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, 12 La Sirène had made it further than I expected. I spotted the canal boat from the Swing Bridge of the Barn of the Beautiful and ran to the lock, just as the boat floated to the top. Nolo was casting off the lines, but the gates of the lock were still closed. He saw me and broke into a broad smile. He gave me his hand and helped me jump onto the bow. Ilya had his back to us, reeling out his story of the canal. Nolo held his finger to his lips. He wanted me to be a surprise. I knelt beside the coiled rope, keeping low. “I need a hand!” Nolocalled,asifhewerehavingtroublewiththelines,andIlyafinishedhisspiel and jumped onto the roof of the cabin, the soles of his boat shoes squeaking on the polished wood, and headed forward. He did this with the light grace of our father. He did this the way he always did. He jumped down into the bow, saw me, and smiled, too, though not quite as instantly, as enthusiastically as Nolo. I held up the string bag. “Lunch,” I said, though it was now nearly three. “Ifit’slunch,you’relate,”hesaid.Iraisedoneshoulderbywayofacknowledging the truth of what he said. I was late, but here I was. Wefinishedthetour,motoringoutofthelockintothelongdarkstretchofthe tunnel and finally out into the Seine. I watched as the tourists, schoolteachers from the south of France this time, disembarked on the quay. They were even bigger tippers and kissers than the Polish grandmothers. The last one off, a petite brunette with bright pink lipstick, clung to Ilya’s hands for a moment, standing on tip-toe first to kiss him on the cheek, then to whisper something in his ear. My brother laughed. “If I get to Nice,” he said. He watched as the 115 teacher rejoined her colleagues, as she turned one last time to wave. I felt a rush of jealousy that made my cheeks burn. Nolo appeared with some coffee cups for the wine. He jabbed Ilya in the back with his elbow. “Stop working,” he said. “Let’s eat.” Jacques, the captain, joined us on the back deck for our picnic. He opened the wine and chipped in a small can of pâté and a jar of gherkins. “Emergency supplies,” he said. We ate paté sandwiches and slices of banana with chocolate. We drank the wine. Ilya poked me in the ribs and said to Nolo, “I told you she couldn’t cook.” I poked back. We really were brother and sister. The late afternoon sun shone down on all of us. “Play us something,” Jacques said to Ilya after a while. “You always play a good tune. Not like that other stuff.” Jacques looked at Nolo and rolled his eyes. Ilya opened his violin case, rosined the bow. He played a jig with more enthusiasm than the Bach I had heard him play. Then Scotland the Brave, a song Julia had learned when she first started lessons. He played with feeling and a relaxed, idiosyncratic sense of rhythm that might have shown a natural gift for jazz, though it was hard to say. Finally he played his usual, the clunky Gavotte. “You should practice more, man,” Nolo said. “You could get good if you tried.” Ilya laughed. “It’s just for the tourists. I’d do just as well with a harmonica, but since my wife left me the violin, I might as well . . .” “Wife?” someone said. It was me. It was Nolo’s turn to laugh. “Oh, look what you forgot to tell little sister.” Ilya made a face. “Nothing to tell,” he said, then he turned to me. “You know the old joke, yes?” I shook my head. No, I didn’t. So he told it to me. A lord, showing a visitor around his castle, points out a large framed painting and says it is a portrait of his dear departed wife. “I am so sorry,” the visitor says. “When did your wife die?” “Oh, I didn’t say she died,” the lord says. “I just said she departed.” Ilya laughed. Nolo didn’t. “She left?” I asked Ilya. “Just left?” He didn’t answer. 116 Jacquesbrushedoffhishandsonhiscoverallsandstoodup.“Speakingofwives, it’s home for me. Don’t forget to tie down the tarps.” He wagged a finger at Nolo as if this were a sore point. “Good and tight.” Then he got his gear and jumped off onto the quay. “No tours tomorrow, boys,” he said. “See you...
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