Fresh Out of Blueberries

© 2002 Kfir Luzzatto
All rights reserved.

The hill was much steeper than I had recalled. I had set out that morning remembering a vivid picture of myself as a child, running lightly up that hill. And yet, here I was, leaning heavily on my walking stick—a relic of my earlier days up those mountains—feeling anything but light.

I stood straight, feigning to gaze at the breathtaking alpine view while trying to regain my strength and give my aching calves a rest. I regarded Emily with unmasked pleasure. She looked fresh, in spite of the few beads of perspiration showing on her forehead. Her cheeks were red, whether because of the heat or the cold wind, I did not know. Her rosy cheeks and her blonde hair made her look like a native, a daughter of the Dolomites.

"You're panting," she said, accusingly.

"I'm not!" I retorted with indignation. "I'm faking it to give you a chance to rest."

I sat down on a flat stone and Emily perched next to me. She was smiling, happily and quietly, and it was heartwarming. I hadn't seen her smile so naturally since her mother's sudden death, two months before.

Emily and I had been married for less than a week now. I had planned our honeymoon for so long that I found it hard to believe that here we were, at last. I had known all along that, no matter what else we would plan, our honeymoon simply had to start up here, in the Italian Alps—the Dolomites—the only place on earth that, to me, evoked the perfect happiness that is known only to a child.

This was where I had spent my happiest days, up on the mountains and hills and in the forests that surrounded Fraines, a small picturesque village little known to foreign tourists. My parents had owned an old cottage here, built by my great-grandfather—long since sold and destroyed to make room for a modern building—that had been my home during the summer and winter vacations for more than ten years. I still had a few friends in the village, although I had been away for more than fifteen years now. This place had always exercised an irresistible attraction on me, and now that I was here, it felt as if a physical oppression had been lifted from my shoulders. I couldn't help feeling that I belonged up there in the mountains.

Emily stood up, her ponytail waving in the cool wind, and I got up also.

"How far is it, now?" she asked.

"Well, it's still a little far from the top," I said, "but the professor's cabin is nearby. Here, you can see it behind those trees over there," I added, pointing in its direction.

The hill that we were climbing was covered by a thick forest. A broad stretch had been cleared to make room for high posts that held the huge wires of a cable car. The lower station of the cable car was far below us, and the upper station was on top of the hill. At this time of the year it wasn't running, and the only noise heard was a metallic swishing sound made by the wind playing around the wires.

About two thirds up the hill, beside one of the huge posts, was a little cabin, built in whitewashed stone-dark wood combination that is so typical of northern Italy. It was so small, with red geraniums on its windows and a small kitchen garden at the back, that, from a distance, it looked like a toy house. It was referred to by the local people simply as "at The Professor's," and I had never heard it called otherwise.

The professor was a man of uncertain age—about fifty the last time I saw him, I would estimate—with a long, grey beard. He used to teach literature at the local school, but had to leave amongst rumors of child molesting. It was a strange Italian mannerism, I felt, to call a high-school teacher "professor," but it was even worse to go on doing so years after he had quit teaching.

The small restaurant run by the professor had only four rustic tables covered by neat red-and-white tablecloths. It had been like that since I had seen it for the first time, and I was curious to know if it had changed. He lived up on that hill with an old mother who did the cooking. I remember hearing that she had died, one year, but there she was again the next, dishing out her wonderful sausage with polenta.

I had never really understood why the professor kept the cabin open to the public. Very few people ever got there, although his prices were extremely moderate. Still, I guess it was something for him and his mother to do, and whatever little money it brought them must surely have come in handy. For people like me, who loved to climb this hill, the stop at The Professor's was a heavenly rest that included delicious ham-and-lettuce sandwiches and chilled hand-picked forest strawberries and blueberries.

I took Emily's hand in mine and started walking. She looked so serene and in harmony with the surroundings, that I really felt a sense of achievement. I knew that I had done the right thing by bringing her here.

