chapter twenty-five
THERE are days when I see shadows in Gloria’s eyes. Grief does that. Even if she hides it, I know that she thinks of Zemzem, of her five brothers, of Liuba, and of the marvelous fruit in the orchard of her childhood. I have no cure for her. All I can do is keep going without whining, and sometimes I recite the poems of Charles Baudelaire that I learn from my catalog. “Hommelibretoujourtuchériralamer!” Freemanyouwillalwayscherishthesea!