by Sarah Dunant
“They’ll say I trapped you into it to get a green card,” she had teased him the night before their marriage as they lay together in a sweat made up from sex and a lack of air-conditioning in his small Brooklyn apartment, traffic and neon providing an urban son et lumière.
“Well, at least they can’t accuse you of doing it for my money,” he had replied, already reaching for her again.
Strange how you could fall out of love as easily as you fall into it. How long had it taken for her to realize her mistake? That not only could she not soothe his pain but neither could she satisfy him. American men. They were not supposed to be so complicated. Hadn’t the free market and rock ’n’ roll given them everything they wanted? Freedom of choice ought to have left no time for neurosis. His painful emotional complexity was her first indication that capitalism was not, after all, the panacea it had been cracked up to be.
Even the sex was confusing. His need for her was almost pathological, as if he somehow believed that the possession of her body was the same as her soul, and that to make sure he hadn’t lost one he had to have the other all the time. Within the first year sex turned from a revelation into a habit and from a habit into a nightmare. Desire.
Need. Jealousy. And performance fucking. She came across the term later in a novel and laughed out loud at its accuracy. It struck her later that this too probably came from watching too many movies—too long spent watching Michael Douglas’s bare ass heaving up and down to the music of money, while the women writhed and groaned happily underneath. She had tried to talk about it with him once but he would have none of it. Sex isn’t for talking about, he would say angrily. It wrecks the spontaneity. But he already knew by then that it was over and that he was in danger of losing her.
Still, at least now he would have a part of her for always—the devil’s teat gift wrapped in a red-spotted handkerchief and delivered to his door. How would he feel? His horror would probably be less than his rage.
Jake’s rages. The other side of the pain. What a joy it was not to have to put up with them anymore. Leaving him had been wonderful. She had felt like an adult for the first time in her life. This was her American dream come true. Independence. She had liked being in the city alone. She had got herself a job in a fancy art gallery specializing in the flood of new Eastern treasures that was hitting the market, where her looks and her languages had earned her enough to rent a small apartment in the Village. Before long she found herself wooed by a Brazilian diplomat—an older, softer man, with olive skin and long tapered fingers. Someone who looked after her, took her out to restaurants, treating her with care, in and out of bed. There was an elegance to their lovemaking that spoke as much about her pleasure as his own. He did not expect ownership in return. Nor reassurance nor congratulation every time he did it. If there was less passion, then there was also less pain. For her, by then, it was the right trade-off.
And so she had been happy. Until the day the phone rang and she heard her own language on the other end of the line. What supreme bad luck, she thought. To find herself a prisoner back in the country she had done so much to escape from, a pawn in some unknown game of revenge for an angry unsavable man whom she no longer loved. And who, if only he could realize it, no longer loved her either. No. There was no white knight in this story. If Jake did come to save her it would only be to imprison her again. Waiting for him would be signing another kind of death warrant.
The door closed and she heard the man put down the tray on the metal table. She steeled herself not to flinch at his touch.
He put a hand on her shoulder and shook her. “Wake up.”
A different voice. Native but not city. Not the one with the chopper. Under the pillow she checked the pills. Then she opened her eyes and turned. The pain in her hand roared up like a flame and brought involuntary tears to her eyes. She looked up into his face and thought she caught a flicker of feeling.
“Does it still hurt?”
No. This man wasn’t like the other. This man seemed almost embarrassed by the thought of the pain they had caused. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“Sit up. You’ll feel better if you eat something.”
The dialect was more pronounced now. In the lilt of his voice she felt the heat of the cooking range in her grandmother’s kitchen and saw a host of sallow teenage boys with transistors to their ears, dying of boredom as they loitered in the local square. I know you, she thought. I’ve met you a hundred times: a village boy with village hunger. I know exactly what you want.
She felt a quiet ache in her womb. Hunger or fear? She would find out. “I don’t think I can get up. Could you . . .” she said, and she used the familiar pronoun, “could you please—”
Someone was ringing the doorbell. Back in an English kitchen she registered the sound with her heartbeat. Someone ringing her doorbell in the middle of the night. Someone? Surely not. He wouldn’t dare.
She looked at her watch. The darkness was deceptive; in fact, the night was already ending. It was 7:21: the edge of a winter solstice dawn. She hadn’t realized how long she had been working. She would have liked to have read it all back now, see just how different it felt. Never mind. If it was too obvious she could always doctor it later.
Another ring, this time more insistent. On the way to the front door she caught sight of a woman in the hall mirror: hollow eyes, pale face, hair all over the place. Unkempt. Unruly. Inside as well as out. So that’s what happens when you stop taking any notice, she thought. She must remember to give Mirka a different kind of beauty.
She peered through the peephole in the door. On the pavement a distorted figure in a suit with a big face was staring up into the fish-eye lens. It took her a while to recognize him. But, then, it had been a long time ago. Or so it felt now.
She opened the door, but left the chain on, like a pensioner checking the gasman’s identity card. He peered at her through the crack. He looked bulkier than she remembered. She had a flash of his torso above her, stomach muscles on the edge of fat. Or was that just in comparison to the body that had followed?
