In the Red (11 page)

He leaned over the workstation. She could smell him. He laid his finger on a crooked little blip in the stitching on the collar and said, “Unsatisfactory.” Was it on purpose that he brushed up against the hands when he pointed out their faulty work? The woman who owned the hands wanted to say,
I would not have done that if you were not here
. It was possible that her eyes communicated these words anyway because the man looked offended. “This piece is not suitable to be sold,” he said. “Its cost will come out of your salary.”

When he was gone, the hands put the jacket aside to take home, since they'd bought it anyway.

Irina wonders if the callused hands had done delicate work, if they had put together small, diaphanous clothes meant to be looked at by only one man at a time. Did the woman who owned the hands ever think of the bodies their work would encircle? Did this woman ever suspect that the clothes she made might wend their way across the world to the infant girl she'd tried to forget so long ago? What a choice, to bring a child into this broken world and then give it away. Irina used to wonder what choice she would make under similar circumstances. Now she knows.

Irina pulls the top drawer open on her till. She peels a ten-dollar bill from the top of a stack of them. She chooses that denomination because, of all the dead white men on the currency, Hamilton in the most handsome. At least his representation is the best-looking of all the representations on American cash—who knows what the past really looked like?

Irina plucks a pen from the mess atop her workstation and writes, to the right of the oval portrait of the man who would never be president because he died in a duel before history tapped him for the job, in a loose forward-leaning scrawl:
a mother's hands
.

T
hey told her that the procedure itself would likely not last more than fifteen minutes. They said she would be awake. She didn't want to be. She didn't want to see or feel anything. They told her they would put her in something called conscious sedation. A twilight state. Likely, she would not remember a thing. She hoped sincerely that this was true.

She had made the mistake of asking what they would do, how such things were usually done. They said she would lie on an examining table, just like for a routine pelvic exam. The walls of her vagina would be held open with a speculum, and then the cervix would have to be dilated. Then a tube called a cannula would be inserted. A suction machine would be activated in order to evacuate the uterine cavity.

When they said “evacuate the uterine cavity,” she waved her hand for them to stop talking. But then she couldn't help herself. She had to ask, “Is it still alive when it comes out?”

“It depends on the patient.”

“Is there a face?”

They did not answer this question right away. Before they could speak, she thought better of it and waved them off again. Better not know. Don't tell me. Just get on with it.

The first time they tried to slip the IV in, her hand was shaking too badly and the vein collapsed, blue and bursting. Blood saturated the medical tape. She looked with disbelief at the large bruise beginning to spread over the back of her hand. It would be there for weeks, turning all sorts of colors, from black to purple to a greenish yellow to blue—a garish display of angry blood vessels. At first, it would hurt worse than it looked, and after, it would look worse than it hurt. Then it would fade, leaving a barely visible white nick on the back of her hand.

Rather than try on the back of the other hand, they put the IV into the crook of her elbow. She looked away when the needle went in this time. At first it was only a saline solution; they would mix the sedative in with that. It felt strange: she could feel the veins near the puncture site outlined in cold until the fluid warmed up in her blood. She had never felt the shape of her veins before. For a moment, the novelty of the sensation distracted her, but then she thought of it again, a thing they had mentioned offhandedly but which burrowed terribly inside her brain. She remembered that two weeks later she would have to have a follow-up examination—this to make sure that she had not developed any complications, and that the procedure was complete.

“You mean sometimes the procedure is
not
complete?” she'd said, her fear sounding like anger.

“This very rarely happens, and is easily mended.”

She did not care how easily mended it was. She could not shake the image of dead parts left inside her. Surely she would feel them, know they were there. Surely her dreams would be eaten by tiny ghosts. What if something came out? A bitty hand, still grasping for an invisible thing. Or worse, an unseeing eye.

“Irina,” they said, “we will administer the anesthesia now. Try to relax, all right? Count backwards from ten.”

“Zece,” she said.

Her eyes shot open. She was convinced she would remember everything. Every scrape. She would not be able to speak and they would not be able to tell that her unblinking gaze was fully cognizant, that her mind was recording.

“Nouă,” she said.

Why was she counting in Romanian?

“Opt,” she said, turning her face away from the painful white of the light above.

Maybe this was the nightmare. Wake up, she told herself. Wake up.

“Şapte,” she said.

There was a roar—she never made it to şase.

O
nce upon a time something happened. Had it not happened, it would not be told. There once was an emperor who ruled over a whole world, and in this world lived an old shepherd who had three daughters: Anna, Stana, and Laptiza. Anna, the oldest sister, was so beautiful that the sheep stopped grazing when she went among them. Stana, the second, was so lovely that the wolves watched the herd when she was the shepherdess. But Laptiza, the youngest, who had skin as white as milk foam and hair softer than the wool of a newborn lamb, was as beautiful as both of her sisters put together, beautiful as only she herself could be.

