Armistice (31 page)

Philomena looked up. Jonathan was nearing one side of the motor. The driver stood impassively on the other, with one foot on the running board.

Jonathan angled slightly away from Philomena and the driver. He took out the elegant silver phial in which he kept his cocaine. There was some inside. More than enough for a buzz. He tipped it out, letting the light breeze catch it and carry it away. He rinsed the phial with brandy from his flask; took a swig.

At the grave Philomena pressed her fingertips into the damp earth and inhaled the odors of moldering matter. “You wild bastard,” she growled through gritted teeth. “I'm furious with you!”

Oh. Oh. Oh, Dan. A place in my heart forever yours. Journey safe. Goodbye.

Tears came, swelled, stung. She tipped her head forward and screwed her eyes tight shut; open, shut, open, squeezing the wet out of her, onto the earth. “Grow,” she implored. “Something grow. Something good grow here.”

Jonathan could see her bent over, facing the earth.

After a while she felt the cold seeping into her from air and earth so she rose, and without looking at the grave again made her way stiff-legged back toward the motor, to where Jonathan waited. He lifted his feet in turn and replanted them on the ground. The driver inhaled deeply on the dregs of a cigarette. Philomena caught her toe on the ground, stumbled, recovered, sensed rather than saw Jonathan step forward to aid her. Yards from him she said, “Food. I need food. I'm ravenous.”

Jonathan opened the rear door of the vehicle and brought out their supplies. She accepted them from him with a wan
smile. On a level section of the car's mudguard she set out the cheese and pâté, tore a chunk off the bread. Jonathan removed the stopper from the wine bottle and filled to halfway the two glasses he'd pilfered from the ferry. He caught the driver's thirsty eye. “Monsieur?” he offered. As Philomena drank, the driver retrieved a tin mug from the interior, knocked the dregs of what smelled like coffee out on the raised edge of his boot. Philomena hungrily bit mouthfuls of bread. Caramel crust crackled, white inside melted. She prodded pâté and cheese into her mouth. The sense of dense fat just behind their pungent taste comforted her.

The driver coughed to get the English's attention. He became somber, tipped his mug, dribbled some wine from waist height down onto the land. He didn't need to explain that this was for the dead. Philomena stopped chewing. She and Jonathan followed the driver's suit. There was a respectful silence for a while, before the driver ambled away, either because he wanted to be alone, or to leave a space for his passengers' privacy.

Philomena felt the wine hit. Warmth spread from her abdomen outward, up to her brain, out to her limbs. Jonathan reached for some bread. His hand stopped when she spoke: “It's my turn to say thank you,” her voice pitched so that her words carried only to him. Both completely still, she looked at him, he at the bread, for a few intense moments.

Then as if it had been agreed that the moment had run long enough Jonathan resumed his movement, took up bread, mutely offered it. She shook her head then nodded toward the cheese and pâté. Jonathan nodded, one-handedly broke
off a modest piece of cheese, chewed it, took up the wine bottle and held it over her glass. She nodded, yes. After he'd poured for her he swallowed his cheese, washed it down with a swig of his own wine.

Philomena and Jonathan stood by each other, looking out in different directions, sipping. She inhaled deeply, held her breath … let it slide out.

“Okay,” she murmured.

“Okay,” he replied.