Walking up the hill to The Professor's had been Gianni's suggestion, and a great one. Gianni was a friend of my childhood days whom I had met again on my very first day in town. I had enjoyed sitting with him the next evening, with Emily's blessing, to drink foul red wine and to hear stories of what had happened to common acquaintances during the past years.

"This is a good time of the year for you to come, David," he had said to me. "Have you been to The Professor's yet?"

"Not yet. I just got here."

"You should go soon," he had said. "After all, you are one of us."

I had enjoyed the quick acceptance back into the community that Gianni and other people I knew had expressed on meeting me again after so many years. It felt cozy, like family.

Five more minutes of steep walking brought us to the small clearing in front of the cabin. The place was quiet and, besides the wind, the chirping of a bird was the only sound.

"The place seems deserted," commented Emily.

"Well ... you don't expect a lot of activity in this season," I answered, on the defensive.

"David, look!" she said, pointing to the back of the cabin where a small part of the kitchen garden was visible.

A figure had come out of the garden and was standing there, watching us. It was the professor. I recognized him immediately. He hadn't changed a bit since last I saw him, although his beard was perhaps a little whiter in spots. He stood there, motionless, as we walked toward him. When we reached perhaps thirty paces from him, he spoke.

"We're closed," he said simply.

"But, Professor," I pleaded, "we've come all the way—I've come all the way to show your restaurant to my wife. She's heard so much about it from me...."

"Do I know you?" he asked, coming nearer and looking at me askance.

"Yes, yes," I said, smiling encouragingly. "You haven't seen me for a good fifteen years now, but I used to come here a lot as a kid."

"Oh, yes," he said, nodding. "I recognize you. Davide, isn't it?"

"Yes, Davide. You have a good memory, Professor."

The old man stood there, watching us in silence. I looked back at him. His beard was unkempt and his shirt was marked with dark brown stains. He kept shifting his gaze from me to Emily and back, until I felt uncomfortable and started to regret having come up the hill.

"You were a good kid," he said at last, nodding appreciatively. "One moment," he added, disappearing behind the corner into the garden from which he had emerged.

We stood there, not knowing whether to go in or to walk away. Suddenly, a deep groan and the sound of wood splitting came from the garden.

"Are you all right, Professor?" I called, starting to walk toward the corner.

"Don't come this way!" he thundered from behind the building, and I froze on the spot.

"This is weird, David," whispered Emily. "Let's go away."

Before I could think what to do, the professor emerged from behind the building, limping slightly. A scent preceded him, carried by the breeze that blew around the cabin—a sweet, familiar scent that I wasn't able to name. I sniffed the air, closing my eyes to concentrate on it.

The touch of Emily's hand on my arm made me open my eyes. She was staring at me, puzzled. I looked away, gazing at the professor who had reached us.

"You're hurt," I cried. "There is blood on your shoe."

"No, no," he said, smiling, "it's not my blood. I was finishing my butchering when you came along," he added, obviously seeing the perplexed look on our faces. "Not a nice sight—particularly for a young lady like you," he added, pointing his finger at Emily. "Someone has to do it, though," he concluded with a sigh. Then, after a pause, he ordered: "Come in, come in. Don't stand here outside," and without another word he turned around and walked to the door of the cabin.

We walked in after him. The room was exactly as I remembered it, with the same tablecloths and the same pictures hanging askew on the walls. We sat at my favorite table, near the small window that looked out into the woods. The professor had disappeared down the stairs that led to the kitchen from the opposite corner of the room. Or, at least, that was what I had always assumed it was, since he always emerged from those stairs with his delicious dishes. Presently he was back with us again. He had changed his shirt and shoes.

"So," he said with a smile and in a melodious undertone, "what can I bring you?'

"Oh, I don't know," cooed Emily. "What would you recommend?"

"For a young lady like yourself," he cooed back, "I would recommend some ham and cheese, and perhaps some strawberries. I am afraid that we are fresh out of blueberries," he added apologetically.

"With whipped cream?" she asked, and when he nodded she concluded, "That sounds perfect, thank you."

"I'll have the same," I said, when he looked at me inquisitively, "and we'd like some beer, please."

