one could already smell the strong scents she wore, attar of roses and French perfumes. One summer evening, all three of them went out to dinner together. The General remembers it well, as if he were inspecting a painting with a magnifying glass. It was in a little country tavern in the woods near Vienna. They had ridden out there in a carriage through the fragrant trees. The dancer wore a wide-brimmed hat of Florentine straw, white elbow-length crocheted gloves, a tight-fitting dress of rose silk, and black silk shoes. Even her bad taste was perfect. She teetered uncertainly across the gravel under the trees as if every footstep taken on bare ground in the direction of the tavern were unworthy of her. As one would preserve a Stradivarius from having to play mere drinking songs, she preserved the masterpieces that were her legs, dedicated as they were to the art of the dance and the suspension of earth’s gravity, from the tragic limitations of the body. They ate in the courtyardof the simple tavern overgrown with wild vines bythe light of candles set in glass shades. They drank a light red wine and the young woman laughed a great deal. On the way home, as they crested a hill and looked down at the city shimmering in the moonlight, Veronika spontaneously threw her arms around their necks. It was a moment of pure happiness, pure being. Silently they accompanied the dancer to her door and kissed her hand in farewell. Veronika. And Angela with her horses. And all the others, with flowers in their hair, circling past in a dance, scattering blossoms, notes, ribbons, and long gloves in their wake. These women had brought the intoxication of love’s first adventures into their lives, and with it all its companions: desire, jealousy, and the struggle with loneliness. And yet, beyond their roles and their lives in society, beyond the women, something else, something more powerful made itself felt. A feeling known only to men. A feeling called friendship.
8
The General dressed himself without summoning the servant. He took his dress uniform out of the wardrobe and gazed at it for a long time. It had been decades since he had worn it. He opened a drawer, took out his decorations, and lifted them from their boxes lined in red, white, and green silk. As he held the medals of bronze, silver, and gold in his hand and ran his fingers over them, he saw in his mind’s eye a bridge-head over the Dnieper, or a parade in Vienna, or a reception in Buda’s royal palace. He shrugged. What had life brought him? Duties and idle pleasures. Like a card player absentmindedly gathering up his chips after a big game, he let the decorations slide back into the drawer.
He dressed in black, tied his tie of white piqué, and ran a wet brush through his white, close-cropped hair. In the last years these austere, almost priestly clothes had become his uniform. He went to his desk, fumbled in his portfolio with trembling old fingers for a tiny key, and unlocked a long, deep drawer. From its secret compartment he removed a number of different objects: a Belgian revolver, a little packet of letters tied with blue ribbon, and a book bound in yellow velvet with the word “souvenir” imprinted on the cover. The book was also closed with a blue ribbon and the knot had been stamped with a seal. The General held it in his hand for a long time. Then he checked the weapon with expert attention. It was an old revolver with six chambers. All six had bullets in them. With a casual flick of the wrist he dropped the revolver back into the drawer, and shrugged again, then slipped the yellow-velvet-bound book deep into the pocket of his jacket.
He stepped to the windows and opened the shutters. While he had been asleep there had been a sudden cloudburst. A cool breeze was moving between the plane trees, and the wet leaves glistened as if they had been oiled. It was already dusk. He stood motionless at the window, arms crossed over his chest, looking out at the landscape,
8
The General dressed himself without summoning the servant. He took his dress uniform out of the wardrobe and gazed at it for a long time. It had been decades since he had worn it. He opened a drawer, took out his decorations, and lifted them from their boxes lined in red, white, and green silk. As he held the medals of bronze, silver, and gold in his hand and ran his fingers over them, he saw in his mind’s eye a bridge-head over the Dnieper, or a parade in Vienna, or a reception in Buda’s royal palace. He shrugged. What had life brought him? Duties and idle pleasures. Like a card player absentmindedly gathering up his chips after a big game, he let the decorations slide back into the drawer.
He dressed in black, tied his tie of white piqué, and ran a wet brush through his white, close-cropped hair. In the last years these austere, almost priestly clothes had become his uniform. He went to his desk, fumbled in his portfolio with trembling old fingers for a tiny key, and unlocked a long, deep drawer. From its secret compartment he removed a number of different objects: a Belgian revolver, a little packet of letters tied with blue ribbon, and a book bound in yellow velvet with the word “souvenir” imprinted on the cover. The book was also closed with a blue ribbon and the knot had been stamped with a seal. The General held it in his hand for a long time. Then he checked the weapon with expert attention. It was an old revolver with six chambers. All six had bullets in them. With a casual flick of the wrist he dropped the revolver back into the drawer, and shrugged again, then slipped the yellow-velvet-bound book deep into the pocket of his jacket.
He stepped to the windows and opened the shutters. While he had been asleep there had been a sudden cloudburst. A cool breeze was moving between the plane trees, and the wet leaves glistened as if they had been oiled. It was already dusk. He stood motionless at the window, arms crossed over his chest, looking out at the landscape,
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