Marshlands Read Online Free PDF Page A

held her gaze there. The crimson highlighted her lovely skin.
    â€œWait here,” she said, appearing a few minutes later in a long plaid skirt and a blouse that strained a bit at the buttons. She made her hair into a loose bun, pinned it with a pencil, then stepped out.
    She returned with an armful of clothes, which she laid out on the coffee table. She said her only neighbor with any spare men’s clothing was the widow of a marshman.
    He ran his fingers across the handmade garments, which he recognized not only by region, but by tribe. He murmured the name of the tribe to himself and selected a finely woven tunic. It was a very beautiful example of the type. The matching leggings were unusually soft. He didn’t recognize the wool.
    She took his interest in the leggings as a kind of criticism. “Well,” she said, “it’s the best I can do,” then left him to finish dressing.
    It had been a long time since he’d worn marsh dress. He remembered watching elders wrap their leggings with little grunts of painful resignation. Now he grunted, too, as he wound the fragrant cloth.
    The tunic fit perfectly. He’d forgotten how good he felt in a tunic and leggings, how free, how ready for action.
    She came out of the bedroom fussing with a necklace, a hair clip dangling from her lips like a cigarette. She was surprised that he was already dressed. She studied him with a knowing look that frightened him. He moved away from the coffee table to have a clearer path to the door.
    She asked for help with her necklace, and while he fastened it with trembling fingers, she told him he looked very dashing. The way she kept sneaking glances at him eventually melted his suspicion. She was merely pleased with how he looked. He was pleased, too.
    They drank orange juice and had a few sips of scalding coffee. She said she didn’t really eat in the morning, the implication being that neither would he. He thanked her anyway and told her he was grateful.
    She put the cups in the sink and herded him to the door. He didn’t really mind being rushed. It gave him energy. All of it was so normal to her and so alien to him, but the gap was closing a bit.
    As she locked the door behind them he thanked her again, very quietly this time, using the marsh tongue in order to spare her any embarrassment.
    She accepted his thanks with an old proverb: Hospitality is its own reward .
    Her accent was flawless. He praised her for it, hoping for an explanation, but she acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had passed between them.
    A cab was idling out front. “That’s for us,” she said, tapping his shoulder as if he were hard of hearing, “but don’t get used to it.”
    *   *   *
    There was already a long line of tourists at the museum’s main entrance, but she whisked him through a temporary door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY , then down a labyrinthine plywood tunnel.
    They emerged in a new wing with a swooping glass roof. The morning was overcast, but even so, the glare from the polished floor was severe. He closed his eyes and let a soft wooden handrail be his guide.
    The rail ended at a pair of enormous bronze doors with bas-relief panels the size of atlases. The designs were geometric and stylized, but there were certain motifs: reed huts; busy waterways; earthen levees. A sun cast brazen rays across the landscape. The center panel depicted a chief’s canoe, its high curving prow echoed by the graceful neck of a stalking ibis.
    â€œI have a meeting,” she said. Passing through the doors seemed to make her forget all about him.
    He didn’t know whether he was supposed to wait or follow her into the exhibition hall, which was even brighter than the hallway. The brightness forced the eyes down, just like in the marshes, and the cleverly painted walls erased any sense of enclosure. The vast scale of the hall—as large as a warehouse, perhaps even larger—was