The professor went down the stairs, and Emily put her hand onto mine and smiled happily.

"This is a wonderful place, David. You weren't exaggerating its qualities."

"I never exaggerate," I retorted.

Suddenly, I felt dizzy. My view became blurred, as if a red veil were dancing before my eyes, rendering Emily's face an indistinct shape. A sharp smell of blood rose in my nostrils, and I dropped my head down into both hands.

"What's the matter, David? What's happening?" asked Emily with apprehension, jumping up and coming near me.

"Nothing ... nothing serious," I managed to answer. "It must be the altitude. I think my nose is bleeding...."

The dizziness had passed and I was feeling well again. Emily sat beside me and watched me with concern.

"No. You're not bleeding. Here," she added, handing me a glass of water, "drink some."

"I'm all right," I said, annoyed at being treated like a child, "don't fuss over me."

She kept watching me. I bet she wanted to make sure that I wasn't lying to her, and I did my best to smile and look nonchalant.

"What was that?" she asked suddenly, raising her head.

"What?"

"That sound. It was a moan, I'm sure. Maybe the professor has fallen or something. He may be hurt. There it is again," she added, and this time I also thought I heard a sound.

"Won't be a minute," yelled the professor from downstairs.

"There you are," I retorted to Emily. "You shouldn't worry. Mountain people are resilient."

We sat there, chatting happily and simply enjoying being together. Finally, the professor came back, carrying a tray with our orders. He put our food on the table, we thanked him and he hurried back down the stairs. The sound of a mixer working furiously reached us from downstairs.

"I'm sorry for the delay with the cream," said the professor, when he returned with a bowl full of it. "Mother is always difficult with the whipping," he added, shaking his head sorrowfully.

The food was delicious, just as I remembered it. The professor sat at the far end of the room and watched us. When we realized that we couldn't eat any more, I signaled him and paid for the meal, not forgetting to thank him profusely for having had us in. Emily echoed my thanks, throwing in a delicious smile. Then I got up.

"Let's go," I said.

"Are we going back?" asked Emily.

"Nope. We are going up," I answered daringly.

"I don't feel like it, darling," said Emily, "not after such a meal. And you shouldn't go either, after what just happened to you."

"Nothing happened to me. And besides," I said pleadingly, "the whole idea was to get to the top. We can't give that up. I must see if it is still as I remember it."

"If you want to climb to the top," intervened the professor, "perhaps the lady would like to wait for you here."

"Won't I be in the way?" asked Emily, turning to him with a smile.

"Not at all. Not at all," said the professor, gently. "Perhaps, if Mother is in the mood, she'll teach you one of her special dishes. Let's go and ask her. She is a bit old," he added apologetically, "and doesn't like to climb the stairs, if she doesn't have to."

"Do you mind, David?" she asked.

"Of course not, if you don't feel like it ... although I was rather hoping to show you the view from the top."

"We can take the cable car some other day, when it runs again," she said. Then she added, in that practical tone of hers that meant that the matter had been decided, "Will you be gone for a long time?"

"It's a walk of about half an hour—I should be back in less than two hours."

I left, feeling thoroughly unhappy. I had looked forward very much to showing "my mountains" off to Emily, and this was kind of a letdown. I also felt a little jealous that she should have preferred the professor's company over mine. Nevertheless, I decided to be stubborn and to go ahead as planned.

The sun was low over the horizon when I got back to the cabin. The hour was almost five o'clock, and the posts and trees cast long shadows. The climb had been beautiful, and I had sat on the top of the hill for maybe half an hour, enjoying the feeling of the high mountains that surrounded me. Time became meaningless for a while, and tearing myself away from the warmth of the grass and the earth required a great deal of willpower.

When I reached the cabin, Emily was sitting outside and, seeing me, she got up.

"Have you been waiting out here for long?" I inquired. "Were you bored?"

"Oh. No. Not at all. The professor's mother is a dear. She insisted on explaining to me about her cooking, but my Italian is not good enough, and she doesn't speak any other language, so that I'm afraid that I haven't learnt much. We are invited to the feast, though."

