you not wait just a bit more?” Anna looked at her friend but did not answer. There was no need. In her eyes he already saw resolve and clarity.
“I understand,” said Herbert. And that was all. The Rat released her cramped breath with gratitude. She squeezed Herbert’s arm, “I won’t ask any questions,” he said. The two old friends walked in companionable silence.
“And Adeline? How is she?” asked the Rat finally.
“Improving,” replied Herbert without much conviction. Adeline had refused to see anyone not of the immediate family. Would the Rat’s visit help her at all? Herbert doubted it. “She thinks now only of her music.”
The Rat drew in a breath. “But that is good.”
“That I cannot say,” Herbert confessed. “She is determined to play again with the Tolstoi Quartet. And unfortunately, I was stupid enough to promise her a concert in Carnegie Hall if she recovers quickly.”
“Oh, I see,” Anna said thoughtfully. “But that is marvelous. And the Tolstoi Quartet?” she inquired.
“Yes,” Herbert said. “They are here.”
“Here? In New York?”
Herbert nodded again.
Anna said nothing to this news, though she began to turn it over in her mind. But of course. Why not? Why shouldn’t the Tolstoi Quartet be here in New York under the aegis of Herbert? “All of them?” she asked. “All four?”
“Well,” said Herbert, “Not quite all of them. You see, my dear Countess, something is missing, it appears.” He took her arm firmly, steering her toward the doorway of the Automat. When they were both seated, watery coffee in front of each, he leaned forward and explained the situation.
“The little fingers of each of them?” The Rat pondered this. “I see.”
“Yes,” said Herbert, sinking deeper into his chair. “They are here in New York. And the fingers, it appears, are also here somewhere in New York.” His eyes hooded over and he appeared to be staring not at the Rat but through her into faraway scenes. Then he came to himself. “You see, my dearest Anna, this time I am truly worried. This time I cannot work the miracle. My power is leaving me.”
“Power?” asked Anna.
Herbert did not answer for a long time. Finally he said, “Countess, this is my curse. I can help everybody. But I cannot help my own family.”
“It is often so,” agreed the Rat, touching his hand gently. “It is usually that way, my friend.”
Herbert looked away. “Yes, it is often so.”