River—the whitewashed huts, his mother and
father, the warm summer evenings, and the May beetles buzzing over the cherry
trees in the orchard. Vera dreamed of Africa—wild tribal dances around the
bonfire, elders chanting spells, and stern women practicing voodoo, teaching
her how to compress time and fold space into a scroll.Suddenly, in the middle
of the night, Vera woke up. A massive moon was staring through the window—the
one they call the Buck Moon, because it would soon begin to wane, and little
horns would appear along its edge. Vera kissed the sleeping Leonid, and he woke
up.
“Look how huge the moon is.”
They went out onto the balcony, holding
each other, and watched the night luminary drift across the sky, almost
brushing against the Eiffel Tower, which stuck out over Paris like its
creator’s middle index finger—as if saying, “Here, bite on that...”
Vera turned to Leonid. In the moonlight,
her amber eyes glowed against the dark canvas of her face like burning coals in
an African witch’s brazier.“Leo,” she said, calling him by the name of his
identical twin brother, who had not yet awakened in Leonid’s body.
“I
want to take a walk through nighttime Paris.”
Wanting to be completely alone, they left
the phantom of grandfather Stepan and that tedious, ever-commenting Brain
behind at the estate. Just the two of them, without any uninvited companions,
they slipped into the Cadillac and drove through the night city toward the Île
de la Cité.
They parked nearby and walked down to the
edge of the Seine, stepping into the Square du Vert-Galant—that secluded,
hidden corner where a French king once brought his mistresses under the cover
of darkness. The moon hovered over Paris, reflecting in the river.
The moon hung low over Paris, reflecting
in the river. Across from them rose the massive silhouette of the Pont-Neuf,
while a bit further along, to their right, the endless galleries of the night
Louvre loomed in the darkness. In the fitful moonlight, its ancient facades
seemed carved from a single block of shadow, and the empty, slit-like windows
gleamed mysteriously, as if guarding the centuries-old secrets of French kings.
Across from them rose the massive
silhouette of the Pont Neuf. The moonlit ripples on the water winked at the
city streetlamps.Leonid and Vera were saying goodbye to Paris. Tomorrow—or
rather, already today—they were leaving for Marseille...
