Eleven
The Serb woke up wearing a tissue paper negligee with a peek-a-boo back. His room, which smelled like bubble gum and iodine, was bright, boxy white with a thin, moss green blanket.
Tullia was sleeping in a chair by the door, a half-eaten croissant in her lap.
"Tulli?" he ventured. She moved only to breath. "Tulli?" he tried again, louder this time, and watched as she pressed her eyes tightly closed.
"Oh," she stretched. "Oh my goodness. I must have fallen asleep. Are you awake now, then?"
"Yes, damn it." He was pale, like a spent storm cloud, but his eyes flashed anyway. "Where in Sallah's name are we?" he asked, hoping that she wouldn't say Mexico. "It smells like jello."
Tullia looked at the i.v. in his arm and wondered what was in it. It must be something interesting, she thought. Morphine super plus. Serban always knew where he was.
She steadied her eyes on his. "Romania. We went to the house yesterday. You had a run-in with a woman there, and a dog or two." She paused, waiting for him to remember. "We brought you to the hospital this morning."
His eyes narrowed. "Why the hospital?" It was a demand, not a question.
She heard the confused edge in his voice and hesitated. The doctor had been unequivocal. His recovery would take months. For a well man, it would be quicker, but Serban was not a well man. She pressed her back teeth together and took a deep breath. "You were hurt badly, and Dr. Badgku . . . ." Her words trailed off and left her behind. "We'll have to stay here for a while, so you may as well rest."
He marshalled his voice again. "Fine for now, but the pols are coming this week." It sounded like he'd said "prols," but she would know what he'd meant.
Tullia thought briefly of calling him emperor but didn't want to be the only one in on the joke. "If you're up to it," she said, "they can come here. If not, they'll have wait, or figure things out on their own. They found you didn't they?"
He scowled and wiggled his fingers under the blanket. They all worked. He tried his toes next. Same. "I will be fine by then," he announced, suddenly tired. The jello smell was closing in. He thought of the house with its garden, of the stone wall pressed against the distant view of the town below. His mother had taken afternoon naps there, her linen dresses yellow with sunshine. He hoped that he would, soon, too. But Mexico, or wherever he was, would do for now.
"Will you stay by the door?" he asked Tullia.
"Yes. I will."
Tullia was sleeping in a chair by the door, a half-eaten croissant in her lap.
"Tulli?" he ventured. She moved only to breath. "Tulli?" he tried again, louder this time, and watched as she pressed her eyes tightly closed.
"Oh," she stretched. "Oh my goodness. I must have fallen asleep. Are you awake now, then?"
"Yes, damn it." He was pale, like a spent storm cloud, but his eyes flashed anyway. "Where in Sallah's name are we?" he asked, hoping that she wouldn't say Mexico. "It smells like jello."
Tullia looked at the i.v. in his arm and wondered what was in it. It must be something interesting, she thought. Morphine super plus. Serban always knew where he was.
She steadied her eyes on his. "Romania. We went to the house yesterday. You had a run-in with a woman there, and a dog or two." She paused, waiting for him to remember. "We brought you to the hospital this morning."
His eyes narrowed. "Why the hospital?" It was a demand, not a question.
She heard the confused edge in his voice and hesitated. The doctor had been unequivocal. His recovery would take months. For a well man, it would be quicker, but Serban was not a well man. She pressed her back teeth together and took a deep breath. "You were hurt badly, and Dr. Badgku . . . ." Her words trailed off and left her behind. "We'll have to stay here for a while, so you may as well rest."
He marshalled his voice again. "Fine for now, but the pols are coming this week." It sounded like he'd said "prols," but she would know what he'd meant.
Tullia thought briefly of calling him emperor but didn't want to be the only one in on the joke. "If you're up to it," she said, "they can come here. If not, they'll have wait, or figure things out on their own. They found you didn't they?"
He scowled and wiggled his fingers under the blanket. They all worked. He tried his toes next. Same. "I will be fine by then," he announced, suddenly tired. The jello smell was closing in. He thought of the house with its garden, of the stone wall pressed against the distant view of the town below. His mother had taken afternoon naps there, her linen dresses yellow with sunshine. He hoped that he would, soon, too. But Mexico, or wherever he was, would do for now.
"Will you stay by the door?" he asked Tullia.
"Yes. I will."
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