Fourteen
Tullia looked at her friend asleep on the bed, the hard line of his jaw etched against a thin, white pillow. She ached to kiss his forehead, to take him home and keep him safely by, to return to their everyday routine.
Two weeks ago, they had been in Greenland. The brisk air was good for Serban’s health, and they’d stayed in a cabin inland from the shore. She was in the kitchen, making oatmeal with walnuts and drinking in the pungent scent of the rough-hewn logs, when a knock at the door jarred her from her morning reverie. Although he was in another room, she could feel Serban’s eyes narrow and his muscles clench. They were not expecting visitors, and the cabin’s laundry room and closets were bristling with guns, some new, some used, stacked in rows against the walls alongside galoshes and beneath fuzzy hats and knitted scarves left behind by better-intentioned vacationers.
The door was her province. She cut back the flame on the enormous gas stove and quickly wiped her hands on a gingham kitchen towel. A few early rays of sunshine straggled through the trees and settled on the stoop, making half-silhouettes of the men outside. As she made her way down the narrow hall, she saw that they were too robust to be European and too tall to be Zapotec. They were probably tourists, lost. She opened the door about the width of an apple muffin. “Morning,” she said with forced cheer. “We are a little under the weather today. Is there something I can help you with while you wait outside?”
She felt the blunt muzzle of the man’s gun in her stomach as her head hit the side of the door. Her hand held fast to the knob as the man pushed through, shoulders first. “Back up” he yelled. “Face the kitchen. Sit down on the floor, hands behind your back.” His handcuffs, cold from the morning air, sent pins and needles into her forearms as the he planted the flat of his boot between her shoulders. “Where is Balcescu?” he demanded, as a second man swept past her.
The force of the blow knocked the air from her lungs. She gritted her teeth and said nothing as shouting erupted in the next room. The second man plunged back into the kitchen with Serban in front of him, right arm wrenched sharply backward. Gun still drawn, he pushed his unwilling captive into the breakfast table and then motioned for Tullia. The man lifted his boot from her back, and she leaned forward but could find no purchase on the stone floor as an unforgiving arm hooked her shoulder and threw her forward. She looked up at the blue and white striped silk robe that Serban wore, a birthday present from his sister. It was streaked with newspaper ink. “Don’t bother talking,” the second man hissed. “Get over there and sit down. Not next to the gun runner.”
Two weeks ago, they had been in Greenland. The brisk air was good for Serban’s health, and they’d stayed in a cabin inland from the shore. She was in the kitchen, making oatmeal with walnuts and drinking in the pungent scent of the rough-hewn logs, when a knock at the door jarred her from her morning reverie. Although he was in another room, she could feel Serban’s eyes narrow and his muscles clench. They were not expecting visitors, and the cabin’s laundry room and closets were bristling with guns, some new, some used, stacked in rows against the walls alongside galoshes and beneath fuzzy hats and knitted scarves left behind by better-intentioned vacationers.
The door was her province. She cut back the flame on the enormous gas stove and quickly wiped her hands on a gingham kitchen towel. A few early rays of sunshine straggled through the trees and settled on the stoop, making half-silhouettes of the men outside. As she made her way down the narrow hall, she saw that they were too robust to be European and too tall to be Zapotec. They were probably tourists, lost. She opened the door about the width of an apple muffin. “Morning,” she said with forced cheer. “We are a little under the weather today. Is there something I can help you with while you wait outside?”
She felt the blunt muzzle of the man’s gun in her stomach as her head hit the side of the door. Her hand held fast to the knob as the man pushed through, shoulders first. “Back up” he yelled. “Face the kitchen. Sit down on the floor, hands behind your back.” His handcuffs, cold from the morning air, sent pins and needles into her forearms as the he planted the flat of his boot between her shoulders. “Where is Balcescu?” he demanded, as a second man swept past her.
The force of the blow knocked the air from her lungs. She gritted her teeth and said nothing as shouting erupted in the next room. The second man plunged back into the kitchen with Serban in front of him, right arm wrenched sharply backward. Gun still drawn, he pushed his unwilling captive into the breakfast table and then motioned for Tullia. The man lifted his boot from her back, and she leaned forward but could find no purchase on the stone floor as an unforgiving arm hooked her shoulder and threw her forward. She looked up at the blue and white striped silk robe that Serban wore, a birthday present from his sister. It was streaked with newspaper ink. “Don’t bother talking,” the second man hissed. “Get over there and sit down. Not next to the gun runner.”
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