"What feast?" I asked.

The professor appeared on the door, smiling warmly, and answered for her.

"It's our traditional Spring Feast in two days," he explained. "You should know that. It's every year."

"Well, I've never been here in the spring before, you know," I apologized. "I only used to come here with my parents for the summer vacations."

"Oh, I see," said the professor. "It's a tradition a thousand years old. Strangers are not allowed at the feast—we are very strict on that—but you are one of us...."

"Yes, honey, please," pleaded Emily. "I have promised to come and help with the preparations. Would you mind if I came here tomorrow afternoon? The professor's mother said that I can stay the night, rather than go back and forth."

That meant spending one night away from Emily, but she was so excited, like a little girl, that I didn't have the heart to argue. Besides, this would give me a chance to have a few hours to myself, and maybe to renew some acquaintances.

"Well ... if you really want it," I conceded.

The professor, who had been following this exchange, smiled at me benevolently and nodded in approval. I smiled back, but felt odd for my acceptance of his fatherly praise.

"Thank you, honey. You're a dear," she said, kissing me. "It will be lovely."

We walked down the hill, hand in hand. I had seldom felt happier.

On the next day we got up late, ate a lazy breakfast, and spent the rest of the morning shopping. We decided to skip lunch and, instead, went back to the hotel and Emily packed a few things for the night. She was radiant with anticipation, and I couldn't help admiring her energy and her thirst for new experiences.

Once again we walked up the hill and reached the cabin. The professor stepped out to welcome us and took Emily's bag.

"I see you're hot," he said to me. "Would you care for a beer?"

"Yes, please," I said, gratefully. "I'll have one before I go back."

We sat outside, enjoying the pleasant afternoon air and drinking. Then I got up and kissed Emily, preparing to leave.

"If you need anything, give me a call," I said.

"We don't have a phone here, I'm afraid," said the professor apologetically.

"Oh," I said, dismayed. I had counted on having a chat with Emily over the phone before bedtime. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow, then. At what time will the feast begin?"

"We light up the bonfire at nine. I would recommend coming up between eight and nine. It gets dark after seven, but don't worry, the path will be illuminated."

I left, kissing Emily again while the professor looked on with a benevolent smile. I walked quickly back to the village and went straight to my room.

I woke up and looked at my watch. It was 9:30 p.m. I had dozed off, tired from climbing that hill again. I had missed dinnertime at the hotel and I was hungry. I got up, brushed my teeth, took a leather jacket from the closet and went out.

Downstairs, I walked into Reception to drop my key. It was a small, family-operated hotel, and the proprietor stood behind the desk. He took the key, beaming at me, and hung it behind him, in a small letterbox with my room number on it.

"Good evening," he said. "I hope that everything is all right with the room."

"It's just fine," I answered—and it was. This was the cleanest and most hospitable hotel I had ever been to.

"I just wanted to tell you how much we appreciate your stay. Of course, as of tomorrow, we will apply a discount to your room rate."

"Thank you very much," I said, confused by his courtesy. "I appreciate it. Too kind of you."

"Not at all. Not at all. My pleasure."

"Good night," I said, embarrassed by the unmerited friendliness.

"Good night," he echoed and, lowering his voice, he added, "see you at the feast."

The beer-house—La Birreria—which sold tasty food, if my memory served me right, was nearby. As always, during early evening, the place was full of noisy customers, and I made my way through the little groups of people that stood and drank from large boot-shaped glasses, until I reached the counter and sat on a stool. I ordered a beer and a plate of trippa—delicious cow stomach, cooked with tomato and parmesan cheese—and looked around me. Gianni stood there, talking to someone I didn't know. Now, seeing me, he walked to the counter and sat on the empty stool next to me.

"What's up, David?" he asked.

"Nothing much. I'm all alone tonight. Emily is at The Professor's, on account of the feast tomorrow."

"Shhh!" ordered Gianni.

"Why are you shushing me?" I asked.

