The Summer of Katya (28 page)

Drained, adrift in a vertigo of hopelessness, I turned to leave.

But I was arrested by Paul’s lazy drawl. “Oh, by the way, here’s a little something Katya wanted me to give you.” He tugged a small silk drawstring bag from his coat pocket. “They’re yours, I believe.”

“No, not mine. They were gifts to Katya.”

“Oh, really?” He examined one of the pebbles with mild disrelish. “Well, no one could ever accuse you of being a mad spendthrift when it comes to gift-giving.”

“No, I suppose not. Paul? Would you do me a favor?”

“So long as it’s something slight, old fellow.”

“Would you keep those pebbles for me? Just hold them in your hand… for remembrance?”

His metallic eyes softened for just a second; then he grinned. “If that would amuse you… why not?”

“Thank you.” I turned and walked up the overgrown path.

The sun was setting in a russet flush along the horizon as I drove the trap down past the ruined garden wall. The poplars lining the lane were suffused with an amber afterglow that seemed to rise from the earth. The mare’s ears flickered at the sound of the shot.

Envoi

I remember once describing the Basques to Katya as men who never forgive. Never.

During the course of my medical practice, fate delivered a slightly wounded rapist into my hands.

He did not survive treatment.

Salies-les-Bains

August 1938