On a mild day in the waning summer, the three sisters went to the edge of the forest to gather strawberries. While picking through the tender green leaves, looking for the ripe fruit, they heard the tramp of galloping horses, as if an entire cavalry were rushing up. It was the emperor's son, hunting with his retainers, all handsome noble lads with erect, authoritative bearing. But the proudest of them all was the prince himself, riding the fieriest charger, a steed black as a moonless night with a white star on its forehead.

When the lads saw the sisters, they curbed their horses and circled the lasses slowly.

Listen to me, said Anna. If one of those lads should take me for his wife, I'd knead him a loaf of bread that, once he had eaten it, would make him feel always strong and brave.

And I, said Stana, would weave my husband a shirt in which he could fight against dragons and go through water without getting wet or fire without getting burned.

But I, said Laptiza, would give my husband two beautiful sons, twin boys with golden hair, and on their foreheads a golden star, brighter than the star gracing your royal charger, Highness, a star as bright as Lucifer.

Sacred be your promise, you will be mine, fairest empress, cried the emperor's son, sweeping Laptiza with her basket of berries up onto his horse.

And you will be mine! And you mine, declared two lads from the prince's retinue, each taking up a sister. So, bearing their lovely burdens on their steeds, the men dashed back to the imperial court.

The three couples were wed the next day, and for three days and nights the celebration was held throughout the empire with great pomp and splendor. After three days and nights, the news went through the whole country that Anna had gathered grain, ground, boiled, and kneaded it, and made a loaf of bread for her husband as she had promised. Then, after three more days and nights, tidings went through the land that Stana had collected flax, dried it, hackled it, and spun it into linen, wove the cloth, and made her husband a shirt as she had promised. Laptiza alone had not kept her word, but great things require time.

After seven weeks had passed, the emperor's son, now become emperor, appeared before his court with a beaming face and in a soft voice announced that he would not leave his wife's side for a long time. His heart had moved him to stay with her night and day. So the whole empire rejoiced in the expectation of seeing something never beheld before.

But many things happen in this world, among them much that is good and much that is evil.

The emperor had a stepmother, who had brought with her to the palace a daughter from her first husband whom she had intended to marry to the prince. She swore that Laptiza's promise should not come to pass, whatever had to be done. But she could not carry out her plan because the emperor remained with his wife day and night. She thought that gradually, by coaxing and cunning, she might get rid of him for long enough, but the wind blew away all her crafty words, and all her wiles were useless. As the day of fulfillment drew nearer, the stepmother felt as if the weight of a great stone were crushing the blood out of her heart. She sent a message to her brother, who ruled the neighboring kingdom, and bade him to declare war on the emperor.

This was a clever plan and not an unsuccessful one; such is the way with emperors. No matter how much they may wish to guard their families, if they hear of war, their hearts leap in their bodies, their brains swell to bursting, their eyes grow dim. Leaving wife and children in God's care, they careen into battle. So it was with our emperor. He moved as swiftly as one of God's judgments, convinced that he must do what needed to be done. He fought as only he could fight, and by the time the sun peaked in its course on the third day, he had returned to court, his heart soothed by victory and impatient to know what had happened in his absence.

This had happened: just at dawn on the morning of that third day, when the stars paled in the sky, the Lord's gift came down to the earth and Laptiza's promise was fulfilled—two beautiful princes, exactly alike, each with golden hair and a golden star on his forehead.

The world was not to see them.

The stepmother, as wicked as her thoughts, hastily put two puppies in the royal crib, in the place of the royal twins, and buried the golden-haired children at the corner of the palace, just under the emperor's windows.

When the monarch returned and saw and heard nothing but the two puppies, he wrung their necks and demanded that his wife be brought before him. No words were wasted. Despite the misgivings of his torn heart, the emperor ordered that Laptiza be buried to her breast in the earth and so remain before the eyes of the world until there was nothing left of her, in token of what befell those who tried to deceive an emperor. The next day, the stepmother's wish came to pass: the emperor married her daughter, and again the festivities lasted three days and three nights.

Yet the two princes found no rest in the earth as their mother had; two fair, beautiful aspens sprang up where their bodies were buried. When the stepmother saw the branches reaching for the emperor's window, she ordered the trees to be pulled up by the roots. The emperor replied, Let them grow. I like to see them before my window. I have never beheld such aspens before.

So the trees grew, grew as no aspens had ever grown—every day a year's growth, every night another year's growth. In the new dawn, when the stars paled in the sky, the trees shot up three years' growth in a single heartbeat. When three days and three nights had passed, the aspens were lofty and strong, shading the emperor's window with their boughs. When the wind stirred the branches, he listened to their rustling with a sweet calm in his heart.

