The Artist and the Soldier, Chapter Five

April appeared in France. It was 1916, at the peak of stalemate. Soldiers were dying for a seemingly empty cause. No one could do anything but blast each other until more recruits could come to be blasted. Meanwhile, Cephas and Reuben trekked across France. They encountered rolling hills, speckled with villages and forests, all the time under a transcendent sky, which varied from deep blue to red in the sunrise, fiery orange in the evening, and grey when the clouds shielded its face and brought veils of rain. They ate little. They had no money, of course, and were also Germans, walking across a country hostile to them. “It’s so beautiful,” said Reuben, staring across the distance at the undulating hills. “I see no borderline between us and France. Where is the borderline?”

In the villages, they found bread tossed out by bakers, sometimes families, and when only the natural spans of the east arose they made fishing poles from branches and used their shoe string for line. For hooks, they used paper clips that they had found within garbage cans in the villages. In the numerous creeks, and occasionally rivers, they caught beautiful trout: brown and rainbow. They built fires deep inside tall forests, where its light couldn’t escape and the smoke appeared as whiffs of cloud. When April ended and May arrived, they were bolder. As they came to a French village, they stood in the streets, bedraggled and filthy from walking, and searched for a house where they could possibly stay. Cephas saw a small stone cottage next to the church. Its windows were ignited and he could hear laughing voices from within.

“A storm’s on its way,” said Reuben, staring at the sky.

“Come on,” said Cephas. “Let’s see if these people will let us stay here.” Reuben followed Cephas until they were standing on the house’s small doorstep. Cephas knocked softly and tried to straighten his hair from its tangled knots. The door opened. In its place stood an incredibly beautiful girl of about eighteen. Both Cephas and Reuben were surprised when they saw her. “Mademoiselle,” said Cephas, nodding his head. “Is it possible that you can let us stay for a night here? A storm is on the way.” The girl was shocked. “You people are German,” she said, as if trying to compose her mindset.

“Yes,” said Cephas. “Please. We mean you no harm.” A man of about forty appeared behind her, his face solemn once he saw the two ragged Germans at his doorstep.

“Are you soldiers?” he asked.

“Evidently not,” said Reuben. “Look at us. The war has set on us our feet. We were soldiers.”

“Then you are deserters,” said the man, beginning to close the door. Rain started to drop from above and thunder reverberated. Cephas put his hand on the door as it closed and held it there. “We are no deserters,” he said, sternly. “If you knew our errand you would understand. Please, sir. Give us a place to sleep.”

“Germany has killed many men,” said the man, holding the girl in his arms.

“And you think France has not?” asked Cephas. “Thousands die in every country. Men die. They are not German, or French, or Austrian. They are men. Men like you and me.”

The man’s eyes showed fear. He bit his lip, looked at the dark clouds that were billowing like cannon smoke, and curtly gestured them to come inside.  Meager servings of bread and some watered down soup were given to them, which Cephas and Reuben both considered heavenly. The girl and her father sat opposite of them. Their faces clearly showed suspicion, or perhaps even fear.

“If you are going to stay here, you must tell us your errand,” said the man, whose name they had interpreted to be Cappy.

Cephas paused. “We’re going to Rome,” he said.

“Then you are deserters.”

“More like escapees.”

“You escaped from the front?” asked Cappy, confused. Cephas laughed.

“From a war prison.” He finished the story simply and put down his spoon. Cappy’s lips parted slightly. “How?” he breathed.

“When you have something to save, ingenuity is almost necessary,” replied Cephas. “Although it may have been simply desperation. We tunneled through the walls and ran.”

“What do you have to save?”

“My sister, and his love. They just happen to be the same person. What can be more vital? Going back to a blood hole, where there is nothing good, or save someone’s life?” Reuben was sitting motionlessly, staring at his empty bowl with eyes of longing. Cappy asked no more questions. The girl spoke then. “My brother is at war. He’s in the trenches.”

“I’m sorry,” said Cephas. “Perhaps I saw him. Maybe we caught eyes. Maybe he shot at me, or me at him.”

“How many men have you killed?” she asked.

“What’s your name?”

“Brendette.”

“Brendette, I killed seven French men, three Italian, and one British.”

Brendette bent her head over slightly, her mouth open and her eyes at a loss of sense.

“How could you?” she whispered.

“Because, Brendette, when shells are exploding all around, men are being turned into balls of unrecognizable flesh, and searing heat from mustard gas is deteriorating the lungs, you see a man next to you, and you want him to live.”

“So you kill others?”

Cephas gave a grim smile. “I expect that if I killed a French man and he killed me at the same time, we would no less than laugh about it afterward.”

They were all deeply silent until Cephas said, “Where are we to sleep, sir?”

They slept in a shed behind the house although there were two spare rooms in the house. As Cephas found a spot on some decaying hay, he wondered where trust had gone. “Reuben,” he said. Reuben grunted and rolled over. “What?”

“If we save Maria and the war is still going on, will we go back to the front?” The air was silent as it was dark. Cephas could not see his friend, but could imagine him in his thought. Finally, Reuben said plainly, “No.” Cephas stared into the blackness above him and relief flooded him. “I think you mean ‘when’ we save Maria,” said Reuben. “Not ‘if’.”

When the morning came, Cephas was lacing his boots while Reuben was eating the last of a biscuit from his pocket. Brendette poked her head through the shed. “We won’t be staying for breakfast,” said Cephas after glancing up.

“I know.” She stepped into the dim room and stood silently. They could tell she was trying to say something and couldn’t gather the courage.

“Don’t be afraid,” said Cephas.

“I’ve never kissed a man before,” she said. “I should like to do so now.”

“A German?” said Reuben.

“It doesn’t matter which one.” For some reason, Cephas was angry. He compared Brendette to Jasmine. In Jasmine he saw twice as much beauty and ten times the heart. He stood quickly and said, “I don’t think you know what you’re asking. Love is a journey. I was in a military prison for a year before it finally came. I will not so easily give it up.” He swept past her. Reuben and Brendette were alone.

“Will you turn me away too?” she asked. Reuben stood slowly. He was mournful for this girl.

“I can’t give you my heart or anything like that,” he said. “But this is to show how much hope there truly is out there.” He hesitated. “You simply have to look for it and it will find you.” Reuben knelt, took Brendette’s hand, and kissed it softly. Smiling, he rose and followed Cephas.

The road was devoid of motion. Like a ribbon, it meandered over hills and through woods until it faded into nothingness. They turned south.