"The feast," he explained, speaking in an undertone, "is a private function. You have been away for too long, I think, and you don't know that things have changed around here. Look in this room, for instance. The strangers outnumber us. It is not like in the old days, when the village was small and isolated, and you could count the number of tourists that you saw during the year on the fingers of one hand. It is much more difficult now. We don't want any outsider to come nosing in. How's the trippa?" he asked, changing the subject.

The trippa was good, and so was the company. Gianni ordered wine and I drank a strong grappa. We went on drinking and chatting for an hour, until I realized that I was starting to get drunk. My head was swimming and I had grown tired of the noise. With an effort I got up, said goodbye to Gianni and left. It was cold outside. The streets were deserted and I decided to take the long way back, through the maze of narrow streets behind the closed shops of the village center, to try to clear my head before I went to bed.

Voices reached me from behind a corner. They were excited and raucous.

"Filthy tourist," said one voice, followed by a thud.

"This will serve you right," said another.

I approached cautiously. A figure was lying on the pavement. It was a man in his early thirties, his hands raised to shield his face. Two bullies stood beside him and alternated between profanities and kicks. I recognized them. One of them worked at the local food market, and the other I had seen idling around. They were still little boys at the time that I had spent my last summer here, but faces didn't change much around here. You could tell somebody's family name by his features, in a place where people married within a close circle.

I picked up a piece of wood that stood in a nearby trash can. It had nails on it. I ran to where the scene was taking place and, without a word, I started hitting hard with the nails forward. I hit, and hit, and hit again....

"Hey, stop it!" ordered a voice, and I stood still.

I looked at the piece of wood in my hands, its end covered with blood. The tourist lay motionless, his face and his hands bloodied.

"You almost killed him," said one of the bullies.

"Yeah," said the other in awe, "let's get out of here."

Without another word they ran away. I stood there, unable to understand what I had done, or why. I looked at the man at my feet. He was breathing heavily and was badly hurt. But he was alive. Only hurt. Only hurt, I reassured myself.

The echo of quick steps came from the main street. I dropped the stick and turned, raising the collar of my jacket to cover my face. As in a dream I walked away, silently, until I reached the hotel. In the light of the front door I looked at my hands. They were covered with blood. Luckily, nobody was around at Reception, and I sneaked behind the desk, grabbed my key and ran up the stairs.

In the safety of my room I found myself unable to think about what I had done, but I still felt the strange elation that went with the unimaginable strength that had taken command of my arms. I undressed and went into the shower. But before I turned on the water, I sat there for a long time, looking at my bloodied hands and inhaling the inebriating scent that came from them.

I slept well that night and woke up to a glorious morning. I was surprised—but glad—at my lack of remorse for my behavior the night before. By the time I was through with breakfast, the incident was already blurred in my mind, and I was no longer able to tell whether it had really taken place. Perhaps it had all been a drunken dream.

I spent most of the day killing time. I walked around the streets of the village, drinking coffee in different places and window-shopping. A few people I knew from back then engaged me in conversation, but most of the time I was on my own. Nobody mentioned the incident with the tourist in that back alley, and soon I forgot all about it. I strolled to the small river that runs near the village, within walking distance from my hotel, and sat on its bank to watch the water flow. Strangely, I thought about Emily only once, feeling remorseful for not missing her more. Then I sat in the grass and watched the myriad of insects that inhabited it. They came by and paraded before me, as if by invitation. I picked up a beetle, and then a grasshopper, and watched them for God knows how long.

And so the long day wore on.

It was pitch dark when I reached the foot of the hill. The path was illuminated by a sequence of candles standing a few paces from one another, each one in a small glass bowl that shielded it from the wind. I started to walk up the path and, after a while, a figure appeared from behind the first bend. He held a hunting rifle in his hands.

"Who's there?" he asked in an imperious voice.

Not knowing how to answer, I merely stood there, allowing him to come near. I recognized him. He was the grocer who, in the days of my youth, had often prepared gorgeous salami sandwiches for me to take on my hikes up the mountain. I had looked for his grocery store, but it was no longer there and had been replaced by a fashion shop. The grocer, I had been told, had sold out and was now retired.

