glow on her face. Good, I conceded, a very fine letter.
He would have no reason not to listen to me, would he? she asked. I mean, there's no international agenda that would make it hard for the Red Cross to do their work fairly and earnestly. There wouldn't be, would there, Alan?
I couldn't see why there would be, I told her, but then tried gently to build up an idea of the difficulties involved. The Others do make it hard for the repatriators. They move prisoners around. Sometimes they assign them in groups to farmers to work on the harvest. There were even rumors they've changed prisoners' names to make them harder to find.
I know, Mrs. Carter insisted, her faith remaining unshaken and expressing itself in a wan, determined smile. But after six years, she continued, the Red Cross must have sorted out all their little tricks.
The crease running between her eyes like a threat of coming pain, Sarah said, I hope they listen to you this time, Mrs. Carter. I can't see why it's taken so long.
No knowledge of the reality, however, haunted Sarah. She, like everyone else, thought I had put the whole truth of Summer Island in my short stories. I had a second cup of coffee and ate two pastries as quickly as I could—the sooner I made the gesture, the sooner we could get home. At last, to Sarah's relief as well, I suggested we had to go—we had an appointment at six o'clock at a fish restaurant on the river.
Soon Hugo will be back, murmured Mrs. Carter, saying such things as that. He'll be saying, I just called in for a moment, because I have an appointment . . .
Without having intended to, I found myself babbling the old story, the story which was a mere gesture to the truth but which I uttered with a genuine guilt. Hugo had been forward at the outpost that morning, the second day of the battle. I had been up there the morning before, when it all started. But I was resting that second dawn in a bunker farther back. Stupid luck meant that Hugo was overrun, and I had time to take part in a reasonably organized consolidation. How unfortunate for Hugo to be captured during a temporary tactical emergency of a won battle. Hugo
would
be going to a fish restaurant, instead of me, had the Others started the Summer Island offensive one day earlier. It's so stupid, I said. It's so stupid.
That was at least a proposition I could believe in thoroughly.
I saw Sarah staring at me. Mrs. Carter's face had become somber, not before time. I know, Alan, she said. I know. I don't ask you here to explain these cruel things. Just to bring me the scent of my son. It's selfish of me.
Never, I asserted, and I hugged her like a mother.
Then, thank God, we were on the stairs. The line of pain between Sarah's eyes was now very evident, but I was still tipsy. And so she had to drive.
We were lucky not to be dependent for health care upon the chaotic public clinics. On top of that, Sarah's uncle, a renowned cardiac surgeon, had a neurosurgeon friend to whom Sarah went with her head pain the following week. She told me afterwards that she was to have a CT scan at Mount Mediation Hospital, the hospital of the privileged and the home of a set of all the earth's advanced medical machines.
Do they think it's cancer? I asked in unheeding panic. A brain tumor? Surely not.
She laughed at my fears. They want to have a look at the vessels at the back of the brain, she said, the ones that have been seizing up on me.
On the eve of her scan, we went to the very fish restaurant we had used as an excuse with Mrs. Carter. I was buoyant. My novel was as good as finished, and as I'd gone I had proudly done a translation into English, though American editors sometimes said they found my usages odd. I wanted to hang on to the thing for another month and look at it calmly, a little at a time, before sending it to Haddow and Sons, the national publishers, and to my American publisher, Random House, who might then give me a further eighty thousand dollars or more for a
He would have no reason not to listen to me, would he? she asked. I mean, there's no international agenda that would make it hard for the Red Cross to do their work fairly and earnestly. There wouldn't be, would there, Alan?
I couldn't see why there would be, I told her, but then tried gently to build up an idea of the difficulties involved. The Others do make it hard for the repatriators. They move prisoners around. Sometimes they assign them in groups to farmers to work on the harvest. There were even rumors they've changed prisoners' names to make them harder to find.
I know, Mrs. Carter insisted, her faith remaining unshaken and expressing itself in a wan, determined smile. But after six years, she continued, the Red Cross must have sorted out all their little tricks.
The crease running between her eyes like a threat of coming pain, Sarah said, I hope they listen to you this time, Mrs. Carter. I can't see why it's taken so long.
No knowledge of the reality, however, haunted Sarah. She, like everyone else, thought I had put the whole truth of Summer Island in my short stories. I had a second cup of coffee and ate two pastries as quickly as I could—the sooner I made the gesture, the sooner we could get home. At last, to Sarah's relief as well, I suggested we had to go—we had an appointment at six o'clock at a fish restaurant on the river.
Soon Hugo will be back, murmured Mrs. Carter, saying such things as that. He'll be saying, I just called in for a moment, because I have an appointment . . .
Without having intended to, I found myself babbling the old story, the story which was a mere gesture to the truth but which I uttered with a genuine guilt. Hugo had been forward at the outpost that morning, the second day of the battle. I had been up there the morning before, when it all started. But I was resting that second dawn in a bunker farther back. Stupid luck meant that Hugo was overrun, and I had time to take part in a reasonably organized consolidation. How unfortunate for Hugo to be captured during a temporary tactical emergency of a won battle. Hugo
would
be going to a fish restaurant, instead of me, had the Others started the Summer Island offensive one day earlier. It's so stupid, I said. It's so stupid.
That was at least a proposition I could believe in thoroughly.
I saw Sarah staring at me. Mrs. Carter's face had become somber, not before time. I know, Alan, she said. I know. I don't ask you here to explain these cruel things. Just to bring me the scent of my son. It's selfish of me.
Never, I asserted, and I hugged her like a mother.
Then, thank God, we were on the stairs. The line of pain between Sarah's eyes was now very evident, but I was still tipsy. And so she had to drive.
We were lucky not to be dependent for health care upon the chaotic public clinics. On top of that, Sarah's uncle, a renowned cardiac surgeon, had a neurosurgeon friend to whom Sarah went with her head pain the following week. She told me afterwards that she was to have a CT scan at Mount Mediation Hospital, the hospital of the privileged and the home of a set of all the earth's advanced medical machines.
Do they think it's cancer? I asked in unheeding panic. A brain tumor? Surely not.
She laughed at my fears. They want to have a look at the vessels at the back of the brain, she said, the ones that have been seizing up on me.
On the eve of her scan, we went to the very fish restaurant we had used as an excuse with Mrs. Carter. I was buoyant. My novel was as good as finished, and as I'd gone I had proudly done a translation into English, though American editors sometimes said they found my usages odd. I wanted to hang on to the thing for another month and look at it calmly, a little at a time, before sending it to Haddow and Sons, the national publishers, and to my American publisher, Random House, who might then give me a further eighty thousand dollars or more for a
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