CARAVAGGIOCAMEDOWairsthroughdarknessandintothekit.Someceleryoable,someturnipswhoserootswerestillmuddy.TheonlylightcamefromafireHanahadretlystarted.Shehadherbaandhadnotheardhisstepsintotheroom.Hisdaysatthevillahadloosenedhisbodyandfreedhistenseness,soheseemedbigger,moresprawledoutinhisgestures.Onlyhissilenovementremaiherwisetherewasaneasyineffinow,asleepiohisgestures.

    Hedraggedoutthechairsoshewouldturn,realizehewasintheroom.

    “Hello,David.”Heraisedhisarm.Hefeltthathehadbeesfortoolong.

    “Howishe?”“Asleep.Talkedhimselfout.”“Ishewhatyouthoughthewas?”“He’sfine.Welethimbe.”“Ithoughtso.KipandIarebothsureheisEnglish.Kipthinksthebestpeopleareetrics,heworkedwithone.”“IthinkKipistheetricmyself.Whereishe,anyway?”“He’splottingsomethingoerrace,doesn’twahere.Somethingformybirthday.”Hanastoodupfromhercrouchatthegrate,wipingherhandontheoppositeforearm.

    “ForyourbirthdayI’mgoingtotellyouasmallstory,”hesaid.

    Shelookedathim.

    “NotaboutPatrick,okay?”“AlittleaboutPatrick,mostlyaboutyou.”“Istill’tlistentothosestories,David.”“Fathersdie.Youkeeponlovingtheminanywayyou.You’thidehimawayinyourheart.”“Talktomewhenthemorphiawearsoff.”Shecameuptohimandputherarmsaroundhim,reachedupandkissedhischeek.Hisembracetightenedaroundher,hisstubblelikesandagainstherskin.Shelovedthatabouthimnow;ihehadalwaysbeeiculous.ThepartinginhishairlikeYoreetatmidnight,Patrickhadsaid.Caravaggiohadimovedlikeagodinherpresenow,withhisfadhistrunkfilledoutandthisgreynessinhim,hewasafriendlierhum