A breeze picked up, blowing the snowflakes against the window of the kitchen. The temperature had dropped so the flakes were crisp and heavy and tapped against the glass. Yael sat on the stool the mute offered her, by the large wooden table. She watched him as he stalked about the kitchen. His movements were slow and deliberate. Often he went to the window and gazed out, or opened the door and stood watching, listening.
He did not seem to know how to behave with Yael. On the one hand he clearly did not want her there and seemed more comfortable in ignoring her presence. On the other hand he seemed bound by some innate sense of good manners that forced him to share with her the basic dinner he prepared for himself and a cup of strong Russian tea.
The mute, it seemed, did not own two cups. For some few minutes he was confounded by this and stood between the tiled stove on which the water was slowly boiling in an open pan and the table on which he had placed the cup and a paper bag filled with loose tea. Yael, seeing his discomfort, shook her head and indicated he should not think about her. Finally however he found a small soup bowl, which he reserved for himself.
He pushed the tea, which he had sweetened with sugar, across to her with a slice of bread. He took his own bowl and sat on a stool by the stove on which he balanced his tea and sandwich. He picked up a book and buried himself in it, and only then, when he seemed able to ignore her presence did he seem able to relax a little. His shoulders dropped and the tight furrows creasing his forehead smoothed out.
Yael drank the tea slowly, each sip an unimaginable pleasure, the warm sweetness scalding her throat. After the meagre meal she felt replete and almost dizzy. When she rose from the table, the mute blinked and his neck stiffened. He bent his face to the pages of the book, which were barely visible in the faint light seeping through the window and lost himself once more in the words.
In the corner of the room she found a coat hanging on a peg. Taking it down she wrapped it around herself. It was a warm winter coat, shabby with age, but thick, fleece-lined and soft. The coat enveloped her. As she drew the collar up around the sides of her face she smelled his musky, earthy scent.
The mute’s kitchen was small and sparsely furnished. The main feature of the room was the large table. In the corner of the room was a tiled stove, darkened by years of smoke. Its top surface was not large, but the chimney was thick, and the oven door, which hung open a fraction, was bright with flames that danced inside. On a shelf were jars and paper bags and in the corner a sack filled with potatoes. The floor was wooden; old boards that buckled and creaked under the foot.
Yael curled herself up by the side of the sack of potatoes, out of the draught that came from under the bottom of the door and close enough to the stove to catch a little of its heat without disturbing him. With her stomach warmed by the tea and her body cosseted by the soft warmth of the coat, she drifted to sleep. She woke briefly and was a little disorientated. The mute sat by the stove, still reading, his bare feet propped up on its surface.
An intense feeling of peace settled upon her. I am safe, she thought. For this moment. For this one moment I am safe. And it was enough for her. She fell asleep once more, heavily, deeply, dreamlessly.