Their home, furnished by the embassy, was in Cinnamon Gardens, in the capital city of Caligo, and the area was still interspersed with the trees that once forested the land. In the morning breeze, leaves rustled and birds cawed. What roused him from his light sleep, though, was a soft coughing noise from the bathroom, then the running of the faucet. Helene came back from the bathroom, brushing her teeth vigorously. “Maybe you should stay home from work today,” he’d said drowsily. Helene shook her head. “It’s called morning sickness for a reason, my darling,” she told him with a smile. “It vanishes like the morning dew.” She started dressing for work at the embassy. When she smiled, she smiled with her whole face: with her mouth, her cheeks, her eyes—especially her eyes … . The images flooded his mind—Helene laying out her clothes for a day at the office, proofreading State Department reports. A blue linen skirt. A white silk blouse. Helene opening the bedroom windows wide, inviting in the tropical morning air, scented with cinnamon and mango and frangipani. The radiance of her face, retroussé nose and limpid blue eyes. When the nights at Caligo were hot, Helene was cool against his body. How callused and rough his battered hide always felt next to the velvet of her skin. “Take the day off, my dearest,” he’d told her, and she’d said, “Better not, my darling. Either they’ll miss me or they won’t miss me at all, and either way that’s not good.” She kissed him on the forehead as she left. If only she had stayed with him. If only.

Public acts, private lives—the bloodiest of crossroads.