Every woman would have her little mysteries, and Hannibal was content to allow his wife her own, to give her the privacy she sorely needed as she sifted through the confusing welter of her own desires. When Clarice had announced her plan to him, told him that she intended to to find out through means more scientific than the skill of his tongue whether she was actually pregnant, Hannibal had announced his own intentions to spend the day at the Centro Cultural Recoleta. In his life as the Dottore Hannibal did not work, as such, but he served on the board of the Centro, and he was known to pass whole days there. On Saturdays such as this the Centro often hosted a craft market, and he had set off thinking that in addition to wandering through the exhibitions and the impromptu dance classes he might also purchase some trinket that might please her.
It pleased him to please her, to see her smile, to think that he had in some way come to understand her well enough to know her preferences, her secret delights. As he drifted among the stalls, ignoring the efforts of the vendors to chat with him and the curious stares that followed in his wake, he found his mind returning, again and again, to the question of the child, and the decision that lay before his beloved. There was no doubt in his mind that she was pregnant, now; he had taken accounting of the days, and noted how long it had been since the last time she bled, noted how she had begun to turn her nose up at the scent of a pungent cheese. To his knowledge she had not been ill, but that was not the singular symptom some made it out to be. It was early days, yet, and sickness might come for her still, but there were too many variables for him to rely upon the absence of that one indicator as proof. He did not begrudge her the need for tangible evidence, but his own mind was made up, and so the questions that concerned him now were no longer hypothetical.
Would she choose in the end, his Starling, to carry this burden? She had told him no, but she was not opposed to changing her mind when faced with new information. An admirable trait, that, he thought; to cling stubbornly to principles despite the ever-changing nature of the world was to become staid and foolish and eventually obsolete. A quick mind, a rational heart, the dignity to acknowledge previous failings without bitterness, these qualities she possessed, and he loved her for them, and many other things besides. Loved, in his own way; he did not experience the world as other men did, but Clarice had settled herself inside his chest, wrapped her delicate hands around his beating heart, become the most interesting, most precious piece of himself. He would burn the very world to ashes, for her sake, if she required it of him, and feel no guilt. The world itself meant nothing, compared to his wife. And perhaps one day, he might feel the same for their child.
He had decided already that the child would be a girl. He could feel it, just as he could feel the warmth of the sunshine up on his skin. The teacup would not be made whole, but a new one had been procured in its place. A little girl had once meant more to him than anyone or anything else in all the world, and he could sense her drawing closer to him, growing larger by the second, pale, starfish-shaped hands reaching for him. When she came to him he would hold her, and keep her safe, protect this most precious seedling and watch her blossom as she had not been allowed to do in her previous incarnation.
If only Clarice would consent. Though he possessed the means to change her mind, chemically or hypnotically or otherwise, he now believed that to strip her of control in such a way would be crass, and he found no pleasure in the thought. Clarice would have to choose, of her own accord, or else the coming of the child would be no victory for him. Chaos would have its way; he would not interfere.
At the craft market he selected for her a ceramic bowl that had been lovingly shaped by an old woman with gnarled hands and eyes gone milky with cataracts. The bowl had been glazed in a bright, cheery yellow hue, and a black bird had been painstakingly painted on its center. Starlings were uncommon in this part of the world, and he knew he would find no rendering of one here. Still, though, that little black bird called to him for her sake, and he thought she might enjoy it. The wares for sale at the market were remarkably ordinary, inexpensive and unsophisticated, but they had been crafted by hand, using techniques that had existed for centuries, and each one was unique. The little bowl he carried back to their manse in a brown paper package held almost no monetary value, but there was not another like it anywhere in the world, and for that reason alone it was precious. Just as she was precious, for she knew no rival.
When he arrived at their home he found Clarice nowhere in sight, but he had not expected her to venture out of their apartment on this day. She would need time to think in silence, time to forget La Bella and become, once more, Clarice. It was Clarice who would make this choice for them, in the end. Clarice who had lost her father so young, who had been sent away by her mother, Clarice who had struggled and fought and bled in her desperate bid for distinction, Clarice who had been so long alone. La Bella did not exist, not in any way that mattered; La Bella had no memories from which to draw conclusions about her own desires. Clarice did, though.