The clothes on their back were tearing and growing ragged. They hardly cared. Since the days were growing hot, they went shirtless through the land. Their skin grew brown and their hair incredibly blond. The soles of their shoes disappeared. They were barefoot, going through tangles of vines that sometimes enveloped forests. They made about twenty miles a day. Each day Cephas thought of Jasmine. For hours he told Reuben about her, and when he was finished, Reuben went on and on about Maria, about how she had dove into the glacier lake, how she loved to run through the mountains, and especially how she loved to laugh. Reuben recalled the sound. When he did, he also began to laugh.

 They longed to see the blue twinkling of the Mediterranean and the ships that would lead them to Rome. They had no time to spare. Most days they walked hungry, but this too was held with indifference. They only knew that it was June, and they had four months to reach Rome. And almost a thousand miles stood between them and their destination. Their ribs were visible then, but they were still strong. This was something they could not afford to lose. Infirmity was constantly pushed away. It would deter them, be a curse to their feet, and only mean more time lost to them. One day, they saw the Alps, the perfect sign that they were in southern France. Still tipped with white, they made fire in the noon. Their monstrosity was appalling. The jagged crags and precipices were chiseled to a point, the peak, where the raggedness of stone and snow showed the effect of time and storm. But when they listened, they heard guns boom, and saw smoke arise in unfurling pillars. They could see soldiers in the valleys as small dark dots.

“How are we going to get around them?” said Reuben.

“Who are they anyway?” asked Cephas.

“They are Germans, but probably many Austrians also. On the other side, French, Italian, and British.” The crackle of gunfire found their ears. Still they were used to it. “Let’s go around. If we don’t, they’ll catch us.”

“And question us.”

“This is war.” A forest embraced them with tangles of vine. Shadow and sunlight created mazes along the ground, and almost blindly they stumbled through the foliage. Cephas gasped for breath.

“The element of quietness is all for naught,” stated Reuben from behind. They stopped. Softly there arrived a sort of whistling. Immediately it grew into a howl, and a shell exploded thirty feet away. “They’ve seen us,” said Cephas, and they began to run. Thorns and briars entangled them. When being pursued, however, pain became a farce.   

“Hey! Stop right there! Stop or we’ll shoot!” They didn’t stop. They lost their legs when descending a steep hill and tumbled into a deep and swift stream. The water had its way. Against its power they were helpless. Thrown against rocks and dragged over sandbags, the only thing they were aware of was the gunfire that was clearly audible over the sound of rushing water. Cephas’s opened his eyes. All he saw was foam; swirling in perplexing vortexes. The stream slowed down and silently pooled, where Cephas and Reuben staggered onto the bank. The gunfire was still raining. Shivering cold and as dizzy as newborn calves, they stumbled through the underbrush.  

The mountains were close now and the gunfire far away and unclear. In exhaustion they staggered to a stop and rested. Cephas felt uncomfortable. He was once a soldier like those he had seen.

“It doesn’t have to have a point,” he said, after the silence had settled. Reuben glanced at him, breathing heavily.

“What doesn’t?” he said.

“War,” Cephas replied. “I have decided, Reuben,” he continued, “that we have to go back if it still isn’t over.” Reuben frowned.

“What do you mean?” he demanded. “I thought you said war is hell.”

“It is,” said Cephas. “But I can’t stand to know men are dying and that I could have possibly saved one of their lives.”

“You said it was pointless,” Reuben persisted.

“Is evil pointless?” offered Cephas. “Yes. But we can still protect people from it.”

“What has changed your mind?”

“A boy named Gustaf. When I saw the scene of war, I thought of him. I saved his life. I don’t know if he’s alive, but I like to think that he is.”

Three French soldiers appeared from nowhere, and so suddenly that, when Cephas and Reuben saw them, felt their hearts go numb. The soldiers stopped in surprise when they saw the two ragged Germans, and asked in French, “Do you speak French?”

“Oui,” said Cephas, referring to both he and Reuben.

“Who are you?” one of the asked.

“We aren’t soldiers,” said Reuben.

“I did not ask you who you are not. Are you spies?” The French soldiers grasped their guns slightly, their bayonets glistening in the sun’s afternoon shine.

“No.”

“It looks like you have uniforms on but they are a century old.”

“They are old.” Before the French could say anything else, pops of quick gunfire sounded, and the soldiers jerked in shock, their heads lifting upward and their mouths gaping. They fell brokenly to the ground. Cephas and Reuben spotted a column of Germans running toward them. “Those are the men!” the leader screamed. “We don’t know who they are!”

The refugees sank deeper into the mountains at a pace neither of them knew to be possible. They ran incessantly, even when their lungs seemed to fail and sweat was growing short inside their bodies.

They tumbled through briar patches and tangles of thorn, through streams and over mounds of piled boulders, which, when seen at a distance, looked like rubble. When they were bold enough to stop, they listened, and were pleased to encounter nothing but silence, save the soft trickling of water and the scream of a mountain bird.

They were leaning over, hands on their knees to relax their heaving breasts. Cephas sat down on a floor of grass and elevated himself by leaning on his hands. His head bent backward and his eyes closed. Through his eyelids he discerned the blare of red from the summer sun. Reuben looked behind them, where nothing but green valley stood, and beyond that, the thick forests where they had encountered the French soldiers.

“That was rather close,” he said.

“We need to get some new clothes,” Cephas replied. “We look too much like escaped prisoners.”

“That’s what we are.” He laughed shortly, and Cephas looked up, grinning.

After their breath returned they continued on through the thin valleys, where a deep tendril of water, hardly a river, jumped and flowed as if it were the mountain’s blood vessel. For hours they followed it. At times, when they were on top of a boulder, the faint voices of war were audible behind them. But it was just an after voice, something that was finally fading away. Cephas had already told himself he would see it again. Nevertheless he was nearly ecstatic to be free of its unnatural clamor.

The wind that ravaged the mountains swept over the travelers’ bodies and tanned them just as well as the sun did. Their skin grew like leather. July arrived, and still the span of mountains made a ripple in the distance. They climbed, stumbled and hurtled for days, longing to see the blanket of blue which meant hope. August came. They ate berries and all the nuts they could find, which wore their bodies into meagerness. The mountain water was refreshing and so vividly cold that it acted as a substitute for wholesome food. But both Cephas and Reuben were beginning to worry. The land was now a tiresome thing to behold. The blue of the Mediterranean was a dream. Cephas said, “Two months, Reuben.”

“We’ll make it,” said Reuben. Neither of them could be sure. They didn’t know France like they knew Germany. People got lost. Their worst fear was just that: losing their way, ambling like lost sheep while October flew past them at a glance.

