"Is that okay-for you to be in a church?"

"What you really mean is: is it all right for me to be married in a church?"

"I guess."

"It's okay with me."

"My family will say you should become Catholic."

"What else does your family say?"

"Huh?"

"You've got something you want to ask me again."

By now, Ganny was used to Lana's prescience-if that's what it was. He didn't bother asking how she knew, nor did he pretend not to know what she meant.

"There's this...tradition. From the Old Country, Da says. And he says the bride has to give the groom's family three gifts. And that she has to make them with her own hands."

Lana looked at him sideways. "I thought that only happened in fairytales."

"Maybe it does."

"Okay, so what sort of gifts does your Da want?"

"Well, he says the first one's for the warmth of the home. He wants you should weave him a hearthrug."

"Okay. That's it?"

"Well...for now." Ganady stopped and turned to look at her. "This is something you can do?"

"Sure. Why not? Weave a hearth rug." She shrugged as if it was of no consequence. "Did he say when?"

"Yeah. The Toschevs are to come to Sunday supper next. He says he wants the rugs should be there."

"All right."

"Will you bring it?"

"Check the stoop Sunday night."

"The stoop."

She smiled and started walking again.

Ganny turned and fell into step beside her. He noticed, as they pa.s.sed beneath the streetlights, that she seemed as substantial and real as anything else the lights touched. Between the lights she seemed a wraith, all silver and shadow.

"Moonlight," he said.

"What?"

"I only see you in the moonlight. The only time I see you in daylight is in my dreams."

"You think so?"

"I'm pretty sure."

They walked in silence for a moment, then Ganady asked: "What about your family? I mean, if we're really going to be married, shouldn't we tell them?"

"I can't tell them."

"Because they're not speaking to you?"

"Yes. That's one reason. And...Da might not believe me."

"Why not?"

"That's a long story."

"Is it a story you're ever going to tell me?"

"Yes. I promise. When-"

"-the time is right," he finished. "What if I tell your Da?"

She reached out and took his hand, turning him about. Her face was earnest, her eyes silver and gold in the moonlight. Her hand was solid and warm. "No, Ganady, you can't tell my Da. If you tell him...it could ruin things."

"What does that mean? How-ruin things?"

She looked suddenly helpless and uncertain. "I can't explain, Ganny. You just have to trust me. Please, don't tell Da."

Ganady had learned the folly of failing to honor Lana's requests. If she did not want him to say anything to her father, he would be dumb as a post.

"I won't tell him. I promise."

Now she smiled, squeezed his hand, and kissed him lightly on the mouth. He felt the soft brush of her lips, the warmth of her breath. She tasted like cinnamon.

"Ganny!"

He looked up toward the corner of South Fifth to see his family congregated beneath a streetlamp, waiting for him. Nikolai waved and called to him again.

He sucked in a breath of crisp October air. "Uh-oh."

He heard Svetlana's soft laughter and turned his head. He was not surprised to see an empty sidewalk where she had been standing. He continued on toward the corner, picking up his pace.

When he reached the corner, his mother was standing with her hands upon her hips and a matronly fire in her eyes. "And where were you?"

"I'm sorry. I was just...thinking."

"What-you can't walk and think at the same time?" asked Nikolai, and Marija t.i.ttered.

"You were just standing there, staring at that old grocery," said Mama. "What were you looking at?"

"Oh...there was a...a cat on the balcony. A big white cat. I thought it was an owl at first."

"An owl in South Philly?" asked Nikolai incredulously.

Ganny shrugged. "Stranger things have happened."

He reflected on the truth of those words later as he stood before his dresser and watched The c.o.c.kroach wave at him from Saint Mary's shoulder. She had simply been there when he returned from ma.s.s.

He heard Nick coming up the stairs, bade The c.o.c.kroach goodnight, slipped quickly into bed, turned out his lamp, and pretended to be asleep.

oOo The c.o.c.kroach was not much in evidence that week, and Ganny did not once dream of Svetlana, not even on the Jewish Sabbath.

The following Sunday evening, the Toschevs joined the Puzdrovskys for dinner as planned. When the food had been laid out, but not served, Vitaly Puzdrovsky brought a box to the supper table and set it on the corner of the table next to his place. It was the size of a small suitcase and it sat upon the table throughout the meal, during which everyone at table repeatedly glanced at it.

The box was no mystery to Ganady. He knew what it contained. Two rugs. Two. The third... He took a deep breath and let it out on a sigh. He had come very close to purchasing a small carpet from a store near The Samovaram on Thursday night before work. He had stood in front of the shop for nearly half an hour, staring at the wares, rubbing the bills in his pocket against each other and praying to hear some message in the papery whisper.

In the end he had come away with nothing. He knew that if he did such a thing, the jig would be up, as they said in the movies. And if he did nothing and no carpet materialized by Sunday supper, still the jig would be up, but he would at least have his money.

