Beware of Gypsies
This story won the 2022 University of Chicago Margaret Annon Prize for Fiction Writing, a $1000 grant awarded to one student each year.
Somewhere in Bulgaria, a steamboat disappeared over the horizon.
Winston blinked, realizing he’d spoken too soon. The boat hadn’t disappeared over the horizon: it had simply disappeared. He pulled himself up from where he was draped uncomfortably over the port railing, his head spinning.
Now, that was odd. Seven years he’d documented foreign abodes, meticulously jotted cumbersome figures, quotes, maps, and facts; he’d never let expectations blind him before. It was why he was such a good explorer. But this assumption was different, surely? Steamboats were expected to remain solid. If they were to ever disappear, it ought to be due to the extension of the Earth’s curvature, slowly shrinking them until they vanished from sight.
Except, now that he mentioned it, The Cleopatra hadn’t gotten any smaller. She had been bobbing in the water not three meters in front of him. He’d been leaning over the dock to examine a small demarcation on its hull when—poof. It winked out of existence. Vanished. Like his argyle sock that morning.
Winston glanced back over his shoulder. The evening street was hazy and deserted, nothing except for him, the scarlet portico of the dock house, and perhaps a few feral cats. He turned back to the slip in front of him. The night felt vacuous; the waves below him clapped in their newfound liberation. He was alone, fully alone, in a some third-world country, having lost sight of the The Cleopatra—he checked his watch—six hours before her tour was set to resume. Where had the time gone?
He was supposed to visit Constanta after this, then Odessa, some port towns in Russia and Ukraine he couldn’t recall, and then take the express back from Istanbul so he could present his findings for publication at the London Club of Exploration. They’d been promised a best seller. Instead, he had quite inexplicably lost their ship.
Winston waved his hand into the empty night air ahead of him. It remained empty. And rather frigid.
“Bollocks,” said Winston. And fainted.
APRIL 17, 1927
DEAR GENERAL SECRETARY MORTIMER ( STOP )
I REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT THE CLEOPATRA HAS CONCLUDED HER DUTY ( STOP ) SHE WAS A GOOD SHIP WITH STRONG PROPULSION, AND COULD’T IMAGINE A BETTER START TO MY VOYAGE ( STOP ) THAT SAID, WITH HER ABRUPT RETIREMENT, I WILL BE REQUIRING A REPLACEMENT TO CONTINUE MY STUDIES ABROAD AND RETURN HOME ( STOP ) PLEASE SEND A SHIP AT THE EARLIEST CONVENIENCE—BULGARIA IS A TORRID AND TERRIFYING PLACE ( STOP )
EVER AND ETERNALLY GRATEFUL,
LIEUTENANT WINSTON G. PRESS
***
It had been a day since The Cleopatra’s departure, and she had yet to reappear. Winston decided that with the message disseminated, he had done everything he could logically be expected to do for the time being and fancied a blood sausage, as well as a scalding pot of tea.
Winston stepped out of the telegraph office and began walking the way he came. Town square was shaped like a circle, another backward aspect of this country, he thought, before brightly remembering these observations were in fact his job and jotting down in his notebook:
No understanding of Classical Geometry—fear of right angles?
Multi-level shops and homes dotted the square’s circumference, brightly colored flags strung over the narrow walkways between. These city blocks were divided by four equidistant roads that converged in the center in what was not a treacherous intersection, but, of all things, a grand domed Church. It reigned three if not four stories tall, rivaling any in London, and had replaced its churchyard with a large swath of sidewalk so that the air around it trembled with the sounds of pedestrians gabbing, street venders hocking, urchins shouting, and children laughing. (Or crying, children tended to switch between the two with exhausting indecision.)
The people here had a particular manner of dress, Winston noted. The men donned mostly suits, which seemed appropriate enough, though some added ornate textile vests underneath. The woman, however, resembled Swiss dolls! Sure, some had Western dresses, but most wore billowing blouses, vests, and belted tapestry-like skirts down to their ankles. Some tied bandanas or veils over their head, others parted their hair down the middle, flat and severe. Some wore aprons, which might account for the elicitation of Heidi, but there was a beaded ornamentality to their fabrics that made Winston recollect the savages of American Westerns.
He scribbled these astute descriptions into his notebook.
