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wipe her eyes with the gloved hands, so she turns away with angry shakes of her head. She offers a pat on the shoulder, a sip of precious medicine, some herbal tea that the late madam gave her the recipe for, and a whispered good night. Outside in the corridor, the man who was once the magistrate is tottering up and down, bringing kettles of boiling water to each room, keeping watch over the flickering candlelights, igniting fresh wicks when necessary. The doctor's here, he says. Yes. Enough vaccine this time. Vaccines, he huffs. Modern nonsense. You remember in the old days when we --  |
Shut up, she says. He has come to live in this house, this thing with the hunch of an old man and the face of a baby, and her affection for him has grown. Although he waits on her hand and foot, they have somehow gained equal footing with each other, his bellicosity a match for hers. As much as she would refuse to admit it, she has come to depend on him. The day before he had found her sitting on the floor of the kitchen, dizzy with exhaustion, and had ministered to her with a cup of tea, his clawlike hands fanning the air above her face. She had had more of these spells recently -- it was like being pregnant, although she knew full well that she was not. Together they retire to the kitchen, where cracked bowls are stacked high in the sink with the day's vomit and blood. She turns on the television to see the news: a new imperial leader  |
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