In mid-August, when Cephas walked, he tasted salt. It was just a hint found somewhere in the air, but it left him hungry for more. He bounded up a mountainside and followed its curve, slipping and stumbling until his shins were dripping blood. Like the turning of a page, the port of Nice, France appeared, and beyond it, the fresh Mediterranean, doused in a perfect coat of blue. Cephas screamed in ecstasy, tipping his head up and bending backwards until he tumbled down the grassy slope a couple of yards. They didn’t hesitate. They ran into Nice, directly to the port, and searched earnestly for a ship they could take.

*******

Agostino stared out the window over Rome. The apartment was located on the top story, where Cephas would have to climb in fear until he arrived. He would take Maria to the roof, blindfold her, shoot her, and then shoot Cephas. He grinned. August was coming to an end and October loomed. Agostino anticipated it.

“Looking out there again?” Maria came into the room. She was just as beautiful, but her eyes were tired, and rightly so.

“Your brother,” muttered Agostino. “I will kill your brother.” Maria stood still. “You’ve said it for two years,” she said. “Won’t you be disappointed when he hangs you by your toenails and taunts you?” Agostino flared in anger. He remembered Cephas. He remembered Cephas when he had broken seven of his ribs.

“Maybe so,” he said, turning. He approached Maria and stood close to her, his fingers lifting and trying to slip her blouse from her shoulder. His eyes were filled with an unbridled lust. He had enacted upon such lust more than once. Maria was carrying a child. Each day she felt her insides move from the growing baby, and each day she thought of Reuben with such pain that she couldn’t hide her tears. “But he will feel pain, no matter what.” Agostino didn’t care at all for Maria.  Day after day he stole from the streets and embezzled from businesses that he sometimes was able to own. He heard Maria weeping as he stared out the window, and his heart was never touched. His son was about to be born; he still craved revenge. He wanted to see Cephas in pain from seeing Maria die. For the two years Maria had been kept a prisoner, she had somehow clasped on to the hope of Cephas’s return. Of Reuben she knew nothing of. She thought him best to be dead. But as October neared, she began to think that Cephas were lost in the chaos of war. If he left the army, he would be hunted down and executed as deserters. Hope was a wilted flower.

“He’ll be here,” said Agostino, not as encouragement. “He can’t stand to lose his sister. He’ll be here for the entire parade.”

“You’re pure evil,” Maria had whispered. She had grown to be afraid of such words spoken, because a man of hatred will always go as far as possible in his mindset.

Maria sidled away from Agostino’s cold touch and eased herself into a chair. Her abdomen was already swelling, and moving was difficult. Agostino’s fingers closed on empty air.

“I wonder where your parents live,” he said softly. Maria’s jaw trembled in anger. She clutched the arms of the chair. “God will give me justice,” she said. “He will give as all justice.”

“Even me?” The mockery was plain in his voice.

“You’ve been thwarting justice all your life,” said Maria. “No, you will get no justice.”

As the sun set and the fire of Rome dwindled into cool shadow, Maria went to bed, which was a mat that lay near the window. She saw the moon, a silver coin joined with splashes of shining stars. She spoke to God in a whisper. “Even though my son is Agostino’s also, he will be a great man. God, Reuben is my love. Allow him to understand. Bring him to me.” She closed her eyes. Pools formed near her eyes and a tear rolled across her cheek and fell on her earlobe. “Bring them both to me.”

They rode on a small, unstable steamer that belched black smoke. It kept good speed. An old Italian sailor captained the ship, and he had only two other men to feed the small engine with coal. The captain had allowed Cephas and Reuben to board and had not demanded money from them, since he was solely a fisherman of the reefs and bays of the sea. But his small steamship was a cruiser, his special possession that allowed him to see the open waters and breathe in the untamed salt of its mist. They were given new clothes: loose pants and leather boat shoes, and plain grey shirts that lacked any buttons and were tight to the skin. They looked incredibly like sailors.

The pilothouse was barely noticeable, located snugly at the bow. The wheel had a diameter of about two feet, and spun very smoothly as if were refined with silk.

And the sea was an interminable sheet, twinkling with the gold of sunlight and the pale silver of moonlight. Cephas stared eastward, his eyes hardly ever leaving the horizon, where just beyond it was Italy. Cephas was tempted to look behind him. It would be a strong symbol and he knew he would see the face of Jasmine somehow molded into the clouds. He looked ahead, however, and counted solely on his return to Paris. It was the city he had to make right again. He had to see it with his love and not with his bitterness.

The sunrises came like dew on fresh grass. The sea was dark, but it appeared like lips of fire once the sun pierced the ending night and made the stars fade. Clouds hushed the sun’s brilliance, as if they were being merciful to any speculators. But once the soft fingers of cotton were parted and melted by the heat and splendor of light, the sun warmed the surface of the deep waters. Wind blew gently, touched the water and fled above the clouds, where fields of grey and white danced as if in a large party hall.

When the dawn was gone, it was replaced by a warm and thick morning. Now the water returned to its sapphire blue, showing plainly its unimaginable depths and the power that it secretly held. Sometimes jumping fish speckled the waters and left white splashes when they plunged into the cool, swirling pools of the sea.

The captain of the ship especially admired these mornings. It was one of the many reasons he made such voyages. He wouldn’t have cared if he was lost. He would have told himself, “What’s better? Being found and living without beauty, or being lost and basking in it?”

Reuben and Cephas saw the dawns as another day, another timetable, and wanted the hours to go slowly and the ship to go faster. Rome was just outside of eyesight then, but even so, each wave that pushed against them was held in disdain and wracked the heart in anxiety. The captain didn’t know why he was taking two Germans to Rome. But it was growing apparent they were in intense hurry. He checked the coal supply. He had enough fuel to increase usage by nearly five knots, and he didn’t hesitate to tell his small crew. “Those men are on a holy errand,” he said to them. “We may not have enough for the return journey, men. Maybe I can borrow a fishing boat and sail to Venice, and go through its canals.” One of the sailors, said, “What about Nice?”

“Of course! Nice. But you’ve seen it a dozen times once it curves into view. Why not something new?”

The boat’s speed increased as the extra fuel was shoveled into the boilers. The coal burned, created steam, which created pressure and turned the propellers. The bow cut through the water and created foam. And in the distance, Cephas spotted land. Filled with hope, he clasped Reuben’s shoulder and pointed. Reuben’s lips parted in a smile. The sight was the most refreshing substance that had ever entered either of their minds. It was if God was breathing on them both.

“I don’t know what errand you are on,” the captain told them. “But may heaven’s oceans push you well into whatever it is.”