In all, the street presented a picturesque scene. Poplars dotted the walkways, parks were placed with such straight precision they resembled stamps, and every structure had been chalked in some dreamy shade of cream, peach, yellow, or pink. He felt like a ladybug amongst tulips. If tulips had drifters selling sheep wool between them.
Winston stepped over one such mountain of sheep wool, a feat considering it extended well past his thighs. Unsanitary, he scribbled in his notebook, be prepared to distract your ladies from cheap shawls, and set off to visit the shops on the opposite end of the circular square.
It wouldn’t be prudent, he decided, to venture too far from the telegraph office. It had been a trek to find in the first place, and he intended to get out of this godforsaken port town as soon as possible. So, he walked to the end of the block on the left, then the end of the block on the right, eventually smelled something edible and followed his nose until he landed on the crimson-tiled doorstep of something called: наслади сe.
“Aha, exactly what I was looking for!” said Winston who didn’t speak Bulgarian (his linguist, Sean, had been on board The Cleopatra when it… misplaced itself) and pushed his way inside.
An array of flatbreads greeted him. Cheese and chocolate scented the air. A waitress swooped past him, pushing Winston against the wall, and he nodded, embarrassed, to the al fresco patrons. The waitress held aloft a large plate with more of the same flatbreads, topped with what looked like ground meat (of what species Winston didn’t dare guess), some sort of fried dough topped in powdered sugar, a bowl of sliced cucumbers, and a dish of strawberries and figs. Winston felt his stomach rumble.
“Pardon me,” called Winston. No reply. “Pardon me! I say.” A group of old men playing chess in the back of the café looked up at him, then quickly turned back around. Winston huffed. He walked up to the counter, pointed to the breads display, and waited for someone to notice him.
A woman eventually did. She greeted him with a friendly-enough string of gibberish.
“Yes, I’ll take that cake there—the croissant-like one—a touch of jam, and a kettle. Tea, that is.” Always good to specify tea.
The woman’s smile faltered. Must I do everything myself, thought Winston.
“This! This one here!” He jabbed the glass. “The croissant! No, it’s alright, I’ll get it.” Winston walked around to the back of the counter, reached into the case, retrieved the croissant (which now that he touched it, seemed far too spongey for a croissant), and placed it on the counter. He then pulled a teacup from a shelf above her head, placed it besides his goods on the table, and returned to the customer side of the counter.
The café had gone silent.
“What’s the damage?” asked Winston brightly. The lady said something garbled again. “Ah, I’m afraid I don’t speak nomad. How about three English pounds?” Winston pulled the coins out of his pocket and stacked them one by one onto the counter with sharp clicks that reverberated around the small cafe. His tab balanced, he collected his breakfast and took a seat by the window.
Eventually, the chatter of the café resumed and a young girl in the traditional colorful dress came to fill his teacup with gelatinous coffee. This was an unfortunate development, but not unexpected considering the way the last 24 hours had gone, so he choked it down, devoured his pastry (feta-stuffed, definitely not a croissant) and continued his explorations of the country.
***
April 21, 1927
LT PRESS (STOP)
WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO THE CLEOPATRA? ( STOP )
How incredibly unhelpful, thought Winston, and shoved the telegram in his suit pocket.
April 21, 1927
DEAR GENERAL SECRETARY MORTIMER (STOP)
SHE HAS DISAPPEARED (STOP) I CANNOT EXPLAIN IT (STOP) PLEASE SEND RELIEF (STOP) I HAVE DETAILED ACCOUNTS IN MY NOTES AND WILL BE HAPPY TO HOLD GENERAL COUNCIL UPON MY RETURN (STOP) I BEG YOU FOR A SHIP (STOP) MY ONLY RESPITE IS THAT THIS DID NOT HAPPEN WHILE IN ALBANIA (STOP)
LT WINSTON G PRESS
POSTSCRIPT: SEAN CHIPLEY AND CREW MIA
***
Weeks passed. Winston’s beard was six centimeters now, his single suit stained beyond recognition. A month he’d lived like a convert in this forsaken land. He’d taken up street juggling when the money ran out, considered briefly monetizing his army skills as a hired hand, thought better of it, and ended up working the morning shift at наслади се, the café which he now knew roughly translated to “Enjoy.” How darling. He woke at dawn each morning like St. Paul, selflessly serving the heathens, delivering each in turn with each bow of the kettle. Most shouted until their coffees arrived. Some at least seemed to prefer it.
