…I always carried leaves and fresh branches in my hands and wherever a river stopped my steps, I disregarded its powerful current, mule-rider who I was, I started crossing in a fastened path that lasted only while I was passing; and I was a river passer, a mule rider an engraving on the rock mule and man, the same flesh different from the stone, which assumed a soul and departed if I was lost in the deep thought of struggle, pain and yearning in my mind the one emperor having a crown on his head the crown of the universe.
Sitting beside Morley’s bed, her eyes resting on his face, Tyne could detect less swelling and a slight fading of the bruises. The wounds on his shaven scalp were healing cleanly, and his breathing, as he slept, seemed less laboured. She lifted his right hand to her cheek and held it there – the hand that had caressed her face so many times. Through the hours as she sat at his bedside, Tyne prayed – prayers of praise and thankfulness because Morley was getting well. Every day brought progress. But she also prayed for his complete healing, and restoration to the man he had been. The doctors had told her that although most of the signs were positive, there still remained the possibility of some brain damage. Tyne could scarcely bring herself to say the words, either out loud or in her mind, as she pleaded for God’s healing power. When she wasn’t praying, she was whispering words of encouragement, or telling Morley about the children. She longed to tell him her concerns for them, but told them to God instead. That is what Morley would want her to do. It had been two days since she had held a tearful Rachael in her arms in the bus depot, and later listened to her mother’s revelations about the girl’s state of mind. “I didn’t tell you on the phone, Tyne,” Emily Milligan had said…
“Yeah, you’re right. It’s pretty far-fetched,” he said hastily. “It’s great having family here in the Soviet Union. You are so lucky, Jennifer.” “Yes, I am. Do you think I should phone my mom? Tell her that I’ve met with Misha—Can you believe it? She calls him Misha—like she’s known him for years.” “Well, you’ll be phoning your folks anyway to tell them you’ve arrived safely, won’t you?” “No, they aren’t like that. It’s not that they don’t care. They just…” “Yeah, I remember meeting your dad when I was studying in Toronto. He didn’t have much to say. I get the sense your mom is really running the show?” “No, she’s browbeaten by my father.” “Is this to do with the accident, Jen?” “Everything about my family is to do with the accident.” “You have Jewish background, don’t you?” “Yes, but I don’t talk about it because I wasn’t raised a Jew. My father was Church of England. Listen, I think I’ll try a telegram. It’s easier than the phone.” But when Jennifer enquired at the Rossiya’s front desk, they directed her to the telegraph and telephone bureau next door to the hotel. This seemed like a lot of effort and she decided to wait. If her mother couldn’t be bothered telling her that she had family in the Soviet Union, then she couldn’t be bothered describing her joy to her mother. Withholding, it was called. It ran in the family.
Dancers Black dancers arced sprang and after picking their shoes they left in hushed tones so they didn’t wake old man front row lost in dreams of a lavish dance hall chandeliers and many fit scantily-clad girls smiling jewel eyed their breasts nodding persuasive firm contours swell desire tease out his hand before black dancers wheeled just before he fell into divine sleep
