“Ah, but not when the boat is accustomed to such waters. Courage, my dear madame. The bear will arrive safely.” He rises, turns to me, and lifts his hat. “Good afternoon, madame.”

“Good afternoon, Monsieur Stefan.”

He winks. “Until the dawn.”

Then he’s gone, ambling down the esplanade, whistling some song, while my breath chokes in my lungs and my heart slams into my ribs. Eventually I rise and walk to the railing, just to calm my nerves. The wind is picking up, the whitecaps are spreading, the fishermen are heading into port. I curl my hands on the railing and fill my chest with the clean air that tumbles down from the Alps.

After a half hour or so, Margaret returns, cheeks all pink, hair straggling from beneath her hat. The brunette suits her, I think.

“My goodness, look at that water,” she says. “I think it’s going to storm.”

After dinner that evening, I remove some papers out of the lining of my suitcase and fold them into an envelope. Just by themselves, no note. Though I have carried them with me since leaving Nassau, sometimes right next to my skin, I experience no sentiment at all, no pang of loss. Good riddance, I think, that’s all. I seal the envelope and address it to Mr. B—, War Office, London. Outside, the wind’s picking up, the clouds scudding across the darkening sky. I stop at the front desk to purchase the necessary stamps, and the desk clerk offers to hold my letter for the next morning’s post. I refuse politely and walk out the door, down a few streets to the post office, where I push the letter irretrievably through the metal slot marked internationale.

The old dream returns to me that night, during the half hour or so of sleep God grants me. The dusty town, the train, the man passed out drunk on the bed. This time I’m bleeding from within, and I can’t seem to stop the flow. I can’t seem to clean it up, and of course I’ve got to clean it up, every drop, or else he’ll wake and find it. But there’s no keeping up. Turn and wipe, turn and wipe, more blood on the floor now the carpet now the bed

Eyes open. Heart smacking. I turn my head and stare out the window of the hotel to the blackness beyond. The wind rattles the frame in its casing. The baby punches a tattoo in my side. I touch the diamond pendant underneath the nightgown, between my breasts. In the other bed, Margaret stirs. I ask softly if she’s awake.

“Christ, what do you think?”

“Was I making noise?”

“Yes,” she says. “Who’s Tommy?”

I fix my arm behind my head. “Just an old beau.”

“All that for an old beau?”