CHAPTER 12 #3
He sets the cup back on the side table. He sits on the rug at her feet, his back against the couch, his right palm on the corner of the cashmere blanket where it has fallen across her ankle. He keeps it there. He breathes.
I stay where I am. I keep my right palm at her sternum. I keep my left hand on her jaw — cradling now rather than tilting; the side of her face against the inside of my fingers. She closes her eyes.
The kettle on the credenza loses another degree.
The blinds on the southeast window let in nothing — the city below the office is the city; the lamp is the lamp. The blanket across her is wool and weight. The wool against my hand on her sternum is heavier than the cotton of her shirt and I let it be there.
I sit. I watch her breathe.
I think the phrase that belongs elsewhere. Krasivaya zhena. I think it twice. I keep it behind my teeth. The phrase belongs to a brother's mouth. The next time the word arrives in this room it will be said in a voice that is not mine.
Stefan stays on the floor. He stays low and silent. His eyes stay on her ankle and on his own hand on the corner of the blanket. He has done what he came to do. He is at rest.
I watch her sleep.
At twenty-two-thirty she is still awake.
She sleeps at twenty-three-oh-four. I see the moment her breath goes from twenty respirations a minute to twelve.
I see the moment the small tension that lives at the corner of her jaw goes out of her.
I let her stay where she is. My palm at her sternum stays at her sternum. The medallion under my palm.
The storm begins at twenty-three-eleven. Rain on the southeast window — light first, then hard. I hear it through the blinds. The room is warmer than the city by twelve degrees and she stays where she is.
At one minute past midnight I move her.
I lift her — her body comes with mine; the cashmere blanket comes with her body; Stefan rises silently from the rug to help me without being asked; he supports her shoulders while I support her hips — and I lay her down on her side on the couch.
The blanket goes with her. I tuck it under her shoulder and across her hip.
Stefan kneels at the side and takes the corner of the blanket and places it under her cheek so that her ear is not against the cold leather. He works without speaking. I work without speaking. We arrange her the way two surgeons arrange a closed patient.
I stand. My belt and trousers are arranged. The shirt is even. I cross to the credenza. I pour the second cup of Earl Grey from the kettle that has gone barely warm. The cup goes plain — no honey, no cream. I stir once with Vincent's spoon. I set the spoon back in the saucer.
I drink the tea.
It is cool. The cool sits well with me.
I look at her. She breathes at twelve. I look at Stefan.
He has settled at her feet on the rug, back against the couch, eyes closed but still surfacing; his right palm is on the corner of the cashmere blanket where it falls past her ankle; his fingers are around the wool.
He will sleep there. He has slept in this office before — three nights in twenty-twenty-one when the work was hard — and he will sleep here tonight at her feet. He will hold his post until she stirs.
I move to my desk. I leave the lamp at its low setting.
I sit. I open the leather folder Stefan prepared earlier this evening.
The Hayes dossier. Day twenty’s exposure plan.
The CMO’s office on the chain, the dean copied because Hayes wears faculty title on his coat.
The peer-review complaints stacked. The audio recording.
The cap-click at the open. Hayes will hear it on Sunday at thirteen-hundred. I close the folder.
I check the watch. Tungsten Patek on the third navy-leather strap; the gallery-glass key threaded on the strap at the buckle. Right thumb on the crown for a fraction of a second. The tell is mine and it is for me alone tonight.
Zero-one-fifty-eight.
I sit at the desk. The folder stays closed. I watch them.
She breathes at twelve. Her sternum lifts and falls under the cashmere blanket. The crack in the angel's wing on the medallion is invisible under the blanket and I know it is there. Stefan breathes at fourteen. His palm at the corner of the blanket has not moved.
I will call the room I just left what it was: a surgery. The patient was me. The cut was on Mikhailov's mouth. The closure was on her breath. I am thirty-nine years old; the last operation on this body was twenty-three years ago. The next twelve hours are the post-op.
I stay where I am.
The rain hits the window harder. The kettle goes cool. The bergamot in the room sinks toward the floor as the heat dies. A fresh cup can wait for the room where she will wake; the office has done its work tonight.
I watch them both.
I stay where I am.
Mikhailov set the cup of tea down on the credenza before he carried her out.
Tonight he stayed until the hour changed, then gathered her in the cashmere while she slept and took her down to the suite before morning could find her in my office.
I drank from the second cup after the door closed.
The tea was cold. The cold sat well with me.