Chapter 29

There is a place in Hell called Malebolge [Evil Ditches],

Wholly of stone and of an iron colour,

As is the circle that around it turns.

Dante, Inferno, 18.1-3

They were panting and sweating by the time they reached the top of the cliff, but after only a short rest, they started moving once more. The trail led back into a forest on the plateau. Most of the trees here looked less sickly than those they had seen before crossing the scar, but given how many trunks Dante saw fallen on the ground, he wondered if some strange disease made them topple over, dead, even while they appeared relatively robust. By now it had become commonplace to Dante that there were no sounds, no animals or birds, no movement other than their own steady footsteps. The air seemed cooler and less dry up here, but not necessarily healthier, and certainly not more vibrant. It could have been the dank, pestilence-filled vapors of a swamp. At least the trail here was wider, so Dante could walk next to Bogdana, with Adam and Radovan ahead of them. Although they kept looking all around, after a few minutes of walking, Dante felt a bit more relaxed.

“I’ve never been up high like that,” Bogdana said as they walked. “I didn’t think I’d be so frightened.”

Her weakness was as captivating to him as her strength and seeming invulnerability. “It’s hard if you’re not used to it,” Dante said. “I’ve been many places, but with the trail so narrow, and everything so strange and dangerous here, it was very frightening.”

“You were scared?” She must’ve been very frightened on the cliff, as he had never heard her voice like this, as though she actually expected or needed him to be strong.

“Well, not so much.” Or did she want him to express vulnerability? He cursed himself inwardly. Now he wasn’t sure which was the right response.

“But something bothered you. I can tell. If it wasn’t the cliff, what was it then?”

Dante breathed deeply. He had been thinking as though she were a Florentine woman and this was some game to test him, in which he had to give a right answer for the flirtation to continue. But she had just been trying to find out how he felt. He wondered how long it would take him to get used to such honesty and reply in kind. “I don’t know. I’ve felt like hell since we crossed that cursed desert of ash. Who knew there were such places on earth?”

She nodded. “It was awful. The dust got into my mouth and nose; it still burns. But you have seen many horrible things in these three days. Was it the woman who bothered you?”

Her intuition was as unnerving as it was enchanting. Or rather, it was enchanting because it was unnerving. “Yes, I suppose it was,” he said quietly.

“Why? We’ve seen many evil and sad people. Why did she upset you so?”

“It’s just what she said was so violent. Others said wicked or selfish things, but she was so out-of-control, so bursting with anger, lashing out at everything. I hadn’t seen or thought of someone being so enraged, so much like an animal.”

Bogdana shrugged. “Many people lose their tempers all the time. And many men are much more violent than she was. Perhaps it was because she was a woman. Is that what shocked you more?”

Dante had to concentrate to keep from missing a step or faltering. He knew this was as true as it was obvious, and unstated because it was both. Though perhaps he should’ve known better by now, Dante slipped back into treating her question as some kind of test, as though he was supposed to protest that no, he would never think such a thing. Or was he supposed to agree and explain how beautiful and gentle a woman was supposed to be, perhaps even state explicitly that Bogdana was such a lovely, demure creature who could never do and say such things? Dante was fairly sure that was the wrong answer, since the first thing the beautiful woman beside him had done when they met was to bash a man’s brains into the ground. He blushed and tried to hide his growing agitation and confusion at having to give an honest and unadorned answer.

“Well, yes, I suppose it was. It did seem worse and more shocking, since she was a woman.”

“You must know women can be angry. I know men get away with it more than we do, but you must’ve seen it before.”

“Well, yes, but it was all so vulgar, gross, so ugly with her. Women aren’t supposed to be like that.” He’d let the last part slip out. It was honest and it felt good to be unguarded, but he knew it sounded wrong and indefensible as soon as he said it.

Bogdana arched an eyebrow and gave a small smile. He only caught it out of the corner of his eye, avoiding her glance as much as possible. “You thought us too pretty to say and do such things?”

“No… yes… Stop twisting my words around!” He’d meant to sound plaintive, to make her stop, but it came out as petulant, even spiteful.

Her smile dropped immediately. “Don’t be angry,” she said very softly. They walked a few steps. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

He wanted to embrace her, to weep into her long, beautiful hair and beg her forgiveness, but he would’ve restrained himself even if they’d been alone, in some place where corpses didn’t walk about and women didn’t examine men’s feelings and thoughts in such uncomfortable ways. So he just walked. “No, no, you didn’t do anything wrong. I’ve never been so sad and confused as I’ve been here. It’s like going mad.”

They kept walking. “I didn’t mean to mock you. I just wanted to know why you were so upset. I’ve heard many women say such things as she did in the desert. But now I think about it, there were never men around when they would talk so. You weren’t used to it. It seemed as strange and frightening to you as the cliff did to me.”

“Yes. I suppose that’s what did it,” Dante said.

“Perhaps it is good, in a way, to see these secret sorts of wickedness we hide from other people all the time, out there, where people are normal. But I’m sorry it caused you pain.”

She slipped her hand in his and squeezed. She even let her hand stay in his for a few steps. Dante thought of how different this gesture would be in Florence. So fraught with conflicted meanings it would be empty, even painful, like eating tasty food when you knew it was going to make you ill later on. But in the silent forest of death, the gesture only signified what it made visible and concrete – that two people chose to be connected to one another, that they wanted to be one instead of two. It was both more and less than it would mean in an Italian city, and Dante thought how strange it was this dark, desolate place revealed more and concealed less than the sunny streets of Florence.