Chapter 1
At the beginning of this story, my name was Anna. Now I am officially Ann Ferret, we had a quiet wedding as soon as Sam began to recover. It has been about six months since that absurd accident, and all this time I’ve stayed by Sam’s side — caring for him, settling him, and now arranging our lives together.
My husband still moves in a wheelchair, but the doctors say he will fully recover in time. His affairs are now handled by someone else, and I’m glad that, day by day, we’re moving further from the dark past. Though, surely, Sam still keeps in touch with his former “companions”.
We sold the house and everything valuable, much of which had become unnecessary. We bought a modest hut with a tiny plot near one of the resort towns on the northern coast. By local standards, it’s a remote province.
The medical expenses were covered by Sam’s maximum insurance policy. Sometimes Mr. Horseman brings us small sums of money. “From the union,” he jokes. I think he’s giving us his own money, perhaps feeling guilty that we received a less valuable treasure than he did.
My irresistible Dju, after long deliberation, finally decided to visit her sister in Canada. She complained upon arrival that it was cold there and promised to return soon. That’s probably all the noteworthy news at this point.
I wear my find with me at all times, having taken precautions. I feel more confident knowing this magical amulet is with me. That the stone possesses unusual abilities, I understood after the first time, but I haven’t used it since. Two times were enough for me to grasp the growing consequences. My intuition tells me I might not survive a third. My husband knows nothing of this side of things, though even I possess only guesses and assumptions.
Sam is doing well, trying to stand more often, doing the necessary exercises, and, most importantly, keeping his optimism and sense of humour. One day, he’ll walk normally again; the scars and stitches on his face will become less noticeable. Otherwise, he remains just as kind and familiar as he was when we first met.
In short, though modestly, we’ve settled into our new life. After some searching, fate brought me to the owner of a private library, who hired me for a simple job at a humble wage. Now I spend half my day in the cool shade behind the thick walls of a former wine factory. And in the evenings, Sam and I sit by the waterfront or do household chores together.
Sometimes he comes to work with me and sifts through the books, looking for something interesting. There are many of them. The library occupies the space of a former rum production workshop. Most are on the history and culture of the Caribbean region, the daily life of indigenous peoples, and works by local authors. My employer brings them back from his travels around the world; some residents bring books here too, wanting to get rid of what they no longer need or to exchange them for a few pesos. On the other sections of the old factory’s grounds, the city archive is now located.
“You know,” Sam said one day, setting aside yet another book, “I never had time to read before. In a way, I’m even glad it happened this way. Harsh, but still an exit from the dead end I’d been stuck in lately.”
“I’m glad too, darling,” I replied, “that we made it through. Together, we’ll surely manage. But doesn’t it seem to you that by escaping one dead end, we’ve simply stepped into another? And how long will we last if every way out comes at such a cost?”
“I don’t see it that way,” he replied. “I have something to strive for now. I’m working on myself. And once I regain my strength, I’ll rent an office and start consulting, on immigration matters, for example. Think of this time as a break. A chance to catch your breath, to look around. You’ve lost so much weight in the last six months.”
“Do I look awful?” I asked playfully, and we both laughed.
He wrapped his arm around my waist and said, “Everything will work out. There’s no need to rush time.”
Of course, he was right. But neither is it wise to waste it. Here, with my husband’s help, I’ve begun taking interest in other languages he can speak. And Sam, in turn, sometimes asks me how to say certain words in Russian.
Whenever possible, I sort through the books, which had been piled up without order. Sam, having grasped the task, began helping me by translating titles he could understand. And anyone who calls a librarian’s work dust-free is gravely mistaken. Book dust is extremely fine and harmful, causing a very particular kind of sneezing.
One day, he lingered over a book I hadn’t paid any attention to.
“Look,” he called me, “there are pictures here.”
The book turned out to be a modern reprint of an older edition. On the open spread, I saw a copy of a drawing: a vividly depicted Native man wearing a headdress made from the skull of a large lizard.
The Native man’s face and chest were densely covered with lines and dotted patterns of tattoos, and at the level of his solar plexus, a rhombus with an oval inside stood out clearly. The black-and-white drawing had been made with obvious care and attention to detail; I easily recognised the chain woven from interlocking eights.
“Here’s more,” Sam said, turning the page.
On other illustrations, we saw two similar figures wearing the same “heads.” They too were richly adorned with tattoos, and each wore an amulet around his neck.
“What is this book?” I asked, feeling my heart begin to beat faster.
Sam slowly read the author’s name and the title.
“Some Diego… This is in Portuguese, I’m not strong in it. Seems like monks collected information about the natives, and this is part of that material.”
“And what does it say about ‘our’? Can you translate?”
“I’ll look the book up online,” Sam said. “There must be a translation somewhere. Or I can sit with a translator. I’ll take care of it.”
And he settled into his place at the computer.
For the first time in a long while, I was overcome by the sense that great changes were approaching. It was like seeing a storm cloud far on the horizon while standing in a sunlit garden, and knowing that in a couple of hours, this very garden would be gripped by rain and hurricane.
That evening, I asked Sam about the results of his work.
“Nothing concrete yet,” he replied. “Only the devil will be able to make sense of these natives and their mythology. I couldn’t find any editions of this book in proper languages. I’m trying to translate it as I go. Maybe tomorrow something will become clear.”
“Thank you, darling. You’re so clever! I believe we’ll figure it out.”
“Thank you for your support, my love. How did I ever live without you?”
We looked at each other, and just as the setting sun merges with the ocean, so too did our lips meet in a long, passionate kiss.