“This ship is from heaven,” said Cephas, gripping the captain’s shoulder. “And you, sir, are the apple of God’s eye. Thank you.”

The captain’s white beard bobbed as he nodded his head, and the twinkling blue eyes were happy. He shook Cephas’s hand cordially, and then Reuben’s.  “It won’t be the last time I sail these waters. And I hope to see you again.”

“May we know your name?” asked Cephas.

The old man glanced at the ground as if trying to recapture a thought, then gave a slight shrug and said, “I never really had one. Suppose you call me the Sea Flower?” He smiled. The captain slipped his ship into a small harbor, and quickly Reuben and Cephas jumped over the rail and landed on a long wooden dock. The captain let the ship’s horn blast as a goodbye. “Do we have enough fuel to go back to Nice?” he asked his crew.

“Not hardly,” they replied, shrugging.

“Good,” Floro replied. “I believe I’ll walk to Venice. Anyone wish to come?”

“What about the borrowed sailboat?”

“My hands haven’t felt the staff in quite some time. Since the Alps, I believe.”

******

Some mountains were scattered between them and Rome. It was strange walking over the earth’s floor with shoes on, and almost made them feel awkward. The skin of their feet was used to the ground, to the earth, the grass, and the rushing water. They abandoned the shoes after the first blisters began to form. At the top of Cephas’s staff, where he held it, the wood was wearing down so it was as smooth as marble. At nights when they were resting, he rounded the tip of the staff with his knife, using shallow but forceful cuts through the wood. They were growing quite weary. When Cephas first used the staff, he thought it would create him a true traveler and seal him as the road’s true veteran. But now he actually used it. When they climbed up steep hills and sometime the crest of mountains, he leaned his body into it and depended on it. As the days grew in length and daylight lasted well into the evening, his legs tired and moved their energy to the staff. Soon, it was his most precious possession. They were thin and weak from hunger, and their progress slowed as each day passed. Rome was very near.

“I won’t have the strength to kill Agostino,” said Cephas, grimacing.

They were within a dense thicket that smelled beautifully of honeysuckle. They found bundles of it and ate everything, nectar, stem and leaf. The taste was heavenly, but if they hadn’t been starving, it would have been bitter.

The night was falling quickly, and the dimness of twilight set into the trees. The green was fading with the warmth. Frogs and toads began to croak and bark, while crickets crawled from small holes and also sang a song. Cephas and Reuben made beds in the luscious hammocks of grass and slept. Sleep was gold in their eyes. It eradicated hunger, replaced this gnawing by precious dreams. But it was torn apart when consciousness returned. In the middle of the night, Cephas had torn grass from the ground and stuffed it into his mouth. He gagged and spat it out, craving food, but most of all, craving Rome.

“I wish I had a gun,” said Reuben. They were in scattered woods.  Mountains surrounded them and mist clung to the trees as if they were their scaffolds. The mist also hid in the valleys, creating a

“So you can shoot him?”

Reuben nodded. His eyes were within weary sockets. Pale from hunger. And they still had their ancient and likable fire. “He’ll have a gun. What will we do?”

“I don’t know.” And Cephas didn’t know.  

The first day of October arrived. They may have thought it was nearing November. Hallucinations came to their minds and through their vision. Cephas saw Jasmine, her arms and shoulders bare but the rest of her body clothed in a golden robe, which appeared to be dancing with the wind. She was sitting on a rock, smiling with her pensive eyes. Cephas tried to chase her. Instead of catching her slim form, however, he met the cruel side of a rock, and this had no arms to offer. Reuben saw the trenches, which he had experienced for a year and a half in France. He saw the fireflies as flares and ducked his hand as he saw men being shredded under the curse of artillery. He shouted; fell to his knees until they bled from sharp stones. Bullets fled into his body, tore it to shreds, and in submission to death’s hand he settled his back into the grass. He saw Maria as he saw death. He wept, tried to touch her, but she too vanished as the sun changed its position in the sky and brought darkness. They were on the verge of real death. With minds that would never be satisfied unless they saw Rome, they stumbled blindly onward. Cephas began to chant things, and at times they turned into earnest prayers. He clutched the trunk of trees when they turned into Jasmine’s slim form. He wept at her knees for hours. Reality became a farce. There is nothing to tame the mind when it is hungry.

There was a small hill bathed in orange.

Cephas slipped. Reuben gathered Cephas in his equally weak arms and carried him across his stooped shoulders. The hill’s zenith suddenly transformed into the fiery city of Rome. It was twilight, and the sun was just glancing back over her shoulder. Darkness fumed. “I have to eat something,” Reuben whispered, grimacing. Weakness contaminated his body and weighted his legs down like lead. At the foot of the hill, Reuben spotted a small boy selling heads of cabbage. Reuben’s bare feet slid to a stop.

“Signore,” said the boy. “You are in need of food. Take all you need.” He knelt to the ground and pushed a couple of baskets toward Reuben’s feet.

“Gratsi.” Gently Reuben set Cephas on the street and shook him, whispering, “Cephas.” Cephas sat up, saw the food, and thrust his face into its midst, coming up with mouthfuls and swallowing as ravenously as a wolf. Reuben also began to eat wildly. They emptied the baskets within minutes and were not half satisfied. The boy pushed two more baskets forward. They emptied those as well, until at last the incredible, almost unknown sensation of satisfaction arrived.

For a while they vainly searched for Agostino’s apartment; it was useless because they didn’t even know its name.

By then darkness came like plague and forced them to sleep in a vacant, moonless alley. It was not cold. Even so they were chilled to the bone. Hunger came back halfway through the night and jolted them wide awake.  They were still as thin as fishing rods and were also thirsty. The next morning, when they began to walk through the streets, they started asking people where Agostino was. To most he was not known as a criminal. He was a swindler and a shrewd embezzler. Many considered him a genius with money. The first person they asked was an elderly woman who was working a flower shop. Since Cephas spoke better Italian than Reuben, he handled the case singlehandedly. She looked at them as if they were insane, finished watering a plant, and shuffled away until she disappeared inside the flower shop. Cephas shrugged, and they continued. Throughout the city they asked people if they knew who Agostino was. It wasn’t until two days later, near dusk, when they asked a woman if she knew or had heard of a man named Agostino Diluiani. She stopped, gave a laugh and nodded. “He’s near to being my fiancé.” Cephas was shocked.

“Where does he live,” he said. The woman frowned. She was talking to two Germans. And these two Germans were thin, pale, and covered in filth.

