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"Who is buried here?" she asked.
"No one," said Bean, who showed no surprise at seeing her. "It's a cenotaph." Petra read the names that were on it.
Poke.
Carlotta.
There was nothing else.
"There's a marker for Sister Carlotta somewhere in Vatican City," said Bean. "But there was no body recovered that could actually be buried anywhere. And Poke was cremated by people who didn't even know who she was. I got the idea for this from Virlomi."
Virlomi had set up a cenotaph for Sayagi in the small Hindu cemetery that already existed in Ribeirao Preto. It was a bit more elaborate-it included the dates of his birth and death, and called him "a man of satyagraha."
"Bean," said Petra, "it's quite insane of you to come here. No bodyguard. This marker standing here so that assassins can set their sights before you show up."
"I know," said Bean.
"At least you could have invited me along."
He turned to her, tears in his eyes. "This is my place of shame," he said. "I worked very hard to make sure your name would not be here."
"Is that what you tell yourself? There's no shame here, Bean. There's only love. And that's why I belong here-with the other lonely girls who gave their hearts to you."
Bean turned to her, put his arms around her, and wept into her shoulder. He had grown, to stand tall enough for that. "They saved my life," he said. "They gave me life."
"That's what good people do," said Petra. "And then they die, every one of them. It's a damned shame."
He gave one short laugh-whether at her small levity or at himself, for weeping, she did not know. "Nothing lasts long, does it," said Bean.
"They're still alive in you."
"Who am I alive in?" said Bean. "And don't say you."