LITMIR.BIZ

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couple in a way that would put them both at ease. I would visit at Christmas, I promised, because it was still half a year off.

      As for the target and the dead man’s certificate, I decided to keep them. I took them home the very next day, and folded the certificate carefully into the thin pages of an illustrated dictionary the Patrices kept in their front room. I tacked the target up on my wall so that I could face it if I sat upright in bed. And one night a storm rolled in, the first downpour of the season, and the rain drumming on the roof reminded me of home. I felt suddenly lonely, and I shut my left eye, and pointed my index finger at the wall, at the man in the target. I aimed carefully and fired at him. It felt good. I did it again, this time with sound effects, and many minutes were spent this way. I blew imaginary smoke from the tip of my finger, like the gunslingers I’d seen in imported movies. I must have killed him a dozen times before I realized what I was doing, and after that, I felt a fidelity to the man in the target I could not explain. I would shoot him every night before sleeping, and sometimes in the mornings as well.

      One afternoon not long after I’d sent my letter, I came home to find the girl from my hometown—Malena was her name—red-faced and teary, in the Patrices’ tidy living room. She had just arrived from the country, and her small bag leaned against the wall by the door. Mrs. Patrice was consoling her, a gentle hand draped over Malena’s shoulder, and Mr. Patrice sat by, not quite knowing what to do. I stammered a greeting, and the three of them looked up. I read the expressions on their faces, and by the way Malena looked at me, I knew immediately what had happened.

      “Your parents send their best,” said Mrs. Patrice, her voice betraying grave disappointment.

      “You’re going to be a father,” her husband added, in case there had been any confusion.

      I stepped forward, took Malena by the hand, and led her to my room in the back without saying a word to the Patrices. For a long while we sat in silence. There had never been anyone besides me in the room, except for the first time the Patrices had shown me the place. Malena didn’t seem particularly sad or angry or happy to see me. She sat on the bed. I stood. Her hair had come undone, and fell over her face when she looked down, which, at first, was often.

      “Did you miss me?” she asked.

      I had missed her—her body, her breath, her laughter—but it wasn’t until she was in front of me that I realized it.

      “Of course,” I said.

      “You could’ve written.”

      “I did.”

      “Eventually.”

      “How long?” I asked.

      “Four months.”

      “And it’s—”

      “Yes,” Malena said in a stern voice.

      She sighed deeply, and I apologized.

      Malena had news—who else had left for the city, who had gone north. There were weddings planned for the spring, some people we knew, though not well. As I suspected, the murder of the security guard had been a big story, and Malena told me she herself hadn’t been able to sleep, wondering what I might be doing, whether I was all right. She’d visited my parents, and they’d tried to convince her not to travel to the city, or at least not alone.

      “Your father was going to come with me.”

      “And why didn’t he?” I asked.

      “Because I didn’t wait for him.”

      I sat beside her on the bed, so that our thighs were touching. I didn’t tell her that I’d met the victim, about my small role in his misfortunes, or any of that. I let her talk: she described the small, cosmetic changes that our town had undergone in the few months I’d been away. There was talk of repainting the bridge. I nodded. She was showing already, an unmistakable roundness to her. I placed the flat of my palm against her belly, and then pulled her close. She stopped talking abruptly, in mid-sentence.

      “You’ll stay with me. We’ll be happy,” I whispered.

      But Malena shook her head. There was something hard in the way she spoke. “I’m going home,” she said, “and you’re coming with me.”

      It was still early. I stood up, and walked around the tiny room; from wall to wall, it was only ten short paces. I stared at my friend in the target. I suggested we see the neighborhood before it got too dark. I could show Malena the docks or the customs house. Didn’t she want to see it?

      “What is there to see?”

      “The harbor. The river.”

      “We have that river back home,” she said.

      We went anyway. The Patrices said nothing as we left, and when we returned in the early evening, the door to their room was closed. Malena’s bag was still by the front door, and though it was just a day bag with only one change of clothes, once I moved it, my room felt even smaller. Until that night, Malena and I had never slept in the same bed. We pressed together, and shifted our weight, and eventually we were face-to-face and very close. I put my arm around her, but kept my eyes shut, and listened to the muffled sounds of the Patrices talking anxiously.

      “Are they always so chatty?” Malena asked.

      I couldn’t make out their words, of course, but I could guess. “Does it bother you?”

      I felt Malena shrug in my arms. “Not really,” she said, “but it might if we were staying.”

      After this comment, we were quiet, and Malena slept peacefully.

      When we emerged the next morning for breakfast, my landlords were somber and unsmiling. Mrs. Patrice cleared her throat several times, making increasingly urgent gestures at her husband, until finally he set down his fork and began. He expressed his general regret, his frustration and disappointment. “We come from solid people,” he said. “We are not of the kind who tell lies for sport. We helped settle this part of the city. We are respectable people who do not accept dishonesty.”

      “We are church people,” Mrs. Patrice said.

      Her husband nodded. I had seen him prepare for services each Sunday with a meticulousness that can only come from great and unquestioned faith. A finely scrubbed suit, shirts of the most pristine white. He would comb a thick pomade into his black hair so that in the sun he was always crowned with a gelatinous shine.

      “Whatever half-truths you may have told this young lady are not our concern. That must be settled between the two of you. We have no children ourselves, but wonder how we might feel if our son was off telling everyone he was an orphan.”

      He lowered his eyebrows.

      “Crushed,” Mrs. Patrice whispered. “Betrayed.”

      “We do not doubt your basic goodness, son, nor yours …”

      “Malena,” I said. “Her name is Malena.”

      “… as you are both creatures of the one true God, and He does not err when it comes to arranging the affairs of men. It is not our place to judge, but only to accept with humility that with which the Lord has charged us.”

      He was gaining momentum now, and we had no choice but to listen. Under the table, Malena reached for my hand. Together we nodded.

      “And He has brought you both here, and so it must be His will that we look after you. And we do not mean to put you out on the streets at this delicate moment because such a thing would not be right. But we do mean to ask for an explanation, to demand one, and we will have it from you, son, and you will give it, if you are ever to learn what it means to be a respectful and respectable citizen, in this city or in any other. Tell me: Have you been studying?”

      “No.”

      “I thought not,” Mr. Patrice said. He frowned, shook his head gravely, and then continued. Our breakfast grew cold. Eventually it would be my turn to speak, but by then I had very little to say, and no desire to

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