He had considered buying new clothes, especially after catching the nose of one particularly attractive young woman, herself adorned in the bright traditional dress he’d now grown accustomed, curl her nose in disgust as he walked by. He’d remembered her remarkability (he didn’t think most of the villagers here could even differentiate his odor) and considered her nightly as a suitable companion should his return telegram never arrive. Her name was Anastasiya, he later learned, and she was a regular at “Enjoy.” A tea drinker and true credit to her race, she deserved to visit London. To see the city stacked like playing cards, the smoke curling in cat tails over the factory hearths, the Thames, the red of bricks instead of terracotta… or whatever the roofs here were. She deserved to see the world, and he longed to see her in one of those goddamned flapper dresses.
***
May 30, 1927
LT PRESS (STOP)
WHERE IS THE CLEOPATRA AND CREW? (STOP) MRS. CHIPLEY HYSTERIC (STOP) WE DO NOT HAVE UNLIMITED CAPITAL OR SHIPS (STOP) PROVIDE A FULL REPORT FOR ASSESSMENT (STOP)
MAY 30, 1927
DEAR GS MORTIMER, LCE MEMBERS, AND MRS. AGNES CHIPLEY ( STOP )
I CAN SCARECE BELIEVE IT MYSELF, BUT THE CLEOPATRA HAS VANISHED (STOP) I KNOW MY ACCOUNT WILL NOT BE BELIEVED, BUT IF THERE ARE ANY MEN ON THIS EARTH WITH MINDS OPEN ENOUGH TO ACCEPT IT, IT IS THE LCE (STOP) ONE MINUTE I SAW HER, THE NEXT I BEHELD OPEN OCEAN (STOP) I WOULD LIKE TO LEVY THE EXPERIENCE AS A POINT FOR FURTHER EXPLORATION (STOP) IN THE MEANWHILE I AM IN DIRE NEED OF A RIDE HOME (STOP)
PLEASE (STOP)
DYING AND DESPERATE FOR BROTHERHOOD,
LT WINSTON G PRESS
***
After that, the telegraphs stopped. Winston filled his days waiting, writing idle poems in his notebook (mostly about Anastasiya), burning said poems lest someone call him feminine, and serving at Enjoy.
He was filling an afternoon shift when Elena, the waitress, tapped him on the shoulder. Winston looked up.
“Yes?” He asked. She pointed to a group of greying portly men huddled around a narrow table, twittered something incomprehensible, and departed. Winston took his cue and approached the booth.
“Hello, gentlemen. Can I get you anything—” And then something truly remarkable happened: Winston was interrupted.
“An Englishman!” said one of the men, sun-specked but fine featured with an uncombed mustache. “Something new every day at наслади сe.”
Winston gaped. “You speak English?” he managed at last, incandescent.
“Yes, I taught children the language in another time.” The man gave an is of no importance gesture with his hand. “What brings you here to Bulgaria?”
Winston thrust himself forward, claiming the last unoccupied chair, and scooted himself towards the educated stranger. “May I speak with you a moment?” he asked, breathlessly, “About that matter in particular?”
The man repositioned himself. “Of course, sit.” His companions, appearing less welcome to the intrusion, grumbled in Bulgarian and relocated tables. “There is not as much interest in the West these days, I am afraid,” said the man, “I am Ivan Borisov. And you?”
“Lieutenant Winston G. Press,” Winston struck out his hand. Borisov spoke in a gruff accent that reminded Winston slightly of the soldiers he’d come across in the Somme. The semblance was unexpectedly comforting: he knew how to handle Krauts. “You can’t fathom how pleased I am to hear the Queen’s tongue after all this time.”
Borisov laughed. “You are alone here then? Tell me the story.”
“It’s been over a month now,” began Winston, “I’m an explorer, a member of the London Club of Exploration—perhaps you’ve heard of it? No? I received funding for a reconnaissance mission to document lands down the Mediterranean and around the Dead Sea. My crew sailed to Spain, Portugal, Italy, Albania, and Greece, before arriving here, and were set to circle the Dead Sea before taking the train home from Turkey. I was given a steamship called The Cleopatra, a crew, a linguist, and one year to write a travel guide describing the near Orient in ‘such exquisite detail no one need ever visit themselves.’” Winston helped himself to the tea he was supposed to be serving. “Everything was going swimmingly until we docked here. One minute I was standing on the dock looking at the ship, and then poof! Gone, just like that. I feel like I’m going looney, but that’s all I can say on the matter. I haven’t a clue what happened.”