His first view of her seemed to leave him equally startled. She tried to imagine what he saw. Well, he already had experience of her as a madwoman.
“Good morning.”
“Hello, Malcolm.”
“I didn’t wake you?”
“No.”
“I wasn’t sure if you’d be up this early.”
“I haven’t been to bed.”
If he was surprised he kept it to himself. He stood for a second, waiting for her to open the door.
“But you got my message, right?” he said when it was clear she wasn’t going to. “I mean, when you didn’t call back I assumed . . .” He hesitated, reading the blankness in her eyes. “I’ve come for my watch.” She kept staring. “My watch, remember? I left it here. You haven’t mailed it already, have you?”
His watch. Of course. Watches, hammers. How careless these men were with their possessions. “I . . . yes, I mean, no. I . . . I’ve been busy.”
He nodded. “I guessed as much. That’s why I said I’d pick it up this morning before my trip. But you obviously didn’t get the message.”
“No.” The answering machine was in the hall. Asleep during the day she never heard it, and somehow in the night it never occurred to her to check.
“You’d better come in,” she said begrudgingly. She glanced behind him. The street was empty. She closed the door and slipped the chain off the lock, then opened it again. He stepped into the hall. “Where did you say you left it?”
“Um . . . by the bed.”
“Stay here,” she ordered, turning on her heel and taking the stairs two at a time.
It didn’t take her long to discover that it wasn’t there. Not by the bed, nor behind nor under it. Nor on the mantelpiece nor in the bathroom. But when she got back down to tell him that, he wasn’t there either. Then she heard the noise from the kitchen.
He was standing at the window, h
is hand cupped around the glass, peering into the darkness. “What are you doing in here?” she said angrily.
He turned quickly, but without any sense of guilt. “I thought I heard something knocking down here. You didn’t hear it?”
“No.” But the only thing she could hear now was the sound of her own pulse inside her head. She pushed past him, grabbing the binoculars from the side and snapping on the patio light. The garden was empty. But his light was on.
She stared at it for a while, then turned back to the room. She had to take a few deep breaths before she trusted herself to speak. Malcolm had been watching her. Now he gave a little shrug and turned toward the computer screen. She barged past him again and pushed the shutdown button. “Do you want to save the changes?” the screen asked her. She pressed Y and watched the words count up with dizzying speed, then disappear.
“Looked interesting,” he said over her shoulder.
Jesus, the guy had a nerve. What rights did he think one night had bought him? “It’s work,” she growled, switching off the machine.
“You’ve been up all night doing it?”
“Yes. Look, I can’t find your watch anywhere,” she said in an attempt to stop the conversation, her mind still racing around the garden. “You’re sure you left it here?”
“Well, I only ever take it off to sleep. And it’s not at my house,” he said evenly.
“Maybe you left it at somebody else’s?”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he murmured drily. “But I think I know who I’ve been with.”
You’re lucky, she almost added, but caught herself in time. Careful, she thought. It’s the end of a long night and you’re not used to company. Watch what you tell him.
“It feels different in here.” He was looking around the room, evidently curious.
“I’ve got a deadline,” she said abruptly. “It’s easier to work where the food is.”
He gestured to the window. “And the sheet?”
“Keeps the glare out. Means I’m not distracted by the view.”
“Except for when you’re bird-watching,” he said quietly.
She chose not to hear him. There was a shiny silence. She remembered the last time they had stood in this kitchen, his hands sliding up her legs, the feel of his tongue in her ear. The thought started the flow of saliva in her mouth. Wrong tongue, she thought, wrong hands. Don’t get the two muddled now.
She looked at his face. At least he had lips. It struck her that in another world she might find him attractive again. But not this one. Not now. Not yet. My God, what would he think of her if she told him? It would scare the hell out of him. Out of anybody really. It even scared her if she let herself think about it. Would it help her sense of recovery to make love to someone who didn’t have a hammer? Maybe. But not this man. This man was obviously someone on his way to work. The thought of it made her want to laugh. It’s okay, she thought. He’ll go soon. Then she could start searching the garden. “Do you want coffee?” she said, the words getting out before she had given them permission.
He appeared to think about it. “Well, if you’re making . . .”
“Ah, no, actually, sorry, I forgot. I don’t have any coffee.”
He held her look, letting his amusement show. “I drink tea.”
She scowled. “I don’t have any milk. Or at least not any that hasn’t gone sour.”
“You think you can manage hot water?”
She didn’t remember him as someone with such a sense of humor. Tom used to be like this, she thought. Before he became so goddamn threatened. She had found it very attractive in the old days. What was that aphorism she and Sally had been so fond of quoting? A guy who could make you laugh could usually make you come. But that was a long time ago, when men in your bed were more important than men in your life. Maybe she had returned to that state without realizing it.
“All right,” she heard herself say. “But I’ve got a deadline.”
“And I’ve got a ten o’clock shuttle to catch. Do you think I’ll make it without a watch?”
He sat himself down at the edge of the table, careful not to disturb any of the papers lying there, and watched as she boiled the kettle and got the mugs out. What does he think of me? she wondered. Can he tell? Can he tell just by looking at me?
