Our mate deserves better, his dragon groused when Mikhail turned to hang up his towel and his elbow bumped into the shower door. Another turn, and the sink, which was the size found in the galleys of very small boats, gouged into his hip.
I agree that she deserves better. We’ll see to it as soon as our mission is complete.
His dragon did not argue, a sign that the matter was gaining urgency.
He squeezed out of the bathroom as Bird came charging by, eyes wide with alarm.
“What is it? Can I help?’ he asked.
She slipped by him into the bathroom. Over the sound of tooth brushing, she called, “My landlord has fallen down.” And a few unintelligible words.
She charged out two minute later and dashed into the bedroom. “Clothes . . . clothes . . . clothes . . .” She thrashed her way into some sweats and an old shirt. Mikhail was forced to dress in his clothes from the night before, but he left off the tie and jacket.
“Let me help,” he said again, more firmly. And when she looked up at him, her pupils large and dark, he added, “If your landlord will not mind my Walk of Shame wear.”
The utter surprise in her face at his offer struck him to the heart. He knew without asking that she had been more alone than not in her former marriage, with that man whose aura was so sour.
Her brief smile lit up her face. “Mr. Kleiner will never notice. If you really don’t mind, yes, I’d be very grateful if you’d come with me. I’m not sure how much help he’ll need.”
“Just to walk by your side is my pleasure and my honor,” he said, and loved the way she pinked to the edges of her ears.
She shoved her feet into sandals as he finished tying his shoes. She led the way out, through the beautiful garden in the soft predawn darkness. He made a mental note to ask whose hand lay behind the beauty of that garden, and if it was hers. She began to explain in quick, disjointed sentences about her landlord, a single man who had worked very slowly on his art over the years, painting landscapes that he mostly gave away as the fortune he’d inherited slowly dwindled.
“Mr. Kleiner’s just so unworldly,” Bird said as they passed through yet another area of the garden as beautiful as any of those in the great, historical manors back in China. “He paints so slowly—in these recent years, he’s maybe finished two. I don’t know anything about how art is valued, but I think he’s wonderful.”
She stopped then, checking him with an air of uncertainty. He let himself sense the surface of her thoughts: was she boring, going on about someone he’d never met? Was she using time he needed?
“I’d like to see his artwork,” he said.
And he watched her sunrise smile shine across her face before she said, “I’ll have to take you to the Strand, my favorite diner, to see the ones he gave the owner there, years ago, just because she always ordered the coffee he likes.”
They reached Mr. Kleiner’s house. Mikhail had seen from above that the roof was damaged, and several back windows had been boarded up. He could also see by the careful way Bird opened the weather-warped doors with their fine old carving that she thought a great deal of this house that did not belong to her. He followed her through a back door, into a spotless kitchen.
“He must have fallen after Mr. Noko left,” Bird said worriedly.
“Mr. Noko?”
“He’s deaf. And though we’d like to get him a cell phone, he refuses. He’s been living off the grid ever since he was a boy. He’s still afraid the government would do something awful to him as he has no social security number, or ID, or any of that. He spends his days outside, and he knows every plant in the entire estate.”
“Is he the one responsible for that magnificent garden?”
“Yes! I’m so glad you like it!” Bird threw a bright glance over her shoulder. “I often think that the garden is his masterpiece. It’s living art, every bit as fine as anything Michelangelo or Leonardo could paint.”
They checked once-splendid rooms, now sun-faded and shabby, as she told him more about Mr. Kleiner, Mr. Noko, and the other tenants living on the estate. The smell of mildew had set into the rooms facing the ocean. Mikhail listened to the story of otherwise lonely lives interconnected with mutual thoughtfulness and care, more precious than the money they didn’t have, as Bird searched anxiously for her landlord.
Emergency aside, Mikhail reflected on how right it was that his Bird had found herself a place amid art and artists as quiet and gentle as she. How could he take her away from it?
“ . . . there are landline phones in every room, old rotary dials, and even some beautiful thirties phones with brass handles connecting the ear and speaker pieces . . .” Bird was saying, then, “Ah!”
They walked into what had once been a magnificent library, with paneled walls and a Renaissance ceiling. High bookcases were packed with what appeared to be a very old library.
Bird spotted a white, balding head, and sped into the room. On the floor, between a great stone fireplace and an old couch sat an elderly, frail man, with a phone by his side.
“I pulled it down by the cord,” Mr. Kleiner said. His watery, faded eyes lifted to Mikhail’s face. “Who is this?”
“This is my . . . this is Mikhail,” Bird said. “He came to help.”
The man looked terrified. “He’s not from Them, is he?”