“Interesting.” Borisov placed his cheek on his fist, deepening the wrinkles around his eye. “Just you? Nobody more witnessed this event?”
“No one,” began Winston, but then he froze. A memory was beating its fists against his temples, a recollection he hadn’t seen before. “Actually… I think Sean Chipley was on the dock with me before the boat disappeared. The expedition’s linguist.”
“But he too has disappeared?”
“Yes,” said Winston, scrunching his eyes in effort to remember. “He’s… definitely gone.”
The memory was flitting in and out… the two of them had been talking on the dock. They’d been drinking and arguing about something. The dictionaries! That’s what it had been. Sean, that ferret-nosed simpleton, was still mad at Winston for tossing his Spanish and Portuguese dictionaries overboard about a day out from Gibraltar. It’s had been a spot of fun, really, and it’s not like they were needed anymore, but Sean had gone into a tizz. That night, he’d smashed his empty wine bottle against the hull of the ship, prompting Winston to call Sean an ‘asshatted fool,’ which in turn prompted the asshatted fool to retort, and then, suddenly, everything blinked out of existence.
“Sounds like gypsies,” Borisov said thoughtfully.
“This is Bulgaria, not Romania,” said Winston, worldly superiority tinting his voice.
“Are you saying gypsies cannot cross country lines?” asked Borisov. “Especially when a tempting steamboat with unsuspecting Englishmen lies just beyond the border?” Winston considered this.
“Perhaps,” he ventured, “how does this sort of magic work?”
“Oh,” Borisov dropped his voice and gestured for Winston to lean in. Winston did. “It is the darkest of black magics. Those witches you have in your motherland? Fairies? These are nothing compared to the dangers of the East.” Winston felt his pulse quicken. “Baby eaters, sorcerers, harems of the devil. They gather beneath the full moon—when did you say your ship disappeared?”
“About two months ago,” breathed Winston.
“Exactly as I feared! That was when the moon was at its fullest!”
“No!” Winston felt faint again.
“Yes,” Borisov straightened. “Walk lightly for you have danger here. The gypsies have learned new tricks from your kind. Travelers bringing with them projectors and showing films of impossible places. You have heard of the stop motion effect at the cinema? The camera stops, you move items, turn on the camera and, as you say, poof! Magic!”
“Magic,” repeated Winston.
“Yes,” continued Borisov, “But the gypsies, they see these films and learn to cast these same spells in real life.”
“Good heavens,” Winston mopped his brow.
“Take this advice,” continued Borisov, “avoid the full moon, bath only in icy waters, wear your shoes on the wrong feet, and never ever speak to woman after nightfall.”
“And these will make my ship return?”
Borisov shrugged. “Perhaps. Or perhaps whole thing is just joke by your crew. That is all I can say about the matter today—my friends grow restless.” Winston turned towards the other table and saw, indeed, the men’s whose table he now occupied staring back at him. Winston stood, thanked Borisov, and exited the cafe.
It wasn’t until after Winston turned to tip his hat in farewell that he saw the man’s companions back alongside him, heads tilted in jackal-like laughter.
***
July arrived. One day Winston, fastening his pants, realized he’d marched his way to the beginning of his belt without notice. The food here, far more vegetables and yoghurts than he was accustomed, seemed to agree with him. He still protruded, to be sure, but he’d had a belly back in 1890 when he first enlisted. The downside of this metamorphosis was that he needed to buy pants… plus perhaps a shirt or three, some shoes, and a pair of matching socks. But he knew the route as he stepped out the door of his flat and nodded hello to Nikola the flower boy as he strutted to the opposite side of the roundabout.
“Добро утро скъпи” Winston greeted the shopgirl. Good morning, dear.
