The air in the clinic is cold and sharp, like a cleanly drawn cut. Corridors of glass, iron that looks like silver, and light. Everything here gleams, reflects, blinds me. I shiver and pull my shoulders up.
Beside me, Marit speaks to a woman who sits behind a crescent-shaped counter of light, wood, and glass, like a tollkeeper at the gate to another world.
I watch Marit place her bag on the counter. “I have a medical report here. The colleague strongly recommends a neurological and psychiatric evaluation.”
The woman takes the paper, gives it only the briefest glance.
“Her insurance card, please.”
I see Marit hesitate, and the woman looks up at her.
“How is she insured?”
“At the moment, that’s unclear. The paperwork is being processed. She’s being admitted under… special circumstances. It will be resolved shortly.”
The woman shakes her head. “Without a valid insurance card or a written guarantee of coverage, nothing happens here.”
Marit presses her lips together. “She’s in an unstable condition. Do you really want to send her home?”
“I’m sorry. I work by the book.”
I feel Marit tense. “Couldn’t you perhaps—”
“No. I could not.”
I step back. My knees buckle. I sit down on a pale wooden bench behind Marit and the terrible woman.
I understand only fragments, single words like pebbles scattered on a strange path. But the tone, the flicker in Marit’s voice, the sharp snap of the other’s, it awakens something in me. Something old. Something that smells of smoke, of beer, of betrayal.
I blink.
The blinding corridor dissolves. The voices fade. Something else presses into my mind, something that doesn’t belong here.
The wind blows in from the sea, salty and heavy. The village lies in dusk. I hear them ere I see them: the voices from the tavern, the shouting, the clash of mugs, the smell of horseflesh, of seaweed.
I cross the threshold. The air is warm, thick, heavy with smoke. Faces everywhere, red, scarred, lined by storm and drink.
And in the midst of them: Matthes.
My husband, Matthes.
He sitteth upon a bench as though the place were his own. Upon his lap a woman with wide hips, lips painted red, hair like old hay. Her coarse linen shift hangeth open, one breast spilling forth, heavy, shameless. His hand resteth there, kneading. I know that grip. I know the look he casteth upon her.
The mug in her hand is dark clay. She poureth wine into his open mouth. He drinketh, resisteth not. The wine runneth down his lips, staining his shirt.
He laugheth not. Yet neither doth he stop her.
“Another mug for the fisherman!” crieth one, a trader with cheeks like apples.
“Hold fast the wench!” another belloweth.
I freeze.
I see the hostess, tall, broad of shoulder, a rag upon her arm, her eyes cold as February frost. She knoweth me at once.
“What dost thou gape at? Begone, wench!”
“I…”
“This be no place for soft-skinned healers. Here be men’s dealings. Away with thee!”
The men roar with laughter. One flingeth fish bones, another whistled sharp.
I turn. I flee into the cold. Away, away.
The alleys lie empty. Only the fog brush’d against me like some beast. I stumble, fall, rise again. Tears stream down my face, yet I scarce feel them.
This is not Matthes. Not the man who walk’d with me through storms and sleepless nights.
Something hath changed him. Some darkness dwelleth now within.
When at last I reach the house, silence lies therein. A silence fine as dust settling over all. Only the crackle of the hearth. And beneath it, the hush of the sea, as though the world itself whispereth.
In the doorway standeth Alina. Barefoot. Her hair falls loose upon her shoulders, dark and soft in the shadow. She is awake, yet speaketh no word. She only looketh upon me, still as stone.
It almost breaketh mine heart. She is yet but a child. And yet she knoweth more than she ought. Her features are still soft, still fair, but the boundless disappointment in her father is already graven there, unshakable.
White dust of flour still clingeth to her fingers.
She draweth nigh. Lifteth her chin a little, as though to say: I have learn’d that life beareth not only light. And I look upon pain full in the face.
She beholdeth me. Calm. Piercing. She needeth not speak. She knoweth it already.
I stand frozen. Trembling with shame, with wrath, with grief. No words come forth from my lips.
“Thou needst not utter, Mother. I know what thine eyes have seen. Yet shall I find the truth of Father. This do I swear unto thee.”
I close mine eyes. And I let me fall into the silence that enfoldeth me like a cloak.