When the last dish had been cleared away, Da set the box before his place at the head of the table. Without further ceremony, he opened the lid and said, "Two of our brides have brought their gifts. Here is the rug Nadia Chernenko has made to warm the Toschev hearth."

He reached into the box and lifted out a st.u.r.dy-looking little rug made of brightly colored braided rags.

Mouldar Toschev nodded and said, "That will look nice before the kitchen stove."

Everyone at table nodded and agreed that indeed, this was a very serviceable gift, if not quite fine enough for the parlor.

Again Vitaly Puzdrovksy reached into the box, this time producing a lovely, soft carpet woven of rose silk and edged with burgundy velvet. "This is Antonia Guercino's gift."

"This will be lovely on the hearth, Vitaly!" exclaimed Rebecca Puzdrovsky.

Everyone was still admiring Antonia's handiwork, when Ganady felt his father's eyes upon him.

"And where is your girl's gift, Ganady?"

"Um...she said it would be here this evening. I'll go see if maybe she had it...sent."

Ganny rose and fled to the front stoop, where he found a soft cylindrical package wrapped in a piece of deep green silk and tied with a lacy golden ribbon. A small square of white card stock was slipped under the ribbon. On it, in a fine hand, was written: For the Puzdrovskys. G.o.d bless your hearth.

Bemused and feeling more than a little dizzy, Ganny brought the package in and laid it before his Da.

Vitaly sat back in his chair and studied the thing as if it might rise up and bite him. Then he pulled the ribbon free, unwrapped the package and brought to light Svetlana Gusalev's hearth rug.

It was the color of spun gold with the faintest touch of copper. In fact, it looked as if it might have been fashioned of spun gold, were that possible. It was as delicately radiant as sun on dandelion down. It seemed as soft as silk. It was the most beautiful piece of fabric Ganady Puzdrovsky had ever seen, and he could tell by the gasps of amazement and indrawn breaths and wordless sighs around the table that everyone else thought so as well.

"It's as light as a feather," said Da, turning it in his hands.

Mama reached out to stroke it. "It's as soft as a cloud."

"It glows like sunset," said Marija.

"This is too fine for the hearth," said Da. "This will be the centerpiece of our table at the wedding banquet, eh, Mouldar?"

And Mouldar Toschev, whatever his thoughts about the relative talents of his daughter-in-law-to-be, could only nod, not once removing his eyes from the glorious little carpet.

It made the rounds of the table then, with everyone taking a turn holding it, feeling its lightness, stroking its softness, admiring its delicate warp and woof, and inhaling its sweet fragrance.

"It smells like cinnamon and nutmeg," exclaimed Marija as she pa.s.sed it to Ganny.

It did. And as he held it, he had the strangest feeling about the little carpet. He knew the color, and the feel, and the scent of it. It was like...

Beside him, Mrs. Toschev tugged on the wonderful bit of cloth and he let it slip from his fingers.

It was like Svetlana's hair.

He shook himself. That was silly. A girl couldn't cut off her hair and weave it into a rug. Could she?

When the carpet had returned to Da's place, the Puzdrovsky patriarch rose and cleared his throat.

"Sons, thank your brides-to-be for their gifts. Mouldar Toschev will now announce the next gift."

Vitaly Puzdrovsky nodded down the length of the table to his counterpart and seated himself; Mouldar Toschev nodded acceptance and stood.

Ganady wanted, suddenly, to laugh at the absurdity of these two Polish-American businessmen behaving as if they were lords of some Old World kingdom. He caught his Baba Irina's eye, saw the glint there, and knew that she was having similar thoughts. He hid his laughter in his water gla.s.s.

Mouldar Toschev cleared his throat, and stroked his red beard for good measure. Then he said, "The next gift will symbolize the food of love which all families share. The brides will make for us..." He glanced about the table at each prospective groom. "Galobki."

Ganny all but choked on his water. Galobki! Svetlana should be pleased to hear that. Certainly she knew much about the creation of galobki, for the small cabbage-wrapped packets of spiced meat were a favorite in most Polish households. Little pigeons, they called them.

Mouldar Toschev was regarding Ganady down his long nose, waiting for him to recover himself.

"Sorry, sir," he murmured. "Galobki, you said."

"Galobki. Galobki that will be served at Sunday dinner next at our house."

Eighteen: Galobki.

"They want galobki."

Ganady fixed The c.o.c.kroach with a curious gaze, watching for any sign that it had heard him. It turned toward him and waved, as was its habit. In fact, he had found that wherever he went into the room, The c.o.c.kroach seemed to track his movements. Sometimes, when he drew very close, it would lift its forelegs from the shoulder or head of the icon and seem almost to reach for him. It was doing that now.