She seemed to interpret from this that Winston spoke Bulgarian; he pantomimed that he did not. She nodded and, inferring from Winston’s appearance and hapless gesture to his ensemble, began recording his measurements. He walked out of the shop twenty minutes later in a casual black suit she’d had on hand. It was longer in the lapels than the Western fashion but well-fitting enough. An order for two more pants, six socks, four button downs, pig leather boots (how excited the LCE would be to hear about that!) and a boxy overcoat with square fur-lined cuffs would be ready in the following weeks. Winston checked in for work, grinned as the men playing chess in the back greeted him with their daily groans of disapproval, then began brewing each’s tea as he knew they liked. He stopped in at the telegraph office on the way home, long since learning the importance of ritual.
It was around this time that the Cathedral began consuming an ever-increasing percentage of Winston’s thoughts, and it struck him one day that he had been a bad explorer. It was during a transition period at the café; Winston rested his head on the handle of his broom, gazing across the marketplace at the domed monolith beyond, thinking that any good surveyor of cultures would have recognized this towering idol as the hearth of the city. He ought to have walked inside day one. It had taken him four months.
What was stopping him? Eastern Orthodoxy? Heresy? He didn’t believe in either of those. So why was he hesitating? Winston adjusted his textile vest and walked out into the plaza. Cars honked; buggies squealed. He strode onward, past the venders, past the beggars, up the marble stairs, and through the heavy spruce doors without a so much as a whisper.
Gold greeted him.
Ornate columns, gilded rafters, gold-leafed walls excavated in dizzying detail: this entire time, an Egyptian tomb had lain within that clay-roofed façade. Above him, man-made caverns, as inevitable as tidal pools, collected choir song and dispersed it in a gentle mist across the pews. Baroque metal chandeliers anchored the ceiling to Earth, and the walls—it was like no Sistine Chapel Winston had ever beheld. The men in these saintly frescos were not pale and blue, they did not match the city around them, they blazed. They threatened hellfire. This was not a place for idle worship. It was a carnival hall of mirrors, where no matter your vantage, their judicious gazes held you. And behind it all, the walls glittered with so much gold leaf Winston marveled there could be enough for the rest of the world.
He didn’t realize he’d fallen to his knees until they ached.
“If there’s a God up there,” whispered Winston, “I’m sorry. Whatever it was, I’m sorry. Is this what you wanted me to see? Is this what you wanted me to write about? I will. I promise, I will.”
The walls gleamed like fangs.
And then: “Излез, скитник. Търся си приятел.”
Winston whirled. A man had entered the church behind him. A scrawny fellow, scarcely out of university, with hay-like blonde hair and acne scars across his cheeks. His boyish charms (or lack thereof) clashed painfully with his Oxford suit and pompous porkpie hat. Winston stared, dumbstruck, at Sean Chipley, framed by the canonized, glittering like a saint.
“Мили Боже,” whispered Winston, standing. Dear God. He’d been wrong. Sean wasn’t an asshatted fool; he was an angel.
“Казах скрам, дядо!” said Sean, and made a “scram” gesture with his hand.
“I don’t bloody speak Bulgarian,” Winston managed, still awestruck.
Sean blinked in apparent distress that this pilgrim spoke English, then staggered with shocked recognition. “Winston? Lieutenant Press? Old sport, you’ve gone native! Where did you get the mustaches?”
“My face, where’d you think I got them, Harrods?” murmured Winston, but Sean didn’t hear. Winston placed his hand on Sean’s shoulder. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you,” he said.
An odd expression crossed Sean’s face. He removed Winston’s hand. “That… wasn’t what I expected from you, but I’m glad to hear it. Anyways, it’s time to get back on the ship. Istanbul awaits. You have your notebook, I assume?”
“I,” Winston frowned, then he jumped up, “It’s in my flat!”
“You have a flat?” asked Sean.
“I’ll be back in a jiff—actually, why don’t you come with me.” Winston thought it wise not to let Sean out of his sight again, began walking, paused, and turned back around. “Beg pardon, did you say Istanbul?”
That same sheepish expression returned to Sean’s face. Winston stared.
“Yes,” said Sean uncomfortably, “about that. We completed the Dead Sea tour without you.”
“Without me,” intoned Winston.
“Without you,” agreed Sean. “All of it. Our train back to London is in four days.”
“I don’t understand.”
Sean cleared his throat, eyes glued to the floor, and mumbled, “I suppose… we thought it would be a more pleasant trip if we were able to do it without you.”
“How dare you—” thundered Winston, causing several devotees to look over at him.
