Performance Anomalies by Victor Robert Lee Page B

to her child. He recognized those pictures because he had taken them years ago, after insisting over Dimira’s protests. On the other walls were paintings drawn by a child’s hand, some in simple frames, some tacked directly into the plaster.
    The home was the same, except that it seemed too tidy.
    Dimira emerged from the kitchen with a tin tray in her hands. As she approached, the tray shook and two spoons clattered to the floor. She stood before Cono, the teacups rattling, her head lowered.
    “Let me help you,” Cono said. He placed the tray on the floor and turned back to Dimira. With two hands, he raised her head so he could see her face. She was crying.
    She fell against him, pressed her head to his chest and dissolved into violent sobbing. Cono held her for long minutes, lightly swaying from side to side, until her gasping and crying gradually subsided.
    “Cono, she’s gone. Asel is dead.” Dimira let out one long, piercing cry. Suddenly it stopped. She hugged Cono and stepped back. She looked at him, her face streaked with tears. “Asel was murdered on the street, stabbed, two blocks from here. Six months ago. I wanted you to know but I had no way to contact you. She …” Dimira’s voice caught and she bowed her head.
    Cono pressed his lips against Dimira’s hair and held her until she slipped away to wipe her face. They sat down next to the tray, Dimira folding her legs to one side. Cono righted the cups and poured tea. He grasped Dimira’s hand.
    “At least they didn’t rape her,” she said. “I don’t think so. That’s what the doctor told me.”
    Asel had come home from school at this same hour of the day. Her mother had been delayed at work because of an argument with another teacher who accused Dimira of being too easy on the students, for why else would she be so popular with them? It was Dimira herself who found the child, still just barely alive as her liver bled inside.
    Dimira collapsed onto Cono’s knee. “She was all I have. She was all I am.” Cono put his hand in her hair and stroked it as her tears dripped onto his thigh. He considered the chances of finding Asel’s murderer in this city where murders were commonplace, a city full of motives and random nonmotives. Murders here were like waves slapping at a shore. He could offer nothing more than his stroking hand.
    Dimira sat up and wiped the wetness from her face with delicate fingers. “Cono, you helped us so much. I thank you.”
    “Dimira, it was only money.”
    “No, no, no! Cono, she adored you. You drew puppets on your hands for her. You showed her how to paint with her fingers. You taught her how to juggle. She always asked when you were coming back.” Dimira covered her face and began to cry again, slumped on Cono’s leg. He lightly twirled a finger in her thick black hair and began to sing in a soft, clear voice that came from deep in his chest. The words and the tones emerged immediately, coming to him from a place beyond his awareness.
     
    Even now, I feel your arms around me
    My breath is your breath and yours mine
    Even now, I hear you laughing like bells …
    You sing to me and I sing to you
    Dear child of my womb, my love,
    Time has left us, left us forever together.
     
    The two of them were silent for several moments, Dimira’s head resting heavily on Cono’s thigh. “She still lives in our memories,” Cono said. “She told me that she wanted to grow up to be like you and to teach, that she was lucky to have you as her mother.”
    They sat quietly for a long time, occasionally sipping the tea, until there was no more water in the pot.
    Cono unbent his legs and stood up. They hugged at the door. When he was outside and the last lock had clicked, he heard a muffled shriek of grief.

6
    Less than an hour remained before the meeting with the Beijing men. Cono made his way to Zelyony Bazaar and entered between tables laden with audiocassettes and CDs. Rows of boomboxes were blaring out the wares