A Constellation of Vital Phenomena by Anthony Marra Read Free Book Online

erupting gray cloud. “Dokka is so impatient,” she murmured. “If he waited a month, the flock would give more wool.”
    “Yes,” he agreed. “Dokka was always impatient.” He sat on the bed and set the lantern next to the bedpan and the broth bowl. Each was half full. An ellipsis of wet footprints followed him to the bed. He unlacedhis icy boots, massaged the balls of his feet, and lay beside Ula. Once she would have had to roll over to make room for him, but there was less of her now.
    “How is his family?”
    “They are well,” he said. He turned onto his side and slid his left hand beneath her nightshirt to warm his fingers on her stomach.
    “They should eat with us soon,” Ula said.
    “They will bring corn and cucumbers,” he whispered to the tiny translucent hairs standing from Ula’s earlobe. “The coals will smolder on the mangal and we will grill shashlyk and we will eat in the afternoon and the sun will shine. The lamb is already marinating in Dokka’s white plastic bucket with tomatoes and onions and sliced lemons and uksus . We will invite Dokka’s parents and they will come and perhaps Dokka will bring his chessboard, not the one with the fine wooden pieces, but the plastic one that Havaa gave him for his birthday, the one he said he loved though everyone thought a chess player of his skill would never play on a plastic board. But he did. Do you remember? He taught Havaa to play on it and let her win on her sixth birthday. We will invite them to eat someday.”
    “I’m hungry,” she said. “I don’t want to wait that long.”
    He pressed his lips to his wife’s forehead and let them linger until the kiss became a conversation between their shared skin. How could his wife’s sickness both repulse and bind him to her? His love, pity, and revulsion each claimed her, each occupied and was driven from her, and even now, as he sealed a postage stamp–sized square, he was afraid that in moments, when he broke away, his disgust would overwhelm the imprint of his lips.
    “I’m hungry,” she repeated. Reluctantly he leaned back. Leaving the lantern beside the bed, he crossed the darkness to the kitchen. After a decade without electricity, his soles knew the way. Eight steps to the living room, a quarter turn, six to the kitchen threshold, two to the stove. He set firewood on the previous night’s ashes, aimed a squirt gun ofpetrol at the white wood, and struck a match. He prepared a pot of rice and a saucer of powdered milk as the firelight lapped against his legs. While waiting for the rice to cook he pulled a stool to the iron stove and leaned toward the light. He wanted to say something consoling to Dokka, and when his words burned in the stove chamber he hoped the sentiment would rise up the chimney pipe, carried by wind or wing to Dokka’s ears, but even if Dokka could hear him, he didn’t know what he would say, and he said nothing.
    When the rice was moist he scooped it into a ceramic bowl and left the spoon slanting against the rim as he carried the bowl and the mug of powdered milk for two steps, six steps, and a quarter turn in blindness. Was this how a child felt in the womb? He had delivered dozens of newborns, but he couldn’t imagine those first few moments. A tear in the shroud and suddenly colors, shapes, coldness, a world of hallucinations.
    The lantern cast a circle on the floor and he entered it reluctantly to reach her. He sat beside Ula and brought small spoonfuls of rice to her mouth. Sonja’s skill and Deshi’s experience didn’t matter; neither could care for Ula as he could. “Was anyone looking for me today?” he asked. She shook her head. “Are you sure? No knocks at the door? Nothing?”
    “I don’t think so. I was sleeping.”
    “But you would remember if Ramzan called from the door?”
    “Oh, yes. Ramzan. He’s such a nice man. He always asked my opinion,” she said, and took a sip from the blue mug. “I think the milk has turned.”
    He washed the