“No,” said Charis. How could you prove such a thing? She had a short vision of Billy rushing into Zenia’s room and tearing off her nightgown. That was not something she wanted.

“Penny for your thoughts,” says Zenia.

“What?” says Charis. She is thinking about Zenia’s scar. “Billy’s a big boy,” says Zenia. “You shouldn’t get too anxious about him. He can take care of himself. “

“I was thinking about the winter,” says Charis. “How we’re going to get through it:”

“Not how—if,” says Zenia. “Oh, sorry, too morbid. One day at a time!”

Mostly Zenia goes to bed early because Charis tells her to, but sometimes she stays up. Charis makes a good fire in the wood stove and they sit at the kitchen table and talk. Sometimes they listen to music, sometimes they play solitaire.

“I can read the cards,” Zenia says one evening. “Here, I’ll read yours.

Charis isn’t sure about this. She doesn’t think it’s such a good idea to know the future, because you can hardly ever change it, so why suffer twice? “Just for fun,” says Zenia. She has Charis shuffle the deck three times and cut away from her so the bad luck won’t come towards her, and then she lays the cards out in rows of three, for the past, the present, and the future. She studies the rows, then adds another set of cards, crossways.

“Someone new is

coming into your life,” she says. Oh, thinks Charis. That must be the baby. “And someone else is . going out of it. There’s water involved; a crossing of the water.”~~ Zenia herself, thinks Charis. She’ll get better, she’ll leave soon. And anyone who leaves here has to cross water.

“Anything about Billy?” she says.

“There’s a jack,” says Zenia. “Jack of Spades. That could be him. Crossed by the Queen of Diamonds.”

“Is that money?” says Charis.

“Yes,” says Zenia, “but it’s a cross card. There’s something off about the money. Maybe he’ll take up dealing drugs or something.”

“Not Billy,” says Charis. “He’s too smart.” She doesn’t really want to go on with this. “Where did you learn?” she asks. “My mother was a Roumanian gypsy,” says Zenia carelessly. “She said it ran in the family.”

“It does,” says Charis. This makes sense to her: she knows about gifts like that, there’s her own grandmother. Zenia’s black hair and dark eyes, and also her fatalism—they’d go with being a gypsy.

“She was stoned to death, during the war,” says Zenia. “That’s terrible!” says Charis. No wonder Zenia has cancer—it’s the past lying inside her, an oppressive heavy-metals past that she’s never cleaned out of herself. “Was it the Germans?” Being stoned to death seems worse to her than being shot. Slower, more bruising, more painful; but not very German. When she thinks of Germans she thinks of scissors, of white enamel tables. When she thinks of stoning, it’s dust and flies and camels and palm trees. As in the Old Testament.

“No, by a bunch of villagers,” says Zenia. “In Roumania. They thought she had the evil eye, they thought she was hexing their cows. They didn’t want to waste their bullets so they used stones. Stones and clubs. Gypsies weren’t the most popular item, there. I guess they still aren’t. But she knew it was going to happen, she was a clairvoyant. She handed me over to a friend she had, in another village, the night before. That’s what saved me.”

“So you must speak some Roumanian,” says Charis. If she’d known all of this, she would have gone about curing Zenia some other way. Not just with yoga and cabbages. She would have tried more visualization, and not just about the cancer: about the Roumanians. Perhaps the keys to Zenia’s illness are hidden in another language.

“I’ve repressed it,” says Zenia. “You would too. I got a look at my mother after they’d finished with her. They left her there, lying in the snow. She was just a big lump of rotting meat:”

Charis flinches. This is a stomach-turning image. It explains why Zenia throws up so much—if that’s what’s inside her head. She needs to get such poisonous images out of her.

“Where was your father?” she says, to steer Zenia away from the dead mother.

“He was a Finn,” says Zenia. “It’s where I get my cheekbones.”

Charis has only a vague notion of where Finland is. It has trees, and people with saunas and skin boots, and reindeer. “Oh,” she says. “Why was he in Roumania?”

“He wasn’t,” says Zenia. “They were both Communists, before the war. They met at a youth congress in Leningrad. He was killed later, in Finland, fighting the Russians, in the Winter War. Ironic, isn’t it? He thought he was on their side, but it was them who killed him:’

“My father was killed in the war, too,” says Charis. She’s glad they have a bond in common.

“I guess a lot of people were,” says Zenia dismissively. “But that’s history.” She has gathered up the cards and is laying out a new batch. “Ah,” she says. “The Queen of Spades.”

“Is that still my cards?” says Charis.

“No,” says Zenia. “These are mine.” She isn’t looking at the cards now, she’s looking at the ceiling, obliquely, out of her half-closed eyes. “The Queen of Spades is bad luck. Some say it’s the death card:” Her long black hair falls like a heavy veil around her head.

“Oh, no,” says Charis, dismayed. “I don’t think we should do this. This is too negative.”

“Okay,” says Zenia, as if she doesn’t care what she does. “I think I’ll go to bed:”

Charis listens to her as she climbs up the stairs, dragging one foot after the other.

XXXVII

The winter wore on. It wore them down. Taking a bath was an arctic experience, feeding the chickens was a polar expedition: trudging through the snow, battling the fierce winds that swept in off the lake. The chickens themselves were cosy enough, inside the house that Billy built. The straw and droppings kept them warm, the way they were supposed to.

Charis wished there were a layer of straw under her own house. She tacked some old blankets over the walls, she stuffed some obvious cracks with wadded newspapers. Luckily they had enough wood: Charis had managed to acquire some, cheap, from a person who had given up and gone back to the mainland. It wasn’t split, and Billy split most of it, working outside with the axe, on warmer days: he liked chopping. But the house was still cold, except when Charis built the fire up to danger level. At those times the air inside got muggy and smelled like heated mouse nest. There were real mice living under the floor, driven in by the cold; they came out at night to clean up crumbs and leave their droppings on the table. Zenia brushed the droppings off onto the floor, wrinkling her nose.

Nothing more was being said about her leaving. Every morning she gave Charis a bulletin on her health: better, worse. One day she felt up to a walk, the next day she told Charis that her hair was falling out. She no longer expressed any hope, she no longer seemed to be participating in her own body. She took the things Charis offered her—the carrot juice, the herb teas—passively and without much interest; she was humouring Charis, but she didn’t really think they would do any good. She had periods of depression, when she would lie on the livingroom couch, wrapped in a blanket, or slump at the table. “I’m a terrible person,” she would tell Charis, her voice tremulous. “I’m not worth all this trouble:”

“Oh, don’t say that,” Charis would say. “We all have those feelings. They’re from the shadow side. Think of the best things about yourself.” Zenia would reward her with a little wavering smile. “What if there isn’t anything?” she would say weakly.

Zenia and Billy kept their distance from each other. Each still complained to Charis; they seemed to enjoy this, chewing each other over. Each liked the querulous taste of the other’s name, the flavour of accusation, the bad taste. Charis would have liked to warn Billy not to be so harsh to Zenia: he could drive her to snitch on him, about the bombing. But Charis couldn’t tell Billy this without admitting that she’d betrayed his confidence, that Zenia knew. Then he would be furious with her.