In the Skin of a Lion

– Patrick? We have to go to Marmora.

  – Five more minutes, ten more minutes.

  – No, we have to go. I made a thermos of coffee for us.

  – Thank you.

  He felt his clothes wet with the sweat of sleep.

  – I’m awake. Marmora. Okay.

  On the balcony in the night air, he peered down into the landlord’s long green garden. The last of the previous day’s heat was still in the atmosphere. Hana locked up and they went down the two flights of metal stairway and then walked along Albany Street towards the car. The houses at this hour beautiful and large, stray lights on within them, and he could see the faint interiors, their privacy and character revealed, each room a subplot. His good arm was around Hana’s shoulder while she hugged the thermos to her.

  – Tell me about her.

  – She was your mother’s best friend. I’ll tell you the whole story.

  The second-floor balconies curved out to the street. Odours from each hedge. Mr. Rivera hosing his garden at three A.M. having just returned from a night shift, private as they passed him. A dog’s chain hung off a step railing. They were off to guide Clara back to this street. He found it most beautiful, felt most comfortable at this hour when they often saw racoons pausing on steps seemingly tamed as if owning the territory of the porch.

  They stopped by the Ford and unlocked the passenger door. He was about to climb over into the driver’s seat.

  – Do you want to drive? he asked.

  – Me? I don’t know the gears.

  – Go ahead. I’ll talk the gears to you till we are out of town.

  – I’ll try it for a bit.

  Hana sat upright, adapting the rear-view mirror to her height. He climbed in, pretending to luxuriate in the passenger seat, making animal-like noises of satisfaction.

  – Lights, he said.

  MICHAEL ONDAATJE is the author of the novels Divisadero, Anil’s Ghost, The English Patient, In the Skin of a Lion and Coming Through Slaughter. His other books include Running in the Family, The Cinnamon Peeler and Handwriting. He lives in Toronto.