In America Read Online Free Page B

judicious movements, the bulky gown). But, knowing that even the well-off aged faster then, and that everyone not poor was, by our standards, overweight, I gave her no more than thirty-five. I haven’t said that I’ve been fiddling all along with the apparent age of everyone in the room: Ryszard, since he looked deep in his thirties, had to be twenty-five, and so forth. Traveling back to the past, I expected there to be some frustrations (the towering, fire-concealing stove instead of a waist-level, blazing fireplace) and a few adjustments (to estimate the age of anyone past his or her mid-twenties, deduct ten years), as well as the evident compensations and illuminations. The talk had evolved from pleasantries about the food to a rush of praise for Maryna’s performance this evening. She accepted the compliments with a modesty that seemed as adamant as it was charming. How splendid it was, said Ryszard, his face aglow with admiration. You really did surpass yourself, if such a thing is possible, said the young painter. She always does, the leading actor said graciously, reprovingly. Dissociating herself from all this wet appetite, Maryna sat very still, she appeared scarcely to be breathing, a cambric handkerchief to her left cheek. È sempre brava, the doctor confided to the mystified waiter who was refilling his glass. Following a lull in the voices and a return to more dedicated eating, of course I was hoping for something else, the critic rose unsteadily, vodka in hand. To you, Madame. Every glass except Maryna’s was lifted. To this evening’s triumph. The doctor eased his glass toward his mouth. Hold on, not so fast, Henryk, the critic exclaimed with mock severity. Don’t you see I haven’t finished? Groaning, the doctor returned his arm to toast position. The critic cleared his throat, then intoned: And to that sublime and patriotic art which you honor with your beauty and genius. To the theatre. Maryna nodded to him and the others, pursing her lips, then whispered something to the impresario, who was seated at her right. That wasn’t fair, that’s not one toast but three, said the doctor gaily. Three toasts, three infusions of this excellent vodka! He hailed one of the waiters. Not, dear Maryna, that I don’t subscribe with all my heart to the sentiments just uttered, he said as his glass was again refilled. Then, raising it once more: To your performance tomorrow. And he emptied the glass. Next Bogdan, at the other end of the table, rose to his feet. Not wishing to vex our thirsty friend, he said, I shall limit myself to one toast. And it is —glass in the air— to friendship. Hear, hear, Ryszard called out. Yes, said Bogdan, and to our sodality. Sodality, I thought. What does that mean? Look, he’s doing it too, the doctor had shouted, vodka already to his lips and drinking so avidly that he had spilled some on his linen shirt. He can’t help himself, cried the judge, laughing. Who, me? said the doctor, wiping his mouth. Everyone laughed except Maryna and Bogdan. I mean, Bogdan continued solemnly, to what we can accomplish together. Applause. Hear, hear, said Tadeusz. I am ready. An abashed silence, in which everyone turned to Maryna. She reached for her glass and pressed it against her brow. Then, without rising, she lifted it above her head. I really have only one toast to offer, not three pretending to be one. She directed a fond smile at Bogdan. I drink to one … divided into three. That will someday be one. Dramatic pause. To our homeland. Everyone broke into applause. Brava, said the painter. Crowd-pleasing toasts, all—whose main effect, it seemed, was to drench everyone in melancholy. The little boy (Piotr? Roman?) left his chair to tiptoe over to Maryna and whisper something I couldn’t hear. She shook her head, looking (I’m sorry to report) a bit cross, and he returned to his seat next to Bogdan’s sister, was received in her