In a Courtyard
by Ingrid Wenzler
It had rained hard, but the rain slowed then stopped before the sun rose, and when the sun rose, it rose high and bore down, and the benches in the courtyard dried before noon had come.
Two old men sat on a bench under a tree with long, thick branches. One man was tall, and he had high, defined cheekbones. He was called Ilya.
He had not spoken to the other man since they had come to the courtyard. He felt tired and out of himself, and he stared straight ahead. At first, he did not see what he looked at, but then he came out of it, and he saw a girl on one of the roads that led to the courtyard.
The road was old and arched, and he had seen her walk down it before and often enough that she should have known that the road would be flooded where it ended, where the wall around the courtyard was. Anyone who had taken that road as often as she had would know that. But she did not turn back.
She walked in the center of the road, where it was highest. Then she came to the wall that surrounded the courtyard, and where the road sunk and the flood coursed around the wall, she slowed and half-turned.
Ilya watched her step forward and back, and he thought that she would have to come to the courtyard by another road; he was certain that she would turn and take another road, but she did not turn. She looked around, and all at once, she straightened and leapt high and like a horse, with the sort of grace that certain horses seem to have, and the other old man, Nick, said, "Well. Well, how do you like that?"
Ilya said nothing, and Nick looked at Ilya, and he said, "I said, ’How do you like that’?"
"How do I like what?" Ilya asked.
"Oh, forget it," Nick said, and Ilya did not respond.
Ilya watched the girl. He could not bring himself to look away from her.
She walked with her shoulders drawn back and steadily, and she looked at the damp, black bark on the locust tree and the flock that flew from it. Then she looked all-around, and she lowered her shoulders, and it was as though what she had seen was all that there was, and nothing could matter more to her, not then, and he thought, What she has seen seems so right to her, so unalterable. He thought he remembered how it felt to know and feel and see so fully, and he turned to Nick and said, "Ah, she will sit with us; I think she will sit with us."
"You think so?" Nick asked, and Ilya said nothing and lit a Benson & Hedges with a match. The wind was fierce, and he had to put his hand in front of the match to light it.
He did not have to strain to see the girl now. Her hair had come loose, and it lashed her eyes, but she let it. Her coat was unfastened, and the silk that lined it was worn. She took her hands from her pockets and clenched them, and Ilya thought, well, this clean sharp hard cold has lifted her out of something as it has lifted me. He had felt so out of himself, but to see her, to see look all around, with her face flushed but held so high, well, he could not reduce that to words.
"You think so?" Nick said again, but by then the girl had come to the bench. She sat between Nick and Ilya.
Nick turned to her. Nick was older than Ilya; the skin beneath his chin was loose, and his eyes did not fix on you when you spoke. "Well," he said. Then he looked off, and Ilya was not sure if he would continue, but without looking to the girl Nick said ’Well’ again. Then he paused again. His lower jaw slackened, and he spoke from the side of his mouth. "Well," he said, "how are you?"
The girl said she was fine.
"Nick," he said, and he lifted his hand.
The girl told them that she was called Iva. She let Nick shake her hand, and Nick held her hand more than he shook it.
"Where are you from?" he said.
"Here," she said. "New York."
"But where do you come from? Me, I am Greek."
"I come from New York," she said.
"You don’t talk like you’re from New York," he said.
"Do you live close by?" Ilya asked then, and he listened to how she spoke, and he watched her. Her hair was dark and her eyes were dark and large, and she moved her hair from her eyes with the top of her hand. She wore thin, French stockings and low heels.
"No," she told him. "No, I work over there," and she turned her head to gesture.
Then Nick leaned toward her. He put his hand on her thigh, and he asked, "Ah, couldya, couldya speak louder? It’s hard for me."
Iva looked at Nick. It seemed to Ilya that she would go, and he did not know what to do. He wanted her to stay. He wanted to talk to her. He thought that she was someone he could talk to, and he wanted to tell her, I do not know Nick; I do not know him well, I mean. We are not the same sort, but then Iva looked at Nick and she said, "Sure."
Another old man in working boots came over and sat on the bench across from them. He leaned forward and said, to the girl but also to Nick, "Ain’t he beautiful?"
"Whadda you want?" Nick said. Then Nick turned to the girl. "He says that and I know he wants something."
The one in the working boots said, "Nothing. You look beautiful. Where’er’yah goin’?" Then he looked at Iva. "I mean he looks beautiful. He must be goin’ somewhere else. Is he going with you?"
Nick took yellow-tinted sunglasses from the side pocket of his dinner jacket, and he hummed part of a song.
"Your glasses, where do they come from?" Iva asked.
"Why? Do they make me look distinguished?"
"Yes," she said. Then she asked what the song was, what song he had begun to hum, but he did not seem to hear, and she asked again, "What is that song?"
"Oh, ya know," he said, "whas the name of the singer?" And he sang some of the words of it.
"I think I know it now," she said. "Do you like that one?"