In order to occupy himself for the few remaining hours left before dinner, Hannibal passed a shopping list to Rosa, his favorite of the servants, rolled up his sleeves, and gave the rest of the staff the afternoon off. It was, he thought, a very special day, and a special day called for a special meal. He set about rolling pastry for tartlets, and whisking eggs for custard, took the provisions Rosa had procured for him with a smile and set his sharpest knife into them at once. He worked methodically, without need for consulting one of his countless cookbooks, for these dishes he knew off by heart. Veal cutlets, for protein, for strength, for tenderness. Ratatouille, for comfort, for home, for the aubergines that had so delighted Mishca once, and might again. Lemon tartlets, for sharpness, for brightness, for brilliance. These things he would feed to himself, and to Clarice, this nourishment he would give to the child even now growing within her belly.
When at last the meal was prepared he arranged the dishes upon a marble serving tray, his hands steady and strong on the polished wooden handles, and carried it up to the terrace where he found Clarice waiting for him.
The sun was sinking low on the horizon, painting her in the hues of fire, oranges and reds and yellows. She glowed, radiant, a phoenix against an azure sky. She had burned herself to ashes on the shores of Chesapeake Bay, and rose before him now transcendent, resplendent, inviolable.
"Good evening," he said, as he laid his burden carefully in the center of the table. Clarice wore a simple black dress this evening, gathered beneath her breasts and flowing away into a softly swishing skirt, her feet bare on the tiled mosaic floor of the terrace. And though he had seen her shoeless more times than he could count he found himself entranced, for a moment, by the slender grace of her pale feet, by the thought that to appear before another in such a way was an intimacy all its own. It implied comfort, and security. It implied that she had no intention of running away.
"Hannibal," she answered, sighing, and he found relief, and hope in the word. He needed to leave her, to go and fetch the wine to complete their meal, but more than that he needed to touch her. And so he went to her, this glorious creature he called his own, and as he approached she stepped up to him, so that in the next moment she was nestled in his embrace, her breath warm against the tender skin of his neck. Her teeth were neat and straight and could have, at such close range, torn the life from him without difficulty. Perhaps that was why his heart raced so, when she kissed his neck, when he held her like this; perhaps it was the knowledge that such affection was not without danger. Each time he drew her into him he risked his own destruction, and could only trust that this time she would not be the end of him. Perhaps he had always enjoyed holding his hand above the flame.
"You know," he said, softly. It was not a question; she had told him that she meant to take a test, to find out for a certainty, and his Clarice always accomplished every task she undertook. She was, always, tenacious, in everything that she did. The thing was done, and she knew, now, whether he'd had the right of it. All that was left, then, was for her to tell him, for her to reveal to him the choice that she had made, for he felt in the tension of her muscles beneath his hand that the decision had been made already.
"Yes," she said. Yes, she knew, and yes, she was. In that one simple word he heard precisely what he had been expecting to hear. She was pregnant. It was no longer a question of ifs or maybes; the hypothetical had become reality. His heart swelled within his chest; he was close, now, closer than he had ever been, to the dream that had taunted him for a lifetime. A tiny ball of possibility had lodged itself within his beautiful wife, and all that was left to them now was to wait, and to ponder. If, of course, Clarice had chosen to accept it.
"And have you decided, my darling?"
Clarice leaned back in his arms, then, looking up at him with eyes sharp and bright and utterly certain. In that moment, haloed by the setting sun, she had never looked more beautiful.
"I want to keep it," she said, and Hannibal smiled, and kissed her forehead.
"Good, then," he said.
In the days ahead there would be much more to say. There would be plans to make, preparations to undertake. In order to maintain both her privacy and her dignity Hannibal had been acting as Clarice's personal physician from the moment they set forth on this journey together, and he intended to continue on in that role now. He would examine her, and monitor her condition, would care for her and the child-to-be expertly, and with far more dedication than any other doctor in Buenos Aires could boast. They were his charges, now, and no harm would come to them while he drew breath. The world beyond their door was dark and full of monsters, but Hannibal was himself a monster more fearsome than any of them, and he would protect what was his.
"Sit, my darling," he said, running his hands along the slope of her back. "I'll bring the wine."
Clarice's face was soft and sad, but she did as he asked, and folded herself neatly into her customary chair at the table. Hannibal left her then, and as he walked his mind was racing.
There was much to be done.