The Winter Thief

57

Vera sliced the apples they had purchased at Gosdan’s shop on a wooden board while Marta kneaded dough. Her face was dusted with flour, and her powerful hands plowed efficiently through the pale mass on the table. Apollo sat on a chair near the stove, his prominent nose bent over a piece of the apple cake that had just emerged from the oven. He was tall and angular, with thick black hair and mustache, high cheekbones, and a ready smile. His dark brown eyes glowed with pleasure.

“This tastes as good as my mother’s cake,” he told Marta, swallowing. “I give no higher praise than that.”

“How is your mother?” Vera asked, basking in the familiar sound of Apollo’s resonant voice, as burnished and rich as caramel. She wished for him to continue speaking, to extend the balm of his voice over her forever. The afternoon light slanted into the room and lit up ropes of crimson peppers, clusters of garlic heads, and bouquets of herbs hung up to dry. Vera relished the rhythmic chopping and the ever-growing pile of red-rimmed slices filling her bowl. She felt content, she realized, though she found herself testing even pleasant feelings as gingerly as if she were palpating a wound.

“She’s not well, Vreni,” he answered, using the diminutive of her name. Only Apollo and her own family had ever called her Vreni, Vera thought. Her knife slipped and the white flesh of the apple in her hand flushed red. Apollo rushed over. “Put your finger in your mouth,” he told her. “Now give it to me.” He pressed his finger on the cut, hard. “The pressure will stop the bleeding.”

They stood facing each other, Vera’s hand inside Apollo’s. The hands of a philosopher, she thought, admiring his long, slender fingers. She had found Apollo less than an hour ago, and already he was comforting her.

“That’s why I couldn’t meet you on the boat as we had planned,” he explained. “My mother had an attack of apoplexy. It happened while I was visiting her to say goodbye. She started shaking uncontrollably, and I could see something receding in her eyes. It seemed as though she didn’t know me.”

Apollo had dropped Vera’s hand. She took his and pressed it. “That’s awful. Has she recovered at all?”

“She’s much better, a bit lame on one side, but she can care for herself again. Still, some part of her soul has left us. You can see it when you look into her eyes.”

Marta clanged the oven door shut on the second apple cake, wiped her hands on her apron, and checked the samovar. “Let’s sit,” she suggested. “Father Zadian has gone to a meeting. He’ll probably be away all afternoon.”

When they each had a glass of tea in hand, Marta asked him, “What do you plan to do?”

“Father Zadian has invited me to stay at the rectory for now. Gabriel is at New Concord, so as soon as I can arrange transportation, I’ll join him.” Apollo looked curiously at Vera. “You decided to stay here?”

Vera’s contentment evaporated. She nodded in assent, unable to say anything more.

Marta came to her rescue. “Vera was detained, so Gabriel went on without her.”

“Detained?” Apollo looked to Vera for an explanation.

Vera flinched from his gaze. With Apollo she wanted to be the old Vera, before anything else had happened. The Vera with whom he discussed the debates of their Henchak comrades, the Vera who prepared picnics for her friends in the Bâtie Woods, the Vera who remembered how to laugh. When she looked up, it was to see Marta explaining something to Apollo in a low voice. The look on Apollo’s face was enough to tell Vera that her old self was gone. Like Apollo’s mother, some part of her soul was now missing.