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civilization.”
    The director had given in to the politicians. A huge kiosk devoted to the crimes of the insurgency was to be installed in the middle of the exhibit, destroying the illusion of naturalism she’d worked so hard to create. All she’d wanted was to re-create a way of life that had vanished, but now the exhibit would be a war memorial. The marshman’s guerrilla tactics and methods of torture would be showcased. All the old stereotypes were to be studiously reinforced. It was sure to be very popular.
    He considered telling her that the kiosk would be balm for the nation’s guilt; that war memorials were building blocks of empire; that museums were no different from any other institution: it took money to keep the doors open. But she was too upset for platitudes. He leaned in to dry her tears with his sleeve. Then, drawn closer by the gravity of her round wet cheeks, he closed his eyes and kissed her.
    After the kiss, she sat quietly for a few moments, then pulled a tissue from her purse and wiped her mouth. She got up, brushed the stiff fabric of her skirt, and walked the length of the guesthouse. When she returned to the hearth, she nodded, and in a voice full of resentment told him she understood.
    He didn’t really know what she meant. What was there to understand? She’d bared herself to him. He’d seen a bit of himself reflected there and reached for it, like the boy in the ancient myth.
    He was a broken-down relic. He knew that. She was strong and healthy and so much younger. It was a shameful mismatch. Now he saw just how shameful. Who was he to think he could comfort her?
    She said she was running late and asked him to hurry up and finish his coffee.
    He put out the cooking fire, and then, in the surest sign yet that she’d ceased to trust him, she knelt down and heaped extra sand on the buried embers, as if to suggest that he didn’t know how flammable a reed hut could be.
    But of course he knew. He’d seen his share of burning villages.
    She didn’t look back at him during the long walk to the exit. The lighting was undergoing a test. They were working on sunset. One of the attempts in particular was very much like the way night fell in the marshes, suddenly and completely, like a loss of consciousness.
    She stopped at the bronze gates and fumbled with her purse. The sight of it alarmed him. He told her she’d already been far too kind.
    â€œYes, well,” she said, “you may need this.” She handed him her business card. The tiny letters swam before his eyes: Thali Addison.
    She told him to come back at the end of the day. She’d be in meetings all afternoon fighting a holding action.
    He found it sad that she used the language of war to describe her workday, and in such a peaceful setting as the back halls of the museum, where even the dust motes seemed to follow the rules of an unspoken truce.
    He quit the museum and wandered windblown streets, his lips tingling from the coffee. Towering clouds dominated the sky. The air was raw. His new clothes kept him warm, but he was hungry again. He felt dazed and alone, like a doted-on housecat suddenly forced to live by its wits.
    He sat at a playground for a while and watched the clouds. A pair of boisterous twins came to play on the swings, but their parents spirited them away when they saw how he was dressed. He didn’t mind. Clouds were easier to watch than children; no one glared at him for looking.
    He lost track of time and hurried back to the museum, only to learn by the lobby clock, which was fixed to a stela imported from some conquered desert or other, that he’d been gone for less than an hour. The guards took an active interest when he settled onto one of the leather benches. He considered showing them the business card, but decided not to.
    A change had come over him. He was less frightened than before. He took off his shoes and sat cross-legged on the bench, like an elder