“Why do you wish to know?” Cephas began to debate whether he should tell her the truth of Agostino or not. It was doubtless she wouldn’t believe him. He decided not to warn her, since he predicted Agostino to be dead soon anyway, so he pleaded furthermore: “I must know. I have business with him. He’s expecting me as his guest.” The woman paused, still confused, but finally replied, “He lives quite near. He lives alone in the apartment on 12^th street.”

“He doesn’t live alone,” was all Cephas said as he and Reuben started out in the correct direction.

As the darkness fled forth over Rome, Agostino spotted Cephas and Reuben turn the corner and start toward the apartment. They were both coated in shadow. He hadn’t expected two people. “You!” he said to Maria. “Who is that?” Maria stared out the window, her mouth parting in joyous disbelief. “It’s my brother,” she said. “And Reuben.” When she saw Reuben her heart flipped inside of her chest. “Then he’s not dead,” she laughed.

“Your protector in the Alps?” Agostino guessed. He cursed. Maria’s eyes narrowed in passion, and she nodded. “They look weak.” They were.

Agostino threw open the window and shouted, “Congrats, Cephas! I’ll meet you at the roof. And don’t try the stairs. I’ve locked every door in this apartment. You’ll have to climb.” When Cephas saw his forsworn enemy he turned red. He was weak from walking in hunger and just as fatigued. The old hunger that he thought he had abandoned in the wilderness returned.  But something told him he couldn’t stop or else he would be too late. The apartment had many windows carved with small ledges about two inches in width. The first window was about seven feet off the ground. Cephas stood underneath it, his heart beating rapidly and his head full of nothingness as it still desired food. Slowly he coiled his legs, and with all his energy he jumped, grasping the first outcrop and struggling to hold his position. Reuben imitated on the other side of the building. Cephas’s muscles rippled. All the blood flowed to his brain. He grew dizzy and swooned; somehow, however, his mindset was contained, and he completed the climb by swinging his leg on the ledge. When he leveled his eyes to the height of the building, he saw nine more challenges. These would be even more difficult that the first. He couldn’t do it. His heart was quick because of lack of energy, and he was so lightheaded that he thought he could have floated away. He touched the glass of the window, trying to look inside. It was thin glass. Agostino was a fool to think it would stop him. Drawing the knife, he smashed the blunt side through the window so hundreds of shards made brilliant streaks in the last light of the day. Someone yelped from inside. Cephas felt his insides tighten with regret. As he stumbled inside the room, he saw a young man and woman clutching each other. Both of them were Italian. The man was shirtless while the woman wore a robe reaching just past her browned knees.

“Who are you?” the man asked in Italian. Cephas was too discombobulated to recall the little Italian he knew; therefore he began to speak in German. “I’m sorry sir, and madam. I need to get to the roof.” The Italian gently departed from his wife’s side and fingered a small drawer where Cephas was sure a gun lingered.

“I need to get to the roof,” Cephas repeated. His firmness was apparent.  

“I think you’re crazy,” the Italian said in choppy German. His fingers disappeared into the drawer and sure enough revealed a small Colt pistol. Perhaps it was from the war.

“See,” said Cephas. “You’re a soldier too, or once was. Maybe you deserted. I was a soldier too. There’s a man here named Agostino.” The man frowned and nodded.

“We know him,” he said. “What about Agostino?”

“For two years he’s been keeping my sister with him.” The frown on the Italian’s face increased, and the wife said, “Nonsense!”

“I swear it’s true.” Cephas longed for the gun. “Please. You must give me that gun.” Suddenly the Italian raised the pistol, but just before he fired Cephas ducked and tackled him, using all his weight to create the blow. The pistol clattered to the ground, and immediately Cephas snatched it and stumbled out the door. Blindly he stumbled into an elevator as the Italian regained his feet, screaming, “Thief! Dirty Hun!”

Cephas pulled a lever and closed the elevator door just as the Italian appeared. As the elevator pushed upward, Cephas slid to the floor and closed his eyes. He could hear the Italian cursing at him below. But Cephas’s ears didn’t register sound, good or bad. His eyes were heavy in their sockets. He felt ill. When the elevator stopped, Cephas saw Reuben through the caged door. Painfully he regained his feet and weakly held out the pistol.

“I got this,” muttered Cephas. “Take it. You have more strength than I do.” Reuben took the gun slowly, examined it, then cocked the hammer and gripped it with two hands. “I can see the hatch,” said Cephas.

Cephas crawled onto the roof first. Darkness had already fallen like rain. For a moment all things were dim and Cephas could see nothing. Presently, however, the light of a lantern glimmered and illuminated Agostino’s sallow face. Next to him, straddled to a chair, sat the pregnant Maria. Her jaws were tightened with fear.  Agostino held a pistol in his spare hand. Cephas stood uncertainly and said softly, “Maria. It’s Cephas.” She gave a whimper. Large tears rolled from underneath a blindfold. Cephas grimaced. He took a step forward and stared at Maria. He saw her pregnancy, glanced at Agostino, and clenched his teeth in anger. “Take that off her eyes.”

“You’ve come here to die,” said Agostino, his fingers caressing the pistol. “So yes, I do want her to see you.” He tore the piece of cloth away. Maria’s eyes were coated with fear.  They had been for two years. For a truly beautiful second Maria and Cephas looked at each other. Suddenly Maria was at a loss of breath. Reuben stood tall and proudly next to his comrade and when he saw her face, his expression was dazzled. Maria remembered this was supposed to be a shameful moment, a time when she would bow her head. She did so and whispered, “I’m sorry.”  Reuben turned red as a beet when he saw her stomach and realized the child belonged to Agostino. “You!” he bellowed. He raised the pistol. Agostino was faster. Three shots rang out, and three bullets landed in Reuben’s upper chest and shoulder. Maria screamed. Reuben’s face represented a man who has failed in providing for his family, a soldier who has gotten no letters from his family, and a lover who has just been snuffed out of life. As he dropped to his knees, his lips trembled. “Maria,” he whispered, and collapsed. Next Agostino fired one shot at Cephas. The single bullet lodged deeply into his abdomen. Cephas almost watched the bullet approach him, as if it were going in slow motion. The pain didn’t hit until his head met the hard and cruel ground. Maria was sobbing violently now. She struggled against the chafing ropes. Agostino approached Cephas’s side, stood for a moment with the gun trained on his head, then said, “No more threats please.” And he let his boot connect with Cephas’s rib cage. Bones were shattered and brought overflows of pain. Cephas’s lips trembled. And yet he felt resistance well within him. Not once did he cry out. “When I die,” he said, “let her go.” Again Agostino smashed his boot into Cephas’s side. “All I wanted was her to live,” he continued in a bleeding rasp. “I walked thousands of miles just to see her safe again. Reuben loves her. You can’t just destroy these things.”

