Nine

The prison hallway held the chill of dawn even though the morning outside was well underway. The warden wrinkled his nose at the parallel walls. Their yellow paint was peeling in papery dried-icing sheets, revealing the pea green beneath. They reminded him of baklava. He took a short breath and bellowed, “Christof! Christofor!” and nearly twitched with excitement.

A man walked around the corner. He had a deliberate gait and slate-colored blue eyes that were striking. He was a foot taller than the warden, and several years his junior.

“Chris, the woman that Andre arrested yesterday is not mute,” the warden said, as he bounced down the hall. “She has a fine voice. A strong voice!” He raised his fist into the air for emphasis and chuckled.

“I didn’t say that she was mute,” Chris answered. “I said that she didn’t speak to Andre.”

“Well, with a smile like his, who would?” They were walking in the same direction now, and the warden’s step quickened to keep pace with the younger man. Christof gave an obligatory laugh.

“She is an American,” the warden continued. “A tired one. She could probably eat some breakfast. And I don’t think she speaks the language.” He stopped in front of his office and turned to face his companion. “Have you seen her yet?”

Christof shook his head. The warden smiled as he pointed his right index finger at his squinting left eye, which sparkled with mischief. “She’s a gypsy. Like you.” He paused for effect, but the young man looked more opaque than amused. He continued, “She is here in my office. We’ll need a translator. In the meantime, bring her a roll and some cheese. She knows something about the Serb.”