He came closer and studied my face. He was so near that I could almost swear that he was sniffing me.

"Davide, right?" he said at last.

"Right," I said, relieved.

"You can go up," he said simply, and disappeared again behind the tree from which he had come.

I walked quickly up the hill, along the lighted path. They had already lit the bonfire, and I could see it from afar. The wind carried with it the smell of smoke, but also another scent—one that brought atavistic memories back to me. I could almost feel my back arching forward, and I felt saliva surging at the corner of my mouth and running down my chin.

I quickened my pace and reached the edge of the clearing in the wood, from which the cabin was visible. Three long rows of tables that had been laid in front of it were almost fully seated. I heard music coming from a guitar and four or five voices singing an old song.

As I came closer I saw that the tables were loaded with food and drinks. Pieces of meat in oddly suggestive shapes were roasting on small fires near the vegetable garden. There was enough of it to feed perhaps a hundred men and women, although I couldn't see more than fifty people there. Merry villagers talked loudly, sang and ate, in the light of the bonfire that danced on them, creating flickering shadows all around.

I looked at the revelers and recognized some of them. Others looked familiar but I couldn't remember their names. I saw Franco, one of the town policemen—a carabiniere—who was tending one of the small fires in a shiny uniform. The heat from the bonfire was inviting, and so was the homely feeling that emanated from the scene. I studied the people around me, men and women, and I felt close to them, as I knew they felt toward me. I realized that I was breathing heavily and my muscles had tightened, as the excitement of the moment started to surge in my chest. This had been worth waiting for, as I had done all my life. Unknowingly, my path had taken me back to my people, a worthy son.

The professor came into the light, walking toward me, and shook my hand warmly.

"Glad to see you, Davide. We were waiting for you. Folks!" he shouted, and the noise and music subsided. "Here is Davide," he said, "It is a great pleasure to welcome him back amongst us." Sporadic rounds of applause punctuated his speech. "Now get on with it," he shouted after a brief pause, laughing, as the revelers went back to singing and shouting.

The professor walked me to a table. I saw Gianni rising and gesticulating at me.

"This way, Davide. I've kept a seat for you. You'll remember Francesca," he added, pointing with his head to the woman sitting on the bench in front of me.

I nodded at Francesca in recognition, and sat next to him, looking around and taking time to regain my breath.

A pat on my back made me turn. Another acquaintance of the old days, Sandro, stood next to me and took my hand warmly.

"I wanted to thank you personally, Davide. I owe you. Enjoy," he concluded, shaking my hand once again, and went back to his table.

"What was that?" I asked Gianni.

"You really did a great service to Sandro. This year it was his turn to provide the offering and he was going to bring his niece—but she's only sixteen, and he loves her very much. That's why he was so sad. But for you, she would have had to be the one."

"When he got cancer, five years ago, the doctors gave him six months to live," explained Francesca. "It was right before the Fall Feast, and he was lucky to get Mother's potion in time. The doctors went wild," she said, smiling at the recollection, "when the next time they checked him the tumors were gone. But, of course, his turn has come now, like everybody else's, to provide the offering. And thanks to you he will get his potion tonight and has time until fall to come up with an alternative."

"Are we all getting the potion tonight?" I asked, trying not to show my ignorance of what this was all about.

"Of course," said Gianni, smiling broadly. "I guess that you're a bit nervous, being here for the first time. But don't worry: you won't feel any different being immortal."

"Immortal?"

"Well, we're not really immortal," intervened Francesca, "but it's the next best thing to it, don't you think? I mean, never getting sick, looking young all the time, for a very long time. Do I look sixty-five to you?"

I looked at Francesca. She looked thirty-five at most. I shook my head silently.

"So you see," she said, smiling encouragingly, "it really pays off, doesn't it?"

"Davide," said the professor's voice. "Come over here for a second, please."

I got up and stood next to him, a little far away from the table. He spoke in a quiet undertone.

"We need your help, Davide."

"With pleasure..."

"It's about Emily."

