Andrea Barrett - Servants of the Map

Krzysztof crouched down by the rock-rimmed basin and touched a blade of grass to the water, dimpling the surface and thinking about van der Waals forces even as Constance rushed to his side, burbling and babbling and asking if he was ill. When he assured her that he was fine, she asked about Cambridge, and then if he’d like a swim — but of course not, he should come sit here; he knew everyone, didn’t he? She helped him into a long, low, elaborately curved chair, webbed with canvas that trapped him as securely as a fishnet. She couldn’t have meant to let him languish there; that would have been rude, she was never rude. She must not have known that he couldn’t rise from this snare unaided. Nor could she have known, as the faces bent toward him politely for a moment and then turned back to their animated conversations about meetings he hadn’t attended, squabbles among colleagues he didn’t know, that he’d forgotten almost all their names and was incapable of attaching those he did remember to the appropriate faces and research problems.

The sun had moved, was moving, so that first his knees, then his thighs and crotch were uncomfortably roasted. This was the throne room, he saw. This cluster of chairs, perched where an adrenal gland would be if the pool were really a kidney: himself and Constance, Arnold, Herb, Jocelyn, and Sundralingam. All the senior scientists. Directly across the pool the junior researchers stood in tight circles, occasionally glancing his way; the postdocs and students were gathered at the farthest end of the pool, where a group of bare-torsoed, highly muscled young men tended a grill that sent up disturbing smoky columns.

He made columns in his mind: faces, names, research projects. Then he tried and failed to match up the lists. The girl named Rose walked by and smiled at him. Although he smiled back eagerly she continued to walk, past him and between a pair of those low white cylinders standing among the glossy mounds of hosta like dolls in a dark wood. He knew he’d fallen asleep only when his own sudden, deep-throated snore woke him.

The sun had dropped and the sky had turned a remarkable violet-blue; perhaps it was seven o’clock. A few people still swam in the pool, but most were out, and mostly dressed, and the smell of roasting fowl filled the air. On the patio people milled around the grill and the table with paper plates in their hands. Bottles of wine, bottles of beer, dripping glasses, ice; he was, he realized, very thirsty. And past embarrassment, although the chairs near him were empty now, as if he’d driven everyone away. Somehow he was not surprised, when he rolled sideways in an unsuccessful attempt to pull himself from his lounge chair, to see Bianca, cross-legged on the grass, watching over him.

“Have a nice nap?” she asked.

“Lovely,” he replied. She seemed happy now; what had he missed? “But you know I cannot get up from this thing.”

The hand she held out was not enough. “If you would,” he said, “just put your hands under my arms and lift …”

Effortlessly she hauled him to his feet. “You want to go over toward the tables?”

“Not just yet. I’ll sit here for a minute.” This time he chose a straight metal chair with a scallop-shell back. He sat gingerly, then more firmly. A fine chair, he’d be able to rise himself.

“I’ll get you some food.”

He sniffed the air, repelled by the odor of charred flesh. “Get something for yourself,” he said. “Maybe I’ll eat later. But I’m terribly thirsty — do you suppose you could bring me something cold? Some water?” He remembered, then, the bottle in his bag. “And if you could find two small empty glasses, as well,” he said. “I have a treat to share with you.”

When she returned he gulped gratefully at the cool water. “Do you like vodka?” he asked.

“Me? I’ll drink anything.”

He reached into his leather satchel and took out the bottle he’d meant to give Constance. In return, Bianca held out two paper cups, printed with blue and green daisies. “The best I could do.”

“Good enough.” He held up the heavy bottle, showing her the blade of grass floating blissfully inside. “Zubrowka,” he said. “Bison vodka, very special. It’s flavored with the grass upon which the bison feed in the Bialowieza Forest, where my family is from. A friend brings it to me from Poland when he visits, and I brought it here from Cambridge.”

“Cool,” she said. “Should I get some ice?”

“Never,” he said, shuddering. “We drink this neat, always.” He poured two shots and handed her one. “Drink it all in one gulp— do dna. To the bottom.”

“Bottoms up,” Bianca said. Together they tossed the shots down. Almost immediately he felt better. Bianca choked and shook her head, her pale hair flying in all directions. He forbade himself to look at her smooth neck or the legs emerging, like horses from the gate, from her white shorts. He focused on her nose and reminded himself that women her age saw men like him as trolls. Even ten years ago, the occasional women with whom he’d forgotten himself had let him know this, and cruelly. How was it he still felt these impulses, then? That the picture of himself he carried inside had not caught up to his crumpled body?

“Take a sip of water,” he said.

“It burns!”

“Of course. But isn’t it delicious?” He refilled the ridiculous cups and they drank again. She had spirit, he thought. This time she hardly choked at all. He tried to imagine her as the granddaughter of one of his oldest friends, himself as an elderly uncle.

“Delicious,” she agreed. “It’s like drinking a meadow. Again?”

“Why not?”

Around the left lobe of the kidney came Rose, a platter of chicken in her hand. She seemed simultaneously to smile at him and glare at her sister, who was caught with the paper cup still at her lips. Was that a glare? He couldn’t figure out what was going on between them.

“Welcome,” he said. And then, reluctant to lose Biancas undivided attention, “Will you join us?”

“I can’t just now,” Rose said. “But Constance wants to know if you’d like to come over to the patio and have something to eat.” She thrust the platter toward his face. “The chicken’s great.”

“Maybe later.”

“Bianca?”

“No,” Bianca said firmly; she seemed to be rejecting more than just the food. The sisters glared at each other for a minute— children, Krzysztof thought; then remembered Biancas earlier word. No, prodigies. All grown up —before Rose made a clicking sound with her tongue and walked away.

Her mouth tasted of meadows and trees, Bianca thought. As if she’d been turned into a creature with hooves, suavely grazing in a dappled glade. The joint she’d smoked earlier was still with her but barely, palely; this warmth in her veins, this taste in her mouth, were from the splendid bison vodka. And this man, whom at first she’d felt saddled with and longed to escape, was some sort of magician. Now it seemed like good fortune that everyone else had abandoned him to her care. They rose from their chairs, on their way to join the crowd and examine the platters of food. But the voices on the patio seemed terribly loud and someone was shrieking with laughter, a sound like metal beating metal. Chased away, they drifted toward the Japanese fountain tucked in the shrubbery, where Krzysztof had earlier crouched until Constance captured him.

“Isn’t this pretty?” he asked, and she agreed. Ferns surrounded one side of the fountain, lacy and strongly scented.

She peered down into the basin and said, “We could just sit here for a bit.”

“We could,” he agreed. His smile distracted her from the odd way his lower lids sagged, exposing their pale inner membranes. “If you wouldn’t mind lowering me down on this rock.”