Servants of the Map by Andrea Barrett Page A

walk, past him and between a pair of those low white cylinders standing among the glossy mounds of hosta like dolls in a dark wood. He knew he’d fallen asleep only when his own sudden, deep-throated snore woke him.
    The sun had dropped and the sky had turned a remarkable violet-blue; perhaps it was seven o’clock. A few people still swam in the pool, but most were out, and mostly dressed, and the smell of roasting fowl filled the air. On the patio people milled around the grill and the table with paper plates in their hands. Bottles of wine, bottles of beer, dripping glasses, ice; he was, he realized, very thirsty. And past embarrassment,although the chairs near him were empty now, as if he’d driven everyone away. Somehow he was not surprised, when he rolled sideways in an unsuccessful attempt to pull himself from his lounge chair, to see Bianca, cross-legged on the grass, watching over him.
    “Have a nice nap?” she asked.
    “Lovely,” he replied. She seemed happy now; what had he missed? “But you know I
cannot
get up from this thing.”
    The hand she held out was not enough. “If you would,” he said, “just put your hands under my arms and lift …”
    Effortlessly she hauled him to his feet. “You want to go over toward the tables?”
    “Not just yet. I’ll sit here for a minute.” This time he chose a straight metal chair with a scallop-shell back. He sat gingerly, then more firmly. A fine chair, he’d be able to rise himself.
    “I’ll get you some food.”
    He sniffed the air, repelled by the odor of charred flesh. “Get something for yourself,” he said. “Maybe I’ll eat later. But I’m terribly thirsty—do you suppose you could bring me something cold? Some water?” He remembered, then, the bottle in his bag. “And if you could find two small empty glasses, as well,” he said. “I have a treat to share with you.”
    When she returned he gulped gratefully at the cool water. “Do you like vodka?” he asked.
    “Me? I’ll drink anything.”
    He reached into his leather satchel and took out the bottle he’d meant to give Constance. In return, Bianca held out two paper cups, printed with blue and green daisies. “The best I could do.”
    “Good enough.” He held up the heavy bottle, showing her the blade of grass floating blissfully inside.
“Zubrowka,”
he said. “Bison vodka, very special. It’s flavored with the grass upon which the bison feed in the Bialowieza Forest, where my family is from. A friend brings it to me from Poland when he visits, and I brought it here from Cambridge.”
    “Cool,” she said. “Should I get some ice?”
    “Never,” he said, shuddering. “We drink this neat, always.” He poured two shots and handed her one. “Drink it all in one gulp—
do dna.
To the bottom.”
    “Bottoms up,” Bianca said. Together they tossed the shots down. Almost immediately he felt better. Bianca choked and shook her head, her pale hair flying in all directions. He forbade himself to look at her smooth neck or the legs emerging, like horses from the gate, from her white shorts. He focused on her nose and reminded himself that women her age saw men like him as trolls. Even ten years ago, the occasional women with whom he’d forgotten himself had let him know this, and cruelly. How was it he still felt these impulses, then? That the picture of himself he carried inside had not caught up to his crumpled body?
    “Take a sip of water,” he said.
    “It
burns!”
    “Of course. But isn’t it delicious?” He refilled the ridiculous cups and they drank again. She had spirit, he thought. This time she hardly choked at all. He tried to imagine her as the granddaughter of one of his oldest friends, himself as an elderly uncle.
    “Delicious,” she agreed. “It’s like drinking a meadow. Again?”
    “Why not?”
    Around the left lobe of the kidney came Rose, a platter of chicken in her hand. She seemed simultaneously to smile at him and glare at her sister, who was