“But you will; I’m sure!” Franco replied as he waved the barman over. “A bottle of champagne for the most beautiful signorina in the world!”
“You’re impossible!” Marie laughed. “My beautiful, impossible Italian!” But then she turned serious again. “Give me some time, at least a day or two—I have to ask that of you.”
She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw him nod reluctantly. Then she cleared her throat.
“I want to talk to you about something else as well . . . If you don’t mind, I want to drop by and see Sherlain. She was supposed to give a reading yesterday, but she never showed up. There were more than forty people there, all waiting for her in vain! Pandora and I wondered whether she had fallen ill—Sherlain’s been even paler than usual lately, she looked very poorly to me—but when we went to look for her, she wasn’t in her room. I know you think I exaggerate, but I’m worried about her.” She was almost cross with him as she spoke.
Franco raised his hands in resignation. “As long as it’s just a quick visit and you’re not going to spend half the night playing nurse—no problem. I have other plans for the rest of the evening, though . . .” He took her hand and kissed her knuckles, one by one. “I am going to apply my own special form of persuasion . . .”
She found Sherlain down in the basement where she lived. And she wasn’t alone. Coming down the stairs, Marie recognized Pandora’s glowing red shawl.
“Are you here too? If I’d known I wouldn’t have been quite so worried.” Marie ducked her head and put her hand on the rickety railing as she came down the last few steps. Suddenly a terrible smell struck the back of her nose. She began to feel sick.
Then she saw Sherlain and had to stifle a scream.
The poet was lying in a huge pool of blood. Her dress, the gray bed sheets—everything was covered in reddish-brown blood, already dry in some places. Her brow was slick with sweat, and the whites of her eyes were as yellow as a jaundice patient’s. Her eyes were wide open. When she spotted Marie, they fluttered a little.
Marie knelt down next to the filthy bed as though in a trance.
“Sherlain . . . what happened?” She shook her gently by the arm, which flopped back and forth like that of a doll. There was no answer, just groaning. A loud, persistent ringing erupted in Marie’s ears.
Dear Father in Heaven, help!
“Pandora, tell me what’s wrong!”
The dancer shook her head. Her eyes were rimmed with red and she looked wretched, exhausted. She dipped a dirty cloth into a bucket of brackish water, wrung it out, and put it to Sherlain’s forehead.
“Stand up, Marie, we’re leaving. This is no place for you!”
Marie looked up at Franco, who was standing on the last step, his features motionless.
“What are you talking about? I can’t just leave! We have to get a doctor. You have to find a doctor; she’s bleeding to death!” When he still didn’t move she added, “Franco, don’t make me plead with you! I’ll wait here while you fetch a doctor.”
“Leave it, Marie,” Pandora said in a thin voice. “No doctor would treat her. But we’ve already had someone here, a nurse who took care of her. The worst is over now, she’ll live.”
“A nurse? But why is she still lying in . . . If it’s a matter of money—I’ll pay for everything!”
“Marie, calm down!” Pandora was almost shouting herself now. “Do I have to look after you as well now?”
Marie stepped back as though she’d been slapped in the face.
“How can you both be so . . . cold-blooded?” she sobbed, and shrank back when Franco put his hand out toward her. “Sherlain . . .”
What had happened to the proud poet? As a thousand thoughts coursed through Marie’s head, she felt as though the world were crashing down around her ears. Suddenly Sherlain’s bittersweet voice echoed in her head.
“I give you my blood, sweet lamb of mine, to still your thirst, to strengthen your spine . . .”
Other voices joined in.
“Don’t you think it’s interesting to see the dark side of the city once in a while . . .”
“In the end we women are the ones who are left with a bun in the oven . . . !”
“We have to talk . . . I have to go back to Genoa next week.”
New York without Franco?
Alone.
Without the love of her life.
Marie screamed and put her hands over her ears. She clung to Franco’s chest. Only when he held her in his arms did she realize that she had been holding her breath—and she finally dared to release it. The voices died away.