MARISHA’S FEET ACHED TERRIBLY. This was nothing new. Her feet and ankles hurt all the time. The doctor she visited last year said the bones were beginning to separate and she needed to lose weight and put both legs in casts for three months. The cartilage and ligaments needed to heal before they split completely, he had told Marisha, and at her age this would take time. She had thanked him and paid the nurse the seventy-five dollars and left. She might as well have given the money to her daughter. When the girl had been nine Marisha had carried her from Kiev to Prague and then on to the refugee camp in Vienna. Which of course was why her feet still hurt her today, the fact that they had walked the entire nine hundred miles. Only now her baby was seventeen and they no longer spoke to one another. For this she risked the border dogs and the wire and the guns? For her daughter to sleep until three and paint all the portions of her body that were not pierced and bring home stray dogs with spiked hair and sneers and the laughter of maniacs? If she had the journey to do over again, she would have remained in Lodz. Better to have starved or been beaten to death by the neo-Communists than see what has become of her precious baby girl.
Her feet did not bother her as much as the heat. The temperature had to be above forty degrees Celsius. She heard the newscaster speak of a hundred-plus Fahrenheit, but the numbers meant nothing to her. As did so much of this harsh new world and its blaring noise and idiotic habits. Violence and drugs and sex everywhere. No respect for the proper order of things. The Ukraine’s neo-Communist leaders who had stolen power after the Soviet downfall were almost better. At least they tried to justify what they did. Here in America it was take and snort and eat and steal and grab and beat. They even ate their own language, spitting out the half-mangled remnants. But none of that mattered now.
She had spent money this day like water. And why not? What difference did it make if they were cast into the street next month? She had dreamed of this moment for eight long years. Ever since the refugee camp in Austria, when the language class she was attending had distributed tattered copies of Hello! magazine. There on the cover was the diva Erin Brandt. Of course Marisha knew her diva’s voice already. Her parents had been opera fanatics. Good people of passion and order. All the elements Marisha had been unable to pass on to her daughter. But today not even that mattered.
Marisha had followed Erin Brandt’s career ever since her arrival in America. Nine scrapbooks contained every item she had ever come across. She had learned to use the library’s computer so that she could track Erin’s career in different countries. She had made friends with neighbors who could translate for her. Her daughter sneered at her interest and called it a sick obsession. But her neighbors were kind and helpful and understanding. It was just such a neighbor that read her the article about how Erin Brandt had been brought in at the last moment to sing.
In her excitement to meet Erin Brandt face to face, Marisha had not given thought to the heat. The flowers she carried for the star were wilting. There was little chance Erin Brandt would arrive for hours yet. Marisha decided to move into the shade. She left the Fisher Hall stage door and entered the doughnut-shaped tunnel beneath Lincoln Center Plaza. She walked with the swaying gait of a vessel fighting vicious crosscurrents. At nine o’clock in the morning, no one was about save a pair of guards lounging inside the air-conditioned basement foyer. They watched her limping progress with somnolent gazes. She mounted the curb as she did the stairs of the restaurant where she cleaned, heaving herself up. One of the guards leaning against the glass doorway said something and the other laughed. She could feel their careless gazes and knew they mocked her in the way of all barbarians. She walked farther into the cavernous parking area, expecting them to come outside and call her back. But it was too hot for them to move, and what damage could a fat old woman with an armful of flowers do?
Then she spotted the shipping crate.
The crate was three feet high and perhaps eight feet long and rested back behind the first Dumpster. The top and sides were stamped with the words “Property of New York Metropolitan Opera House.” The odors were fiercer here, trapped by the windless morning. But the heat was less oppressive in the shade, and she was used to bad smells. She eased herself down onto the crate, and sighed with relief as the weight came off her aching feet.
She huffed with frustration when the lid fell off the front. It probably meant nothing, since the crate was resting here by the refuse bins. Marisha debated whether just to sit there awhile longer, but there was the risk that some bored guard would use it as an excuse to move her back into the light and the heat. Gingerly she set down her bouquet and eased herself off the crate.
She groaned as she leaned down for the lid, then groaned a second time when she saw what was inside.
Erin Brandt’s face was far too serene for anything other than gentle repose. But the diva’s frock was pushed up high upon her thighs and her cloak was bundled about her shoulders. And the crate’s interior walls were stained with shadows that glistened in the dim lighting.
One hand was cast up and over the diva’s head, reaching out to Marisha in wretched appeal.
Marisha permitted herself only a pair of sobbing moans. Even in this first instant she knew what was required. The world could not be permitted to gape at the diva in such an unkempt state.
She leaned into the crate and adjusted the dress. Marisha settled the diva’s hands upon her chest, then draped the cloak over the sodden dress. Marisha fought to stifle her sobs. There would be time enough to weep when she had performed this service.
She pushed herself erect and reached for her bouquet. Marisha cast aside the wrappings and scattered flowers all over the corpse.
She remained there a moment longer, surveying her handiwork. Then she leaned over and kissed the diva’s brow.
Marisha hobbled back toward the sunlight and the harsh exterior world, blinded now by more than sunlight. She stopped by the glass doors and wiped her face clean. One more task, then she could give herself over to mourning.
She waited until the guard unlocked the glass door and pushed it open. Then she announced, “An angel has fallen.”