EPILOGUE
NICOLE

But one might complain of another if,
when he loved us for our usefulness or pleasantness,
he pretended to love us for our character.

—Nicomachean Ethics,
Book 9, Chapter 3

I worked right up to Christmas Eve. We were scheduled to sail the day after New Year’s on a ship called The S.S. Philonous. Giulio said the name was a good sign … the name was … what was the word he used? … propitious.

“Don’t you see,” he said. “Bishop Berkeley argued that, because it relies on someone’s perspective, shape can’t be an essential feature of an object—or person. Philonous said that. Thus what something looks like can’t be considered to be equivalent to what that something is.”

As usual, I had no idea what the fuck he was talking about and couldn’t care less as long as the ship floated and didn’t leak.

“You guys are nuts. You wouldn’t catch me in a boat, leaky or otherwise.”

That was Raf. He’d finally made good on his threat and had shown up the week before Christmas, after I’d called him and let him know what had happened to Giulio. The three of us—along with the three Bedner brothers—had celebrated the holiday in grand style up in Mr. Bedner’s house. With Raf’s help, I put together a traditional meatless Italian Christmas Eve meal, complete with eels and codfish and cauliflower in batter. Anton reminisced about Christmases back home (“before the Red bastards”) and the number of times all he’d received was a lump of coal; Anton’s speechless twin brother, whose name we never learned, nodded and folded his hands across his chest; Mr. Bedner searched around for the plum brandy—“too too nice”—and insisted we sneak a couple of shots before his wife returned; Raf talked about setting up an office in Vancouver—the boom was coming, according to him, and he wanted to be smack in the middle of it; Giulio caressed the slim book I’d bought for him (with input from Reginald Worthington III, who turned out not to be the complete asshole I first thought he was)—Phenomenological Hermeneutics and the Study of Literature; I dreamed of the Pacific Ocean and the swells and the urgent rasping of a salty tongue between my waterlogged thighs; and the empty chair that would have been Torp’s/Irena’s gave off its own vibes. Then we all toasted to a long life and talked and ate and drank until it was time to attend midnight Mass. Giulio was reluctant but the rest of us insisted—and, skidding along the icy sidewalk, we all piled into the Bedners’ van.

I’d been to lots of midnight Masses back home—my mother insisted we go because she said it was the French tradition and she wanted to keep up tradition. I think the real reason she did it was because she thought it might clean away all the sins she committed during the rest of the year. And my grandparents had taken me when my mother wasn’t there. But I just couldn’t enjoy myself, especially with that asshole of a priest looking down on me. This time, though, was different. Just a feeling. Nothing in particular. Nothing really definite. I looked around and noticed the gleam in the eyes of the Bedner brothers. They were like pure spirits or something. It still hurt me to think of what Giulio and I had done to Mr. Bedner. Strange how things happen. The man we thought was our sworn enemy became a close friend—almost part of the family. And there was Raf beside me just being Raf. He leaned over during the sermon and whispered: “Wonder what this is going for per square foot.” I giggled and jabbed him in the ribs. As usual, Giulio was lost in a world all his own. We still hadn’t talked about that day when he’d taken off. Or Torp’s vanishing. Was he dead or alive? I figured it was up to Giulio to bring it up. We had plenty of time. Besides, things were already complicated enough and I had my own stuff to work through.

On January 2, they all came out to see us off. The three Bedner brothers waved at exactly the same time in exactly the same way, like mechanical dolls. Then reached for old-fashioned handkerchiefs to dab their eyes. Raf did the thumbs up signal and blew kisses while shimmying back and forth on the slippery dock. We waved from the ship’s deck. Would we ever see the Bedners again? Probably not. Raf? Maybe. Torp?

The seas were calm and there was plenty of time to relax and think things through. Several days out, after a few drinks too many at a candlelight dinner given by the Philonous’s captain, I finally got up the nerve.

“Giulio,” I said, holding his hands in mine. “Do you love me?”

“Of course, I do.”

“Why?”

“I’m pregnant.”