Marshlands by Matthew Olshan Page B

marsh exhibit. With an ally like that, perhaps she stood a chance of reversing the director’s decision. At any rate, it had been a long and productive day, and she was in a mood to walk. Would he mind if they walked rather than took the bus?
    He nodded and said, “Yes—I mean, no.” He’d spent the day talking to marshmen of every stripe; now he was having trouble stringing two words together in his own tongue.
    â€œFirst things first,” she said. She went to a closet and came out with the key to the restroom.
    â€œHere,” she said, “I thought you might want to freshen up.”
    He went to the restroom and emptied the bedpan into a toilet, then leaned against the stall for a few moments and closed his eyes. Water was dripping somewhere, perhaps in one of the huge old porcelain sinks. The way it echoed put him in mind of a cave. He pictured wet formations, spires and stalactites.
    It cheered him to think there were slow accretions happening all around.
    *   *   *
    They left through a gate that overlooked the Mall, with its neat row of brilliantly lit monuments. Their glowing marble filled him with feeling—not patriotism, certainly, but perhaps a cousin of it, a sense of pride in being affiliated with so much power. He turned to her and said, with breath that left traces in the frosty air, that he wanted to give her flowers.
    She burst out laughing and kissed his cheek, then gave him one of the lighter bags and hooked her free arm through his. She said there wasn’t a florist for miles, when what they both knew she was saying was that he couldn’t possibly afford flowers. He told her that she was a formidable woman, a born diplomat. She patted his arm as if he were an unwelcome suitor who’d just made a surprisingly good case for himself.
    He was familiar with her neighborhood now. The cavernous elevator in her building no longer seemed threatening. There was no awkwardness at her door. She simply opened it before them, sat him down on the sofa, and fixed him a drink. He tried to refuse it, but she insisted, saying it was good for his nerves.
    The drink was mostly tonic water with a splash of inexpensive gin. He would have preferred whiskey, but took several sips just to be sociable. It was full of ice and gave him a chill. He told her that tending bar was yet another of her talents. She answered from the kitchen that he was a liar, but a sweet one.
    He finished the drink in a few long gulps, the faster to be done with it. His plan was to return the tumbler to the kitchen and to tell her how good everything smelled, but he couldn’t seem to stand.
    The sofa began to swallow him. He felt he was sinking up to the waist in cool desert sand. The sand around his thighs was especially cold. It had absorbed the frigid night air and was releasing it into his bones.
    He woke to the sight of her kneeling at his feet, pressing a towel to the carpet. His empty glass was on the coffee table. There were ice cubes in his lap.
    â€œYou must have dozed off,” she said. He picked up an ice cube and tried to drop it in the glass, but somehow managed to miss. The cube hit the edge of the coffee table and shattered.
    â€œPlease,” she said, “don’t worry about it. It’s just ice. It’s just water.”
    â€œI’m a fool,” he said.
    â€œNo,” she said, “it was an accident.”
    â€œStupid, stupid,” he said.
    â€œReally,” she said, “all I wanted was for you to relax a bit.”
    He started to cry. His tears were as surprising to him as they were to her.
    â€œNo, no, no,” she said, “please.”
    He apologized, but couldn’t stop. “There’s a medical term for this,” he said.
    â€œYou mean for crying?” she said. “Does it really need one?”
    She got up and went back to the kitchen. He heard the banging of pots and pans, followed by a curse. He was awake now.