“You’re a dog,” said Agostino. “You beg like a dog.”

Cephas raised his head. He could see Maria, weeping for their lives and for hers. She shouldn’t be at Agostino’s command. Abruptly Cephas bellowed. He felt fury rise within him like a wave. “For all good things!” he screamed, and, in one fast moment, drew the knife and plunged it into Agostino’s thigh. Agostino’s breath faltered. His hands flew upward and lost grip on his gun. When he stumbled, Reuben lifted the pistol. He managed to pull the trigger four times, crisply and spaced evenly. Two of them hit home. Agostino shuddered. Two dark holes formed in his chest. His face shook, and the eyes showed such hatred and anger that they began to water. “You can’t kill me,” he said. “No one will kill me.”  Slowly Agostino backed away. He stopped, cursed both Cephas and Reuben (they hardly heard him) and intentionally tumbled off of the roof’s edge and into open air. He fell yards before they could hear his body crunch and break against the street. Maria tore loose. Kneeling by Reuben’s side, she wept and tried to dry his wounds with her hair. “I’m sorry,” she repeated.

“For what, Maria?” Reuben smiled and felt her. The sensation of failure wisped away once he saw that she was no longer entangled in such cruel ropes. “He will be a great man.” The dim light of the lantern threw shafts of light as Reuben’s fingers grew weak and fell from Maria’s pale face. His breath ceased and his eyes shuddered, but stayed trained on Maria’s as they went cold and still. “He is your son,” she said, clasping Reuben’s hand within hers. “His name will be Reuben.”

************

All things were dim. Cephas felt hands wrap around him and carry him into a white room dazzling with grey lights. He was awake but asleep also, stuck in some strange and inescapable trance. And yet he felt intense pain when the doctors removed the bullet. This was something he could never avoid, it seemed. Pain. Whether mental or physical it was now a part of him. After all the hurting was gone he lay still, and thought he could see galaxies, stars, and planets race across his vision in some scattered mirage of time. The grey lights faded and dreams took over. They were the kind he didn’t know about even when he was in them.

Five days after Reuben died Cephas came to his senses, and found himself lying in a hospital bed. He was surrounded by white walls. It was silent, save the chirping of some stray swallows just outside the window. Sunlight poured into the room. Maria was sitting in a chair next to him, her head bent forward in sleep. Her breast was rising and falling rhythmically. Her shaded eyes appeared to be peaceful, and her lips, slightly opened, appeared as beautiful as a Roman sculpture. Cephas reached and touched her shoulder. His eyes darted to her pregnant belly, and he thought of Reuben, the man who should have had the pleasure of lying with her. Reuben should have had the pleasure of loving her at a close distance.

Presently Maria’s eyes flickered. She raised her head, looked at Cephas, and smiled.

“Maria,” said Cephas. She stood and entered Cephas’s embrace. This was the mature woman that he had left so long ago. Even then, however, she was just twenty years old.

“The war kept me,” he said once she sat down again. “I’m sorry.” Maria gave a short laugh and replied, “You saved me from a lifetime of misery.” Her voice was deeper and no longer girlish. It was the voice of bravery.

“How did he find you in the Alps?” Cephas was solemn.

“I remembered, about three months ago, that I had told him that was where I’d go for an escape,” she said, staring at the floor. Cephas could hardly fathom Agostino’s evil. However, he saw no need in hating him any longer. In fact, he saw no point in hating him even when he was alive.  

“I couldn’t save Reuben.” Maria’s throat clenched as she choked in sudden grief. She put her hand on Cephas’s. She said, “You tried all that you could. You are just a man, and you try to do more than man is able.”

“Where have they buried him?”

“I told them to take his body to the mountains.”

“Near Zurich?”

“Yes.” Cephas wept freely.

He remembered those grand peaks and dazzling crags. Reuben had conquered them all. Now his voice was lifting above them into a crevice of that mysterious storm. Years ago it had separated Cephas from Reuben for only a short time, but now it separated them permanently. It was an earthly storm full of heavenly things.

********

1917 came. America joined the Allies after three years of neutrality, and began to spread beautiful morale among the demoralized French soldiers. Cephas laced his boots in his house in Munich. Maria and her child Reuben were downstairs with his parents. Cephas looked out the window. He had told Reuben he was going to return to the trenches, and there he was, gathering the courage to face the blaring machine guns and burning bayonets. He didn’t want to die, but he wasn’t afraid to. He was afraid to disappoint Jasmine. He was afraid to break her heart. He knew she would wait for him in Paris. He had learned to catch the ingenuity of words. Jasmine had given him true love. She wanted too to hold on to something. If one didn’t during those times of war, he would fall from much worse things than gunfire. It was the love that he couldn’t afford to absent. When he learned the Americans were siding with the Allies, he almost felt glad. He saw no purpose in this drawn out fight. He wanted it to end. But he saw Gustaf, and other dying men that he could possibly save.

“You don’t have to go back.” Cephas faced his father.

“I know.”

“You gave me my daughter. Give yourself to us.”                          

“I have to go back. I was thrown into this mess, and I’ve got to finish it.” His father’s hair had turned grey from the years of worry. His countenance, however, showed that he was content. He smiled grimly and set his hand on Cephas’s shoulder. “You sure are brave. Perhaps foolishly so.”

Cephas cradled the small Reuben in his arms, and was pleased to see that his eyes sparkled just like Maria’s.

He was taken to a German base camp in northern France, where he could hear the boom of artillery thunder and roll like bass notes in a symphony. He was sitting patiently inside an office as a lieutenant searched the draft records.

“So you’re not a deserter,” the officer said.

“No sir.”

“You were captured in late’14, kept in a French prison until early ’16, then escaped and now you’re here on August 8th, 1917.”

“Yes sir.” He sounded like a machine.

“You took vacation in between?” Cephas found it difficult to explain his situation, but he did. The version was unblemished. When he was through, the lieutenant was fingering his cigar, tapping it so specks of ash fell to the floor.

“Should I believe you?” he said. Cephas hesitated. Why would the officer believe him? It sounded like a farfetched story. And yet it was true.  

“I told you what happened, sir,” he said. “You don’t have to believe it.”

Suddenly the officer frowned deeply. He knew that Cephas could have stayed in Italy and would have been completely safe. No German troops wandered Rome. There was silence in the air. The smoke from the cigar unfurled like a cloud and pressed against the ceiling until it dissipated and created equilibrium. “Why did you come back?”

