City of Lost Dreams

THIRTY-NINE

Max had found Pols in a small storeroom, curled up among stacks of boxes and tools. He wrapped her in his coat and was carrying her down the stairs. Pols was humming a tune under her breath. Max shook his head at Sarah. Tears were streaming down his face.

Pollina began coughing.

“It’s okay,” Sarah whispered. “Pols, it’s okay. It’s over. We’ll take you home now.”

“I’m sorry,” Pollina whispered. “But I’m just too tired. It will be soon, I think.”

Sarah looked into the girl’s face. She saw it written there, what Pols had said on the phone. Pols was ready to let go. She began coughing again.

“I want to be buried with Boris,” said Pols when she got her breath back. “And I’ve written a requiem mass. Don’t let the musicians play it too slowly. And I intended the Lachrymosa to be humorous.”

“Elizabeth?” Max asked Sarah.

“She’s dead. I gave her the antidote.”

“And . . . Nico?”

Sarah looked at Pols, who had her head buried in Max’s chest.

“There was enough for two.”

When they got to the ground floor, Sarah looked at the stairs leading down to the round room and the portal. The day crew was going to get a hell of a surprise. They could not leave Nico here. Alone. With a woman he hated.

“Stay here,” she said to Max. She ran down the staircase.

Nico was lying on the ground, eyes closed. The vial was next to him. Hermes, the rat, sat on Nico’s chest.

Max appeared, still carrying Pols.

“We wanted to say good-bye.”

“I think we should bring him with us.”

“Can you carry him?”

“I think so.”

Sarah tried to scoop up Nico’s small body.

“You got him?” Max asked.

“Yes. It’s just . . . it’s just he’s actually very heavy.”

“You take Pols.”

“No, I’ve got him.” Sarah tried a sort of fireman’s rescue posture. Nico’s pants slipped down.

“Got him?”

“Sort of. Crap. Wait.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Nico straightened up. “This is so undignified!”

Sarah dropped him.

Hermes the rat scampered up Nico’s leg and torso to his shoulder and stared at them, nose twitching. The rat appeared to be laughing.

“You’re . . .” Max said.

“Still here,” said Nico, standing up and brushing off his suit. “Yes. Don’t read too much into it. I prepaid for a year of Pilates.” He scooped the vial off the floor and put it in his pocket, then walked forward and held out his arms. Max leaned down and gave him Pols. The little girl looked big in the little man’s arms.

“I’m maybe not quite done,” Nico whispered into her ear. “And maybe neither are you. There is still music to be played. The opera isn’t finished.”

And that’s when Sarah heard it. She heard it in her mind the way she sometimes heard Beethoven’s voice. The way she had heard Philippine speak to her. The way—ever so faintly—she could sometimes remember the sound of her father calling her name, asking her to play him something.

She heard the five notes of Pollina’s opera.

“Pols,” said Sarah, “I want to try something. Will you trust me?”