She was sitting in her armchair, head tilting slightly toward one shoulder, fast asleep. Helen opened the door, closed it quietly, knelt down at her consoler’s feet, took her hands in her own, and looked at her for a long time. She had never seen Paula asleep before, and it was strange to feel that her mind was so far away. In the end she began to feel almost embarrassed. She shook her, gently.
“Paula . . . Paula!”
The large woman opened her eyes and showed no surprise. It was as if she had fallen asleep like this with Helen already kneeling there, and now that she woke up, they were still in the same position.
“Oh, my beauty,” she murmured. “Look . . . just see what they’ve done.”
Only then did Helen notice the state the room was in. The chairs were broken, the table turned upside down, shelves pulled away from the wall. The dresser lay on the floor, gutted. It was easy to imagine the furious hatchet blows falling, bent on destruction.
“I didn’t get back until this afternoon. After a month. I’ve tidied the kitchen up a bit, but I haven’t touched anything in here. I’m so tired. I ought to have gone up to the bedroom.”
Her voice was shaking, near tears.
“Where were you for that whole month, Paula?”
“Why, in their prison, my beauty.”
“In prison? You?”
“Yes, four of them came and took me away. They were very rough. They hurt my arm and my head. It was because of the young people running away.”
Helen felt her own mounting fury.
“More than twenty of them escaped,” Paula went on. “You were one of the first, my beauty, and the others followed your example. We gave them clothes and food, poor children, and we hid them when necessary. So they arrested us — Martha, Emily, and me. The others were turned out of the village. And then the men came back and smashed everything. Did you see it? Not a house was spared. And Octavo isn’t here. . . .”
She uttered a long, sorrowful sigh, and closed her eyes.
“Oh Paula,” Helen whispered.
“What will become of me now?” moaned the consoler. “The revolt has started, you know. There are barricades up in the town, and the Phalangists will be swept away within a few days, that’s for sure. Everyone hates them so much. I ought to be glad of that, but I can’t really manage it. I liked comforting young people, you see. I liked it better than anything! I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do anything else except cooking. The doors of the boarding schools will be opened now, and all the children I loved will go away. Oh, my beauty, what will become of me? I’ll be nothing but a fat, useless old woman. And Octavo isn’t here. . . .”
This time her tears flowed down her plump cheeks in torrents.
“Dear Paula,” Helen repeated, overwhelmed. She got up, went around the chair, and took Paula’s hot, heavy head in her hands. She kissed her and stroked her hair and her wet face. “Don’t be upset, Paula. Octavo is fine. I saw him at Marguerite’s, and she’s sending him to school. He’s working hard. Did you get his letter?”
Paula nodded.
“You know what we’ll do now, Paula? We’ll go upstairs to the bedroom. You’ll sleep in your own bed and I’ll sleep in Octavo’s. And tomorrow we’ll both catch the bus and go to join them in the capital. I’ll take care of you. Don’t worry about anything. I love you as if you were my mother, you know I do. You’re the only mother I ever knew.”
The consoler nodded again, and buried her face against the breast of the girl who had knocked on her door for the first time four years earlier — the girl she had described as a little, lost kitten at the time.
Milos kept looking for the jay through the week before he left the training camp. It was all very well trying not to be superstitious, but he couldn’t help hoping that the big, brightly colored bird would reappear and bring him luck. Every morning and late every afternoon he went around behind the infirmary to where he had seen the jay in autumn, but it never turned up on the windowsill, on the other side of the bars, or anywhere else. Milos felt it was a bad omen.
He wasn’t the only one watching out for signs. One of the premiers fell into a furious rage because someone else went to sit in his usual place in the refectory. He picked up the bench, tipping the other man off it, and laid into him with his fists shouting, “Want to get me killed, do you? That’s it — you want to get me killed, you bastard!” It took two other men to separate them.
Their training had taken a more violent turn for some time past. As the fights came closer, the gladiators seemed to be trying to toughen themselves up even more, to shake off any weakness. On their last night in the camp, Myricus summoned them all to the arena after their evening meal. There were no floodlights on, but torches fixed to logs of wood cast red light on their somber faces. The men moved away from each other and stood motionless, swords in their hands. Myricus walked slowly among them, then went up to the gallery and addressed them in his deep voice.
“Gentlemen, look around you. Look at one another, all of you: Caius, Ferox, Delicatus, Messor . . .”
He listed all thirty names without omitting a single one, taking his time about it. That grave recitation instantly conveyed a disturbing solemnity.
“Take a good look at each other, because in a few days’ time, when I call you together again in this place, many of you will be dead. So look at one another now.”
There was an oppressive silence. All the gladiators kept their eyes focused on the sand. None of them lifted their heads when Myricus told them to look up.
“At this moment, as I speak to you,” the trainer went on, “the gladiators in the other five camps are listening to a similar address. Like you, they are surrounded by torches, and every one of them is wondering: Will I be among the dead or will I survive? I tell the novices among you, and I repeat it for the benefit of the others: hatred is your only weapon. Hate your opponent as soon as you see him appear on the other side of the arena. Hate him in advance for wanting to take your life. And make sure you’re convinced that his life is not worth yours.”
He paused. The gladiators remained silent, deep in the turmoil of their own thoughts. A little way ahead of him, Milos saw the shaved nape of Basil’s neck and his massive shoulders rising and falling to the regular rhythm of his breathing. He took comfort from the sight, and then he wondered which of the two of them would fight first. He prayed that it would be him, not Basil.
Myricus went on speaking for some time. He conjured up the names of the great gladiators of classical antiquity: Flamma, who had won thirty fights; Urbicus, a winner thirteen times, and then defeated because he held back from striking the mortal blow and gave his unfortunate opponent a chance.
“We set out tomorrow,” he concluded. “Leave your swords here on the ground. You won’t be needing them during the journey. We’ll collect them and give them back to you when the time comes for you to fight.”
That night was not disturbed by any nightmares. An unreal calm reigned in the dormitories. Probably none of them really slept. Every time Milos thought he was dropping off, he gave a start and was wide awake again, as if he were determined not to sleep away any of the hours that might be his last. Basil couldn’t sleep either.
“What’s your girlfriend’s name?” he asked in the middle of the night.
“Helen,” Milos whispered.
“What?”
“Helen.” He had to repeat it in a louder voice, and it felt like speaking to her in the silence.
“What’s she like?”
“Well . . . normal.”
“Come on,” Basil insisted. “You can tell me. I won’t repeat it.”
“Right,” said Milos, slightly embarrassed. “She isn’t very tall, she has short hair, her face is rather round . . .”
These general remarks weren’t enough for Basil. “Tell me something special — oh, I don’t know, something she does well.”