“Because I might have a chance to save another life.”

“Thousands die every day, Wolfgang.”

“Then I can make that thousands minus one.” The officer chuckled. He snuffed his cigar and sat down.

“You’re one in a million who would come back to all this.” The officer waved his hand in a circular motion, gesturing the entirety of the war’s devastation. “To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t feel obligated to come back.”

“Then that’s you,” said Cephas. “I believe that I can save men.”

“Are you in love?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must be crazy.”

“I’m not going to die,” said Cephas, quietly. “And if I do, then she will still wait for me.” The officer stared at Cephas for a long while, admiring this young man of twenty-four, who had the courage to return to war and try and save another. It was truly unheard of. “There was a boy named Gustaf,” said Cephas. “It was almost three years ago. He almost died. But I got him to the hospital, so there’s a chance that he’s still alive.”

“But you don’t know.”

“I don’t have to know. I did it.” After a silence, the officer stood again. He was an older man, perhaps in his fifties, and looked anxious. He wanted to hear permanent silence, the kind that lacked any kind of gunfire. He shook Cephas’s hand and said, “I can’t decline your plea. You’re in.”

When Cephas felt the grip of a rifle, he was proud. A helmet was fastened to his head, and he was weighed down with ammunition and grenades. The trenches had changed. They were torn with time and looked old. The men there were despondent. They too wanted it all to end. But he remembered the place where the woman had handed out bread, and where he had fled through the tunnels in search of the hospital. He recalled the moment of complete chaos: when Gustaf was gushing blood on the ground and the sergeant refused to allow him leave. It was haunting, and felt especially cold. His worries, however, amounted to nothing. The last time he had stood there, he wondered and fretted over Maria until his throat grew taut. There was sadness for Reuben then, but now it was even heavier. He was truly gone. Now, Cephas was again preparing to die. He had told the officer that he would refuse death, but since he was on the stage, he held no such belief. Vainly, he searched for Gustaf, or the Austrian he had met on the flank. The faces were strange and spurred no recognition. They seemed to have turned oblong and devoid of hope, which was the worst disease and most known among the soldiers. Cephas sat down, also recalling the boredom that gnawed when no shells burst above them. It was a boredom to appreciate, which can hardly be called such. Any time that death lingered far away was a good time. Even it was just a moment the rapid span of peace would always be considered precious.

Later that month, a shout arose and it was known as the death cry. The French were charging. Sometimes the Germans would stay in their trench, but new techniques were constantly being tried. Since most knew the end of the war was underway, these tactics derived from desperation. Soldiers created lines behind ladders that led to the great basin of pain. Cephas saw a man of about twenty next to him. He was trembling violently and muttering something under his breath. The order flashed, and immediately the soldiers bobbed from the trench and combated the French attack.  Artillery blared. And Cephas remembered Reuben. “No. We won’t go back.” For a moment the entire front seemed silly, but the silliness too was engulfed with fire and shrieks.

 As Cephas ran, he saw Americans blended with the French and British infantry. The young man was behind him, shouting with all his might as explosions erupted all around, blowing men thirty feet into the air. Cephas encountered a tall American, swung his bayonet into his rib cage, and continued to run. Suddenly a shell seared the air with heat and landed behind him. Cephas dove under some barb wire as the shell exploded into a thousand pieces. It was followed by a scream. Cephas spun around to see that the young man was on the ground, bleeding in dozens of places from the shell. Cephas crawled to his side, winced, and said, “What’s your name?”  

“Winfried,” he groaned. The shrapnel had gone through his thigh and shattered his femur. Cephas couldn’t imagine the pain. “Winfried,” said Cephas as bullets burned the air above him. “I’m going to save you.”

Blood pulsed from Winfried’s leg.  Cephas tore a section of his sleeve and wrapped it around the wound. He shoved his hands underneath Winfried’s back and strained to stand up. Once he did, he started for the German trench in a trot. He ducked as he heard shells whistle and explode. The bandage was already soaked in red and was dripping with it. Cephas leapt into the trench. Fumes of fire hissed behind him. Several other soldiers were now in the trench. Some of them intentionally; others simply by being blown backwards. Cephas searched Winfried’s face. The eyes did not move. He was dead.  The eyes were like Gustaf’s. Cephas put his ear to Winfried’s chest. He departed from it quickly. It made no sound. It was quiet. The screams and shots which surrounded him dimmed. Slowly he backed away from the body and sobs came in thrusts through his lungs. More war, more misery. Blood poured. The machine gun continued to scream. Even though he had not been back for a day, he already hated the sound. Piles of dirt cascaded like a black waterfall. Cephas even caught sight of a rat, crawling along the trench’s zenith, suddenly torn apart by a tiny shell. And with all his might, Cephas screamed. It was a part of the vast and horrible symphony. He screamed. “Reuben! Maria! Jasmine!” Cephas’s hands fell to his side. When he looked at Winfried, bathed in blood, he felt his heart tremble, go cold, and then shiver. He had come to save. Perhaps that was not his duty.

Sometime that night, Cephas woke up. Everything was silent, save the rumbling of artillery farther down the line. The darkness was so intense that Cephas struggled to see his own hand. He waited for a sound, until out of the quiet he heard a soft moan, followed by a voice in French. “Someone, help me.” At first he shut the sound out of his ears. The sound came louder and still thrived in his hearing. The voice was cracked and full of agony. He gripped the butt of his rifle as he listened to the wounded man begin to whimper. Cephas heard him thrash out and hit some barbed wire. Abruptly Cephas realized that the soldier was entangled in it. Like lightning, a shell ignited the air a mile to his left. He thought it truly was lightning and took it as a sign.

Dropping his rifle, Cephas climbed over the edge of the trench, where nothing but spans of darkness reached, as if it were one black abyss. In a whisper, Cephas said, “Where are you?” The whimpers went quiet. Then the painful voice replied, “Follow the sound.” The wounded Frenchman clicked his tongue evenly, thus leading Cephas to his left. His foot touched the barbed wire. He stopped. The clicking was underneath him. Cephas knelt down, groping, until he felt the Frenchman’s helmet, which was still fastened to his head. “What’s the matter with you?” said Cephas, comically.

“I don’t think I have any toes on my left foot,” the Frenchman replied. “The wire is just over my chest.”

Cephas felt for the wire, found it, and cut it with his knife. The Frenchman thanked him.

“I’m German,” Cephas returned. “I speak good French. You didn’t even notice.”

“I noticed,” the Frenchman said. “What Frenchman would climb out of a German trench?” Cephas was surprised.

