A Lost King: A Novel (18 page)

Sophie took me to her house. She sat me down and wiped my hair and face with a towel. She took off my shoes and led me into a bedroom. She helped me out of my shirt and trousers and underclothes. I sat on the bed while she took off my socks. All I had left was the harmonica.

“Get right in bed,” she said. “I had it ready. I was going to tell you to spend a few days with me. It will do you good. See how clean the bed is? The sheets dried yesterday in the sun. Don't they smell fresh? Give me the harmonica. I'll put it on the table here…. Never mind then, Paul. I'll be in the kitchen if you want me.”

She kissed me on the mouth.

I turned my face to the wall. Rain drummed on roof and windows. Somewhere there was fire in the dark. I thought of my father lying in the wet black earth of that cemetery. Last of all I knew that I must make a song for him. And for my mother and my brother.

And for everyone else, too.