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coffee by the cup. They brewed it in a tall coffeepot with a long wooden handle; a fine example was sitting practically under his nose. How had he forgotten that crucial step? It had all seemed so natural up to that point.
    He ransacked his memory for a time—a bivouac or hunting trip—when he’d seen coffee brewed by the cup.
    Once begun, the ritual must not be interrupted. Part of the pleasure of the marshman’s coffee was its preparation, which followed along scrupulous lines. He rinsed the coffeepot and then decanted the foaming cups into it, declaring with this gesture that he’d meant to make two cups of coffee and two cups only, rather than an entire pot. Of course, in the marshes, such precision would have been interpreted not only as frugal, but also as downright rude.
    There was a certain showmanship involved in pouring coffee from a height. He’d known experts who could extend the stream nearly a yard without spilling a drop. He raised the pot as much as he dared with his unsteady hands.
    He was glad to find the sugar in its authentic state, too, fused in small chunks like gemstones. He gave her one and took one for himself. A marshman liked to hold the sugar in his front teeth while he drank.
    She started to drink that way, then shifted the sugar to her cheek. This was an expression of her good manners. She didn’t want to make him feel self-conscious.
    In that way, she was unlike a woman of the marshes, who would have been glad for the chance to demonstrate the superiority of her teeth.
    They sat in silence and sipped their coffee, listening to the distant lowing of water buffalo. As faithful as the recordings were, they’d been produced with the average length of a museum-goer’s visit in mind. The sounds cycled every few minutes. The same water buffalo was ever lowing, the same waterfowl crisscrossing the sky.
    He waited for her to speak. It was pleasant to be sitting in a guesthouse, in the proper clothing, sipping sludgy coffee. He’d always felt at home in the marshes. That comfort had been at the very heart of his troubles.
    Finally he broke the silence, saying that he was certainly no expert, but he did wonder whether the fire starters were in their proper place.
    â€œI know!” she said, adding that she’d pointed it out herself, but was overruled by one of her colleagues who produced a photograph to bolster his claim. Her theory was that the photograph had been printed backward, an occupational hazard with old negatives.
    The subject ran its course. There was another lull, which he finally ended by saying the exhibit was brilliant. He didn’t mean to sound patronizing, but praising her efforts, dressed as he was, in that setting, was practically the definition of the word. He was an elder. In the guesthouse, offering praise or criticism wasn’t just permitted; it was his essential role.
    She started to cry. He didn’t try to soothe her. He simply made himself still until the crying stopped. She thanked him and went on to say that she’d just been handed a tough decision. A terrible insult, really.
    He made more coffee the same way as before, which caused her to tell him, very gently, that she’d never seen it done that way.
    He laughed and said he knew it was wrong, but hadn’t wanted to admit it.
    She took two sugars. She’d wanted two sugars before, she said, but was ashamed of her sweet tooth. Then she told him that some very powerful politicians had threatened to block the museum’s funding on account of the marsh exhibit. They claimed it was too “neutral,” meaning that the marshman was nowhere held responsible for his crimes against the homeland. Nowhere was there mention of the bloody insurgency that had cost so many lives, or of the barbaric practices that were routinely employed against coalition forces.
    She smiled ironically. “And all we did was drain the marshes and destroy their