“Will you be all right, or do I have to carry you?” he asked. The Frenchman tried to stand up, but gasped when he put weight on his foot.  

“I’m losing blood,” said the Frenchman. “If you want to save me, carry me.”

“I can’t save you,” said Cephas. “That’s not in my hands to do.”

“Then it’s God’s,” stated the Frenchman. “If you follow Him, then carry me.” Cephas cradled the Frenchman in the darkness and headed blindly toward the French trench. And Cephas was insignificant.

Time of growing doubtfulness permeated the German lines. On a day in November, 1918, Cephas was told to give up his rifle. The war was over. When they crawled out of the trenches, someone began to sing.

Europe was in ruins. The Allies charged Germany with the entirety of the war’s finances, which was over some 70 million Euros. But in Cephas’s mind there was still Paris. He rode the train from Berlin. He slept on the way. He dreamed of Jasmine’s golden hair dancing with the sun. The sun that bathed the Seine River so affectionately in light.

In his dreams, he saw flashes of gold and again a voice that seemed to call him home. But he hadn’t the slightest idea of what home was. Though he had hated the war, it was his life. Now there was no rumble of artillery. And he was appalled by the silence. It was thick and profound and made his ears ring.

 For hours land rushed by and everything smelled of newness. The brackish land was regaining its flavor. Cephas could feel it. Even as he slept there was comfort in his brain. That was a new sensation as well. Peace.

Paris was golden. Cephas rushed off the train with nothing but his leather bag on his back and rushed over the small stone bridge. Beneath him the dark water rolled silently. The city was on the brink of a honey dipped twilight. The air was ice cold. Cephas’s breath fumed from his mouth as he ran. His hair flamed backward and he tilted his head upward, allowing the wind to envelope his neck and face. He stopped at the river’s side, gasping for breath, and searched keenly for any sign of Jasmine. There was no one. He walked along the bank for hours, peeking into nearby alleyways and inside lighted windows. It was night when Cephas saw her. She was standing alone on the stone bridge, softly weeping. At first it was questionable whether it was her or not. The silver of the moon, however, showed her yellow curls and the perfect shape of her face. Cephas hid in the shadows and listened.

“Where is he?” she wept. “Where is he?” Sometimes this phrase grew in passion. Sometimes it dwindled into a hopeless whisper. In Jasmine’s mind she saw Cephas draped over some barbed wire, cold and dead and with no one to come pick the body up. Her breast shook and she slowly fell to her knees. Cephas crept from the darkness and drifted to the top of the bridge. He stood behind her for nearly five minutes as she sobbed. She loves me. She really does. And he fell on his knees next to her. Jasmine couldn’t move when she saw Cephas’s face. For the rest of the night they were strung in each other’s embrace.

When they were married, Cephas was ashamed. His hands were covered with gnarled scars and stained with blood, soil, and guns. Jasmine’s hands were white and soft, pristine like a field of snow. He didn’t deserve her. He had realized that the minute he had seen her in the prison yard.

“Like I said,” said Cephas, “we went to America early afterward. Shall I tell you of this endeavor?” The musician allowed a small yawn to pass through his mouth, but this did not daunt his body or his conscience. The thinker, meanwhile, was hardly listening or ignoring, but thinking very deeply of the things said. Cephas noticed this. He was not offended.

“Of course,” said the musician. “It’s only four in the morning.”

The ship that Cephas and Jasmine rode to America was called the Morning Rose. Into the sea they sailed. As if on a cloud they sailed away from the memories behind. Snow came down under consuming sunlight. They could hear the water below them, splashing in enormous torrents against the bow. But the ship continued and even picked up speed. Racing, jumping, bounding into freedom like a stag running toward a yellow light.

Cephas and Jasmine stood against the ship’s railing and began to yell. The icy wind filled Jasmine’s hair and the sun ignited it so it shown like golden fire. “I love you!” yelled Cephas, laughing.

“I love you too!” They shouted it back and forth until Jasmine was too choked up with laughter to go on any longer.

“I came back,” whispered Cephas. “We all came back.” They danced along the deck. The light of the stars came and danced with them, holding them within a silver gaze. For all his pain and toil Cephas had earned the joy to dance with the woman he deeply loved. He would have the chance to dance with Maria, with his mother. He could shake his father’s hand, and could always watch the mountains: Reuben’s own melodious dance. He had fought for love, held onto it during the most hellish of all wars, and suddenly there is was, like an unfurling flower emerging from a pit of black. “Here it is,” he said, and laughed all the more. They didn’t tire throughout the night. Jasmine twirled, Cephas held her close. “Here it is,” Jasmine echoed.

“I love you.”

“And I love you.”

“You’re so beautiful.”

“You’re a soldier.”

“And you’re an artist.”

Cephas and Jasmine studied together in Boston. They ate cheese together. Their wine glasses clinked against each other in the evenings, next to the sea, where seams of waves splashed tints of orange against the havens.

“We came back to Rome,” said Cephas, “and I became a professor of philosophy until I was seventy, which was three years ago. And she died just a year ago. Suddenly. She was sitting in her chair when her book slid from her fingers, and her head bowed. When I came in, I thought she was asleep, and was having a good dream. I say that because she was smiling.”

Cephas himself smiled. The thinker shed a silent tear from something unknown, while the musician simply stared deeply into Cephas’s eyes. His fingers softly raked over the ukulele’s strings. “That’s my story. Now go.” Cephas gave a wave with his hand. “Go do it yourself, and have a good time at it as well.” Neither young man was able to give any words. Both of them silently stood, the musician with his strings in hand and the thinker still with his swirling eyes. They disappeared into the night, and softly, like snow falling in a forest, both of them began to sing.

When Cephas entered the apartment, Maria was still sitting in her chair, reading as intently as Cephas had left her. She glanced up.

“And?”

“I fell down in the street and slept,” he replied, closing the door behind him. “I told you that’s what would happen. I dreamed a very long dream. I remembered everything I ever did. Just like that it came to me.” Maria stood up, smiling. When she faced him, Cephas saw that her eyes were just like the ocean. Like the sea in winter. They had not changed since she was born.

“You were brave and wise,” she whispered. “And you still are.”

I love you.

And I love you.

You’re so beautiful.

You’re a soldier.

And you’re an artist.

Cephas began to weep, for such words spurred an incredible joy within him, and he never, ever tired of thinking of them. He saw Jasmine on the bridge, sobbing for her lost soldier. He saw her hands drawing his mournful face in Paris. And now he saw Maria. Her life had been kept because of hope. Jasmine’s life was laughter because of it. “I’m a soldier,” whispered Cephas. “God’s the artist.”