"Where is she?" I asked, suddenly feeling ashamed for not inquiring earlier.

"She's in the house, asleep. We gave her a mild sedative with her food. But we need your help," he repeated.

"What's the problem? How can I help?"

"As you probably know by now, the blood of the offering is an essential ingredient in Mother's potion—don't you worry," he added hastily, obviously noting my agitation, "she won't suffer. We bleed her slowly and painlessly. She will only feel a little dizzy and, eventually, she'll faint.

"The problem is that, according to our tradition and faith, for the potion to be effective the offering has to go toward her destiny freely and willingly. We can't drag her there, and she has to be conscious. You see, Mother is already waiting for her," he added, pointing at the spot where the old woman was standing next to a large pot. An ornate chair stood near it.

"But what can I do?" I asked, overwhelmed by the responsibility that was suddenly being thrust upon me.

"She suspects nothing, you see, and you're the only one who can use his cunning to get her here. All you have to do is walk her to that chair. Once she sits there your work is done and we'll take care of the rest. Can you do that?"

"I guess I can," I said. It sounded simple enough.

"Good boy," said the professor appreciatively. "Now go get her. We're running late already. She's in the first room upstairs."

I walked to the house and ran quickly up the stairs. Emily was sleeping peacefully on a tiny bed in the room near the stairs. It was a small room, but nice, with the wooden bed and cupboard painted in the merry green and red so characteristic of mountain furniture.

I stood there for a while, watching her. She looked fragile, like a child, although I knew how strong she could be in times of need. The thought gave me strength. She was going to sacrifice herself for the good of the community—my community. Much as I loved her, I knew that I was doing the right thing and felt pride in her, and in myself for being strong enough to do what was right for my people.

I approached the bed and hugged her, kissing her lightly on the cheek. She stirred and her eyes opened.

"David!" she said in surprise. "You're here. What about the feast...."

"You fell asleep up here, and the professor didn't want to wake you up. The feast has begun a while ago. Let's go and join them."

"Didn't you miss me?" she complained, childishly. "I missed you a lot."

"Of course I missed you, honey," I said, hugging her. "But we shouldn't keep our hosts waiting. It's not polite."

"Oh, all right," she said, resignedly, and got up from the bed.

We walked down the stairs and out into the cool night, holding hands. I walked her slowly toward the spot that the professor had shown to me, trying not to think of what would happen next.

"Sit here, honey," I said to Emily, when we got to the chair near the pot.

"Here?" she said, incredulously. "This is far from everybody else. And the chair looks uncomfortable and dusty. And there is only one of them. Where will you sit?"

"I'll go and fetch another one. And this is a good place, near the fire," I said, desperately, pointing at the fire that was burning under the big pot. "And the chair is the best here. See?" I said, sitting on it to show her. "It's mighty comfortable."

As I sat there, looking at her, someone grabbed my hands from behind and I felt a rope being tightened around them and around my feet. Many hands fastened it to the chair. It was all too quick for me to understand or to react. Then I understood and looked up at Emily. She stood there, watching me, a tear running down her cheek.

"I'm sorry, David," she said, crying a little but trying to keep a steady voice. "I'm sorry, but I had to do it."

"I don't understand," I said, feeling numb from confusion and sorrow.

"You see, I was with my mother when she died. Her heart stopped and she fell like an empty sack. She lay there, on the ground, trembling and trying to say something, and then she died."

She was crying openly now, no longer trying to contain her tears. I couldn't say whether she was crying for her mother, for herself, or for me.

"I can't stand the thought, you see," she continued slowly, without looking straight at me. "It can never happen to me now. It will never happen. And if you really love me, you will understand. I'm sorry," she said again, after a pause, and then turned away and disappeared into the night.

It is not true that bleeding to death doesn't hurt. The professor was lying to me—or perhaps he doesn't know.

My body aches. I feel dizzy and I can't see what the professor's mother is doing. I only know that she's touching my jugular all the time. My vision is blurred now, and the music I hear sounds unreal. Perhaps it's in my head.

And I can't help wondering...

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