v
George parks the automobile along the side of the road, pulling into the bushes as far as he can. They walk through the woods, holding hands like young lovers strolling through a park. The air is cool in the shade, but warm where the sun breaks through the shelter of leaves, bathing them in light. Their footsteps sink into a bed of pine needles and soft branches, the air sweet with a broth of old blossoms and dead leaves lying underfoot. George carries a blanket he’s taken from the back seat of the automobile; birds sing out a warning as they pass underneath—a gentle symphony that reminds George of his walks through the Vienna Woods, and of the long, far away…ago.
They find an unassuming rise that overlooks a small depression of land where the hills roll into each other and a small brook breaks over itself, spilling over silky rocks. There are large boulders strewn about—as if they were cast there years before by playful forest gods—covered with a pastel sheen of old moss and grey lichen. There are aspen, birch, alder, pine and oak trees growing nearby; the breeze whistles through the leaves as the branches sway back and forth — the woods humming in concerted melody. Some of the trees have fallen across the stream over the years, and they’re covered with a mossy carpet of green underlay.
George spreads the blanket under a large willow tree and looks at Annette with a sheepish smile. She sits down, her legs folded underneath her, and looks up at George for a moment before she invites him to sit beside her. For a moment, George wonders what she’ll do once the war’s over and she’s forced to return to Vienna. It is better not to think about that right now, he tells himself. She moves closer to George, and puts her hand on his. He picks it up and kisses her palm gently, and then leans forward to kiss her cheek.
She lays back on the blanket, and he sits above her, looking down at her, admiring her--running a gentle finger along her smooth jawbone and down her neck.
Annette smiles up at him, reaching up to undo the buttons of her blouse, and he looks at her soft breasts, the nipples standing firm underneath the camisole--pinched with excitement and the chill of the air.
They make love like lovers often do after a spat; they hold onto each other with a mounting desire, vowing never to let go of each other. Their kisses are longer, and more intense, and their tongues snake around each other. She seems to arch her back just that much more as his kisses brush against her thighs like the delicate breath of a butterfly.
He takes in her aroma, and tastes her nectar; his hands stroke her, thrusting into her, and rub her softly. When he finally does enter her and pierces the very essence of her womanly being, he is gentle--with long, loving strokes--and she gasps at the pleasure of it. He rolls her over and lets her ride him beyond the brink of her transport, grinding herself on top of him erotically--like she is impaling herself--while his hands hold her breasts and he watches the mounting depth of passion on her face, and the fervour of her delight. Her eyelids flutter delicately, and he holds her up as she tries to collapse on top of him, exhausted. She moans--soft and subdued, spent--as he rolls her over again and forces himself into her, thinking only of himself, and thrusting deeper as her moans grow louder again. She tries to push him off, but he thrusts harder--forcefully--and she screams in ecstasy while he holds her arms out so she looks splayed like a martyr, and finally explodes inside of her.
vi
Baltazzi is the first to get sick. He dies that evening like he lives the last few months of his life: without even realizing he is dying. His breathing becomes laboured, and his fever impossible to control. The Countess frantically tries everything she can to bring the fever down. She sponges him with cold water, but feels the heat of the fever burning through the cloth she holds against him. She hears his rasping breath as he struggles--labours--and his lungs fill up with fluid. As quickly as the fever comes, it breaks, and he is dead. His skin is an uncommonly dark pallor, his feet almost black, as he lays staring blankly at the ceiling.
vii
Annette is devastated by her father's death. Anastasia blames Novak--maybe she thinks if she rails against him she might drive him away--and she strikes him, knocking him to the ground. He accepts it because he believes her and holds himself responsible--they all believe her--but he knows there is little they can do.
"The only hope now, is for quarantine," Novak says to George. They are outside on the landing, watching the stars and a pale moon that hangs low, looking wan and sickly behind a light mist of clouds that clings to the night sky like a memory. Novak has tobacco, and George gratefully rolls one cigarette, and a second one, then asks for a third one. It feels good to be smoking again, George thinks. He enjoys the taste of the tobacco, and has missed it.
"It's the only answer," Novak says at last.
"Quarantine won't do anyone of us any good, if we're already exposed to it," George points out.
"What do you mean? Annette's been exposed to it for weeks. She's been working at the hospital, taking whatever precautions they take. They all wear masks there now. Did you know that? Each and everyone of them: doctors, nurses, and patients. She doesn't seem to have been infected, does she? I was only there for a week--five days to be exact. I couldn't even begin to tell you how many men died," he says with a shake of his head. "You have to save the children--all of them. Do you know of any place you can take them?"
"I might," George says slowly. "But we'd have to take food for them. The kids have to have milk and eggs. I'll take the goats and leave the cow here--and I'll take one of the chickens too, with enough dried foodstuffs to last a couple of weeks."
"When can you leave?" Novak asks.
"As soon as we get packed," George says. "The place is hidden in a small valley--very secluded and with its own water nearby--but there's no place to leave the automobile. I'll drive them as close as I can, walk them in, and then bring the automobile back. That way I can walk the goats back and the chicken--"
"You can take those in the automobile. Just take one goat."
"That works too," George smiles.
"Anastasia can drive you in as far as she can, and she can bring the automobile back."
"She might not want to do that," George points out.
"I don't care what she wants," Novak says, flipping his cigarette out into the near blackness, watching the tip as it dances in the night. "This isn't about her. I'll go with you--and I don't care if you have to strap me to the roof; I'm going. I didn't walk all this way just to get here and lose my sons to something we might have prevented. If I lose them now, I won't be having any more."
"Doesn't that sort of defeat the purpose?" George asks. "Aren't you the reason for it all in the first place?"
"Do you really think that?" Novak asks.
"Does it matter what I think?"
"Now you sound like Anastasia. She blames me for everything. I learned a long time ago that you can't blame others for circumstances you can't control. I watched men come into that hospital and get the same flu shot they gave me, some of them died anyway. I didn't. I don't believe I'm a carrier."
"Then how did Baltazzi get it?"
"How does anyone get sick? Maybe it's something in the air, or something he ate? All I know is, that if we isolate the kids, I'll sleep a lot easier."
"Then we'll do it tomorrow," George says.
"I don't think tomorrow will be a very good day," Novak says plainly. "We'll have to bury Baltazzi first. I'll help you with the grave as much as I can, but I'm afraid I won't be much use to you. I don't think the Countess will appreciate burying him without a priest, though."
"Then send Collette to get one," George says simply.
"Collette?"
"If she takes the automobile and follows the road, she'll come across the army eventually. There's bound to be a priest there somewhere; I know there's certainly one in the village. All she has to do is bring him back. What's so hard about that?"
"Will she do it?"
"She will if you go with her."
"Me?"
"Unless you can drive with one leg?”
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