The stepmother suspected what the trees were, and wished them gone at any cost, instructing her daughter to get her husband to have them chopped. It was a difficult task, but a woman's will can squeeze milk from a stone; a woman's cunning conquers heroes. And so it was when the empress sat upon her husband's bed and overwhelmed him with tender words and caresses, glistening tears rolling down her pink cheeks. It was a long time before the thread broke, but at last—even emperors are mortal. Very well, he said reluctantly, have your way; order the aspens to be cut down. But one must be made into a bedstead for me, the other for you.

The aspens were cut down, and before night, the beds, still lightly coated with sawdust, were standing in the emperor's room.

When the monarch lay down, he felt as if he'd become a hundred times heavier; he had never rested so well. It seemed to the empress as if she were lying on thorns and nettles, so that she could not sleep all night long. When her husband was dreaming, the beds began to creak, and amid the creaking, the wife was convinced she heard words that no one else understood.

Is it hard for you, brother? asked one of the beds.

No, it isn't hard for me. I am happy, for my beloved father rests upon me.

It's hard for me, replied the other, for on me lies a wicked soul.

When daylight came, the empress ordered two bedsteads made exactly like the ones carved from the aspens. When the emperor went hunting, she had them placed in his room without his knowledge, and threw the twin beds, down to the very smallest splinter, into a roaring fire. When they were burned so completely that not even a charcoal ember remained, she scattered the ashes to the four winds, that they might be strewn over all countries and seas, and not an atom find another atom through all eternity.

She did not notice that just when the fire was burning brightest, two flickering sparks rose, soaring upward, and fell into the deep river that flowed through the empire, where they were changed into two little fishes with golden scales, exactly alike in every aspect. One day the two fishes were scooped up in the nets of the imperial fishermen.

What pretty fishes. I have never beheld their like before, said one fisherman.

Let us take them to the emperor for a gift, said the other.

Don't take us there, said one of the fishes. We've just come from there, and going back would be our destruction.

Then what shall we do with you? asked the fishermen.

Gather dew from the leaves and let us swim in it in a sunny hollow. Don't come back again until the sun has dried the dew, said the second golden fish.

So the fishermen did as they were told—and when they returned to the clearing, what did they see?

Two boys, handsome princes with golden hair and golden stars on their foreheads, so exactly alike that no one who saw them could help knowing that they were twins. They grew rapidly, every day enough for a year, and every night enough for a year, and in the new dawn, when the stars paled in the sky, enough for three years in a single heartbeat. They grew as no children had ever grown, so that when three days and nights had passed, they were twelve years in body, twenty-four in strength, and thirty-six in wisdom.

Now let us go to our father, said one of the princes to the fishermen. The fishermen dressed the lads in what clothing they could find, rough but sturdy. They made each lad a lambskin cap, which they drew low over their heads to cover their golden hair and the golden stars upon their foreheads. The lads slipped into the palace, through the guards' fingers like quicksilver, to the great feasting hall, where the emperor was at supper. Seeing the intruders, the emperor ordered them to be seized and thrown out, the dogs set on them.

Never mind, we will go, said the princes, weeping at the harsh words, retreating down the steps. Before they could reach the gates, they were stopped by a servant who bade them to come back, as the emperor had changed his mind and wanted to see them. The princes hesitated but turned and climbed the stairs, appearing before court with their caps still on their heads. The emperor was at the head of a long, wide table, while the empress reclined beside him on twelve silk cushions. As the princes entered, one of the twelve cushions fell to the floor.

Take off your caps, cried a courtier.

To wear the head covered is a token of rank among men, replied the twins. We wish to be what we are.

The emperor might have erupted with rage, but instead he was softened by the strange music in the voices of the lads. Remain what you are, then, he answered, but who are you? Whence do you come, and what do you want?

We are twin brothers, members of a family broken in two, half in the earth, and half at the head of this table. We come whence we went, and have reached the place whence we came; we have had a long journey, have spoken in the sighing of the wind, given a voice to wood, sang in the ripples of the water. But now we wish to chant in human language a song you know without knowing it.

A second cushion fell from under the empress. Let them go home with their nonsense, she hissed to her husband.

No, let them sing, replied the emperor. I wish to hear them. Go on and sing, lads!

The empress was silent, and the princes began to sing the story of their lives:

Once upon a time something happened. Had it not happened, it would not be told. There was once an emperor who ruled over a whole world, they began, and a third cushion fell from under the empress.

When they described the emperor's departure for war, three cushions fell at once. By the time the twins had finished their song, all the cushions were felled. When they took off their caps and showed their golden hair and the golden stars on their foreheads, guests, courtiers, and the emperor himself had to close their eyes, that they might not be dazzled by so much radiance.