Four

On an opposite shore, Serban Balcescu regretted losing Sheri, even though he had discovered her only that afternoon. He wondered how long she had been living on his grounds. The thatched outbuilding where he found her was no bigger than a shed, and it spoke of generations of peasant women, their hands grey with earth. He felt the solid disapproval of their otherworldly eyes upon him and knew that it was they, and not Sheri, who owned the dogs.

Tullia, his nurse, slept quietly on an ancient divan in front of the door, barring all entry simply by virtue of her girth. Even from a distance, the divan’s upholstery smelled like dust, and Serban imagined a soft film settling on top of the nurse until she became, inextricably, a part of the room. She and he would sleep there for ages undisturbed, guarded by red tassels and porcelain statutes of pheasants, until the radiance of a perfect day shattered the windows and wrested them from their slumber. By then, he would no longer feel the raw and torn agony of his muscles digesting in the belly of a dead mongrel.

He thought again of the woman. He hadn’t wanted anyone to pursue her, but the police were independent and, in any event, he had been unable to speak to the officers. No one bothered to tell them about her thatched roof or about the spirits of peasant mothers who guarded her. In the morning, if it came, he would send Tullia to speak with the constable.