Chapter seven (of book one:lost colors)

VIII
         In Sienna’s watch, it was one thirty in the morning. It was very unlike home; the city knew no silence, no rest. Behind the walls that stood between apartment rooms, useless barriers against nocturnal neighbors, putting pots and pans at work, a wife screaming, a husband ranting, a child, crying. Late night television shows turned up to high volumes and screams of entertained horror. And at some point during the night, the dust in the ceiling shifted and fell like gray snow as creaks and groans and thuds of passion sprang to life upstairs, a flurry of soft noises that ended abruptly. It was one thirty, and Mama stood by the small kitchen counter, complaining of how the noise disturbed her; it was one thirty and Papa laughed and made statements only writers understood as he sat by the table, making out with the very little candlelight that gave illuminations to his creations. It was one thirty; Sienna lay on the floor, atop an extra mattress covered with the blankets Mama took from home. It was one thirty, and she feigned sleep, with the puppy in deep slumber at her feet; the kittens in the basket, the mice and chicks buried underneath the warmth and feathers the fat hen provided. It had been one thirty, but the shadows made by the moon had already crawled across the wall, and the horror movies of next door were replaced by the squeaks and toinks of vintage cartoons. Mama’s candle had shrunken and buried itself right into its melted tallow and Papa had already made a mountain of crumpled paper, and it was still one thirty.
         “What are you working on?” Mama whispered.
         “Nothing; just a few papers that need editing.” On the wall, Mama’s shadow became one with Papa’s. There was a sound of a chair being pulled back. Mama whispered words of worry, and Papa whispered replies of comfort.
         “She’s not a child anymore. You needn’t worry.”
         “Oh but I was so scared. I thought they’d taken her away.”
         “She’s smart, love. I see her sneaking back into the house at night, safe and sound. And every time there’s nothing going wrong.”
Pause.
         “Not long ago we used to do the same things; running around the district at night.”
         “At night is when the city comes alive.”
         “Simple joys.”
Pause. And a longer silence.
         “For how long will we be like this?” Mama’s voice shook.
         “We should try looking at things the other way around. What anyone would give to live in a palace…”
         “That doesn’t sound like you.”
Silence.
         “No, it doesn’t.”
         “I need none of the luxuries in a palace. I don’t need all the finery. I don’t need any of those; I don’t want any of them.”
         “Funny how we prefer past living above all finery.”
         “Funny.” Mama laughed softly.
Silence.
         “But we can’t think of ourselves anymore. Think of what we can do. For the people. For the country. For them to have what we had back then.”
         “Compensation enough.”
         “Besides.” The shadow of Papa’s arm moved around Mama’s figure. “I need not stay there forever. If we do things right, it can end quickly. If we do things right, everything will turn out for the better. For you, for me, for Sienna, for everybody else. Maybe by then we can return home and pick up where we left off.”
         “Maybe.”
         “Keep an eye out for brighter horizons, love.”
         “These times bring out your optimism.”
         “It is what holds me together besides you.”
Silence again. And Mama and Papa delved into worlds of conversation about the past, about what might have been and what might be, of present thoughts and situations, the languor of the world around them, engulfing them completely in an invisible bubble that had room only for the two of them, and for their words and thoughts. And when Mama kissed Papa goodnight, the bubble remained steadfast until Mama fell asleep; then the bubble vanished, and Papa was left on his own, writing profusely, left in his own world of contemplation and silence.