“Is it the same one?”
“What?”
“The same book you were working on before?”
“Yes.”
“When do you have to finish it by?”
“Early January.”
“Will you do it?”
“Probably. If I work through Christmas.”
“Lucky you.”
“You don’t like Christmas?”
He made a face. “Do you know anybody over the age of fifteen who does?”
“Do you go home?” Strange how people still called it that, long after they had a home of their own.
“I’m lucky. Father in County Cork, mother in Australia. I’m fair to both and see neither.”
“So what do you do?”
“Get drunk, smoke dope, watch videos.”
“Really?” She laughed despite herself because she hadn’t taken him as someone into drugs. One-night stands. Amazing how little they can tell you about someone.
“Why the surprise? Don’t I look the type?”
“I don’t know.”
“You should see me without the suit.”
“I have,” she said quietly, putting his tea down on the table in front of him.
“Sounds like you disapprove.”
“Of dope?” She shrugged. “No. It’s not that. It’s just . . . well, it’s been a long time. I feel like somebody else now.”
“Don’t tell me, you’re more of a suffering-to-gain-redemption kind of woman?”
“What makes you say that?” she said sharply.
“Oh, I don’t know. Something to do with your intensity.” And again he held her gaze. “It’s all right. I meant it more as a compliment than an insult.”
They sat for a while drinking the tea and not talking, a distance of maybe four or five feet between them. It struck her that she should check the window again, but she didn’t know how to do it with him there.
“I’m sorry about the watch,” she said at last.
He shrugged. “Well, just as long as you haven’t given it to anyone else.” She shot a fast glance at him, but he smiled it away. He paused. “I’ve . . . er . . . I’ve been thinking about our night.”
“Have you?”
“Yeah. I didn’t expect to.”
“Thanks.”
He laughed. “I mean, at the time I thought you were a bit crazy, for me.”
“You’re right,” she said. “I am.”
“But then I realized I quite liked it.”
“My craziness, you mean?”
“Yes . . . and other things.” A longer pause this time. “I enjoyed going to bed with you.”
“Did you?” she said. “I didn’t think it was all that hot myself.”
He stared at her for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Maybe that’s why.”
“Why what?”
“Why I’ve been thinking about you. Because you don’t say what’s expected. Is that your final word on the subject, or do you think we might improve with practice?”
Depends on who I compare us with, she thought. But the thought didn’t warm her. Instead it made her shake. I can’t get into this, she thought. She shook her head. “It’s not you. I’m . . . I’m committed elsewhere.”
“Aaaah,” and she could feel him backing off. “Well, you should have said before. Sorry. My mistake.”
“It’s not—I mean, it’s sort of unfinished business.”
“You and your guy?”
“Er . . . no. No. Someone else.”
“Okay. Well, good luck with it.” He finished the tea and stood up. “Some other time maybe.”
Yeah, she thought, some other time. She watched him go. At the door
he turned. “Can I say something to you anyway?”
“Yeah.”
“Sally and Patrick are worried about you. Sally in particular. She thinks you’re in trouble.”
“Oh, really. How about you?”
“Me?” He sounded surprised. “I’m no judge. I’ve always had this thing for weird women.”
“Well, tell Sally not to worry,” she said fiercely. “It’s work. I’m busy. That’s all.”
“Okay, okay. Just passing on the message. Listen, I hope the book and your . . . er . . . other business go well. And if you find the watch—you’ve got my address.”
She didn’t see him out, just sat there until she heard the slam of the front door behind him. Then she picked up his tea mug and flung it against the wall.
sixteen
In the daylight the garden was still empty and his window was blank. He would, of course, have had ample time to get away. If he had ever been there. She spent so long with the binoculars trained on his path that her eyes hurt. A knocking at 7:20 in the morning? It didn’t make sense. It must have been a mistake. Or even a lie. How about if Malcolm had made it up as a way of getting himself into the kitchen? She hadn’t seen herself as someone with that much appeal. “Sorry. I’m already committed.” Well, it wasn’t a complete lie.
But half-lies, she discovered, can become whole. Twenty minutes later, when she set out to make herself the coffee she’d said she didn’t have, she found there weren’t enough beans to fill the machine and no more in the freezer. No coffee and no milk. No orange juice either. Nor any butter for the remaining stale heel of bread. In the days since siege conditions had taken over she had stopped thinking about such things. When had she last gone shopping? Seven, eight days ago? Even then the exoticism of her purchases had left no room for the mundane.
She looked at the clock: 8:40. If she went now she could make it back before the crowds. She thought about leaving the house. Even assuming it had been him at the window he surely wouldn’t dare try anything in broad daylight. Anyway, now there was no way he could get in. She went back to the window and checked the locks. Why hadn’t she seen him in his room? He must have been there at some point. Unless she’d got it wrong and that wasn’t his apartment after all? Maybe it was simply a monstrous coincidence, that one light going on at that particular moment. What if it had been someone up in the night needing a glass of water? What if all these precautions, all this surveillance, had been for the wrong person?