Free Winter Palace by T. Davis Bunn Page B

boxes and seen them as a herald of deeper changes to come. Hehad found himself continually inspecting his own internal vistas, discovering fear mixed in with the joyful anticipation.
    By agreement, the cramped front hallway would see duty as her future dressing room. The bathroom grew new shelves, which immediately were filled to overflowing. Jeffrey freed up half the closet and all but two of the bedroom drawers, and discovered his gesture had made not even the slightest dent in her seven suitcases. A dozen boxes containing about half of her books—the ones she did not want stored in his minute cellar—were stacked by the window.
    They would have to move; he could see that already. But his world would not permit yet another transition just then. Katya had shown great wisdom, and made do in silent acceptance. For the moment.
    â€œWhat did you and Gregor talk about?” Katya asked over coffee.
    Jeffrey found himself unable to tell her he had agreed to Gregor’s insistence that he travel soon to Poland and the Ukraine. Instead, he related the experience of watching Gregor’s face in the hospital. “He has the most incredible eyes,” Jeffrey said. “I’ve always thought of them as a martyr’s eyes. You know, like in the paintings of the saints getting mauled or shot like pincushions, with all the fancy-robed priests standing around and watching.”
    â€œEyes of the soul,” Katya agreed.
    â€œThey aren’t any bigger than anyone else’s, I guess. But when I think of them, they always seem twice as large.”
    â€œOpened by the wounds of suffering, filled by faith,” Katya said. “I don’t see how anyone can look into Gregor’s eyes and doubt the existence of our Lord.”
    Laughing at his own embarrassment, Jeffrey said, “Sometimes when I think of Gregor, I imagine him with this light glowing all around, like the old paintings of saints. I know it’s not there; it’s just this impression I have when I think of our talks. That and his eyes.”
    Katya was silent a long moment, then told him, “Severalyears ago, the BBC sent a television team to India to film a special on Mother Teresa. Later they interviewed some of the people who worked on the program, the host and a couple of the technicians. They all talked about filming the hall where the sisters worked with the dying and what an incredible experience it had been for them.
    â€œAs they were setting up, they explained, they found that there wasn’t enough light for their cameras. The sisters wouldn’t let them set up electric lights. There wasn’t any electricity, and if they started carting in batteries and cables and stands and lights and everything it would bother the deathly ill patients. So they decided to go ahead and try filming anyway, hoping that they’d come out with at least a couple of clips they could use.
    â€œWhen they returned to London they found that most of the film they had made in the hall was perfectly clear. Not all of it, though. Where there was no sister, just somebody lying on a bed, you couldn’t see anything. Nothing at all. But whenever a sister moved near, Mother Teresa or any other of the sisters, it was all the same. As soon as they came up to the bed, you could see everything . The lighting was perfect .”
    Jeffrey fiddled with his cutlery, straightened the tablecloth, placed the salt and pepper in regimental lines, refused to meet her gaze.
    â€œYou might as well tell me,” Katya said quietly. “It’s written all over your face.”
    â€œWhat is?”
    â€œWhatever you and Gregor talked about that has you so tied up in knots.”
    Jeffrey knew the time had come. Quietly he announced, “I need to go on a buying trip very soon, Katya.”
    â€œTo Poland?” Her eyes opened into momentary wounds, but she recovered and hid her disappointment behind a brisk tone. “If Gregor and