Limbo Zone. Epilogue

The meadow lay in a hollow between two hills, as if in an open palm — warm, sheltered from the wind.

The grass was April grass, young, that impossible, freshly-squeezed shade of green that exists only in the last week of April, when the earth has already decided to live but has not yet forgotten winter. Dandelions drowned in the grass — already yellow, round, shamelessly bright. Little suns that had fallen into the grass without breaking.

An apple tree at the edge of the meadow was in bloom. It bloomed quietly, intently, the way old trees bloom — not for show. The petals, white-pink and translucent, twirled in the air whenever the wind — light, smelling of clover and warmed earth—brushed the branches. They settled on the grass, on the dandelions, on the checkered blanket spread in the shade.

A woman sat on the blanket.

She sat with her legs tucked under her, reading. Her hair was fair, tucked behind her ear. The sun, breaking through the canopy, dappled her face with moving patches of light and shadow. She wore a simple, light-colored dress. Her feet were bare and already tanned — the April sun in these parts is generous. Her toes moved in the grass mechanically, the way they move for someone listening to music that only they can hear.

In her hands was a book — old, a paperback with dog-eared corners. She read slowly, sometimes returning to a previous line, her lips moving slightly.

The boys were playing ten paces from the blanket. Running, shouting, falling into the grass, getting up, running again. The eldest was about eight, serious, with a straight back. The youngest was five, round-faced, with knees stained green.

The youngest ran up, breathless, clutching a dandelion in his fist.

“Mama! Play with us!”

She looked up. She smiled — a warm, distant smile of someone who loves, but who is both here and not here.

“Play together, my sweet. I have just a little bit left.”

The eldest approached. Looked at the book.

“What are you reading?”

“It’s about a man,” she said, “who is trying to understand why he was arrested. And why he is being put on trial.”

“Will they let him go?”

An apple blossom petal drifted down onto the page.

“I don’t know. I haven’t finished it yet.”

“Mama!” the youngest tugged at her hem. “Will you sing us that song! You know, the one — the sad one! The one you said Papa liked so much!”

“Which one?”

“I don’t know…” he was jumping up and down, and the dandelion was losing its petals—yellow, weightless petals landing on the blanket, on the book, on the light dress. “The non-German one!”

“Dummy!” the eldest rolled his eyes. “It’s Spanish.”

“You’re the dummy!”

The youngest swung and punched his brother’s shoulder — not painfully, playfully — and with a joyful, ringing squeal, he dashed across the meadow. The eldest was stunned for a moment, then with an indignant cry, he bolted after him in pursuit.

They ran through the grass, their fair heads flickering in the spring sun.

She watched them go. The book lay open on her lap, forgotten. The wind turned a page.

On her face was that expression for which there is no word in any language. Tenderness — yes. But something else, too. Something only mothers know when they look at their children and see everything at once: what was, what is, and what will be.

A light, weightless sorrow.

The woman closed her eyes, tilting her face to the sun, and the wind brushed the sorrow from her lips. Her lips moved slightly — not a word, but the shadow of a word, the beginning of a melody that did not sound. Or perhaps it did — but so quietly that only the wind heard it.

Yo estaba bien por un tiempo Volviendo a sonreír Luego anoche te vi…

Somewhere in the foliage, a bird began to sing. A single note. Long, low, trembling.

On the country road, behind a low-trimmed privet hedge, stood a car. Open-top, olive-drab, with a white star on the hood.

An officer sat in the car. Young, wearing a beret. He was smoking a pipe, his left arm draped carelessly over the car door. He was not looking at the road. He was looking at the sun-drenched meadow — at the woman, at the boys in the grass, at the petals twirling in the air. He watched calmly, absently, with that mindless admiration one has for a beautiful landscape, without wondering what lies behind it.

On the passenger seat lay a book. Thick, in a dark binding, slightly scuffed at the edges. The sun, filtering through the leaves, dappled the cover with warm spots, and the gold embossing on the spine shimmered, half-faded, almost illegible.

Houston Stewart Chamberlain
The Foundations of the Nineteenth Century. Volume 2
London, New York, John Lane 1911

The officer exhaled a thin stream of smoke. The smoke vanished.

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