“It wasn’t just my decision!” Sean rambled, “Most of the crew was onboard. And then, that night, when we were both drunk and you still—still—refused to apologize for destroying my dictionaries, it was just too easy! The plan was made; the chloroform was in my pocket. It was just a matter of leaning you against the dock rail, and we pushed off while you were unconscious.”
“You chloroformed me?” asked Winston in disbelief. He’d survived the entirety of the War to End All Wars without so much as a grazed bullet, only to be defanged by his scrawny pock-marked linguist.
“Anton uses it as a sleep aid,” continued Sean, “He made the plan on our way out from Athens.”
“But, I’m the goddamn explorer!” spluttered Winston, “You can’t just finish without me! I’m the meat and potatoes of this bloody operation! I’m in charge! I bloody hired you! All of you!”
“Technically,” said Sean, “the London Club of Exploration hired me. I never ranked beneath you. I certainly never worked for you. And if I did, I would have quit. Respectfully, sir.”
Winston felt dizzy from the tennis match that was Sean’s tone. “You—” There were a few choice words for this entitled factory boy. This delinquent had just abandoned his superior officer in a foreign country because what? Winston had called him a pock-marked albino? A weasel-faced cabin boy? Had borrowed that voluptuous photo of Sean’s wife? (What was a shared sweetheart amongst recruits? Sean would’ve never survived the army.)
Sean held up his hand. It shook. “It was just a bit of a practical joke, it took us longer than expected to passage the Dead Sea, and I’m sorry, we never meant to abandon you. Just to take two, three weeks to actually enjoy the coastlines and natives. Cultural exploration is a passion for most of us, not just some hobby to fill retirement…sir. And—” here Sean snapped to attention as though bracing himself for a beating, “you were being a bit of a dick all trip, Lieutenant.” Winston had to disagree, but children these days were so touchy.
And yet, Winston also knew he had lived the last four months in abject terror. Fear had become a background hum, invisible until it overcame him. When darkness arrived after hours scrubbing kettles, when he jerked awake to silence instead of his alarm, when he found himself staring at his front door on Friday nights wondering how he’d make it through the weekend, it found him. The disappearance of The Cleopatra (an illusion, he now realized, like the cutting of a Méliès film) had been proof that God himself had turned against him. He thought he’d never see the soot-stained steeples of London ever again. He’d even prayed. And now to hear it had been a practical joke? Not divine retribution? What a relief to hear that God didn’t exist after all. It was like choking on helium.
So, although Winston would personally see that Sean be tried once they arrived in England, and the rest of his bloody crew at that, he could kiss the dimwitted linguist. Not a love letter by Anastasiya herself (little difference she made anymore) could make Winston so giddy.
“Absolutely nothing to worry about, my good man,” said Winston, guiding Sean toward the street. “Let me show you to my flat.”
***
Three hours later, The Cleopatra crashed through open ocean, her crew uncharacteristically useful and her decks uncharacteristically gleaming. Winston sat on a lounge chair on the top deck, waiting for his quarters to be cleared of the rice bags his crew had suspended for boxing practice, returning the salutes that he had frankly forgotten he was entitled to.
Sean was still tiptoeing. The linguist didn’t seem to believe Winston’s account that the chloroform had muddled his memory and appeared convinced Winston had spent the last four and a half months meticulously planning murder plots against the lot of them. Or at least ensuring they never worked again.
“How do you intend on explaining the gap in territorial records for your book, sir?” Sean had asked nervously as he’d carried Winston’s pack up the gangway.
“How worrying life must be for the simple!” Winston had responded, “I know how to spin a story.” And he did. He was a journalist, a writer, an explorer. His account would be the only tale of the near Orient that London families would be apt to know. And when he published that autumn, his words would be the closest to adventure those office-bound bores would ever come.
Winston took a sip of tea—strong, black, without a hint of sugar—and withdrew his notebook from his breast pocket.
Bulgaria:
The most astute among you readers might notice the gap that lies between the months of April and August. Where are my accounts of Romania? Ukraine? Russia? Georgia? Were these locales not the destinations this envoy intended to target? All I can say to you, dexterous and brave adventurer that you are, is this:
Beware of Gypsies.
That was a strong start indeed. Winston leaned back, listening as the wind whistled past his clean-cut face, his recovered linen suit as soothing as petroleum jelly against his skin.