Anton seemed to mistake her speechless outrage for capitulation. His expression relaxed, anger giving way to condescension. “You will have to adjust your outlook, now that you’re my wife,” he intoned pompously. “With all due respect to your mother, she has allowed you more independence than is good for a young woman. I can’t blame her entirely, of course—she’s had no husband to take you in hand.” He put a thumb in the pocket of his vest and continued in a smug tone. “But you’ll find that marital harmony is the result of a wife yielding to the greater wisdom and experience of her husband. And, my dear”—he gave her a significant look—“that’s even more true in our case. Don’t forget, I’m over twenty years your senior.”
A dozen conflicting thoughts collided in Dominique’s mind. She wanted nothing more than to wipe the self-satisfied expression off her husband’s face. In one breath, he had criticized her, her mother, and the manner in which she led her life. He had no right to judge her or Solange!
But another part of her sounded a warning. She hardly knew this man, yet she had to live with him—had promised to. He was taking her away from the danger of Egypt, the sad and frightening memories. He was offering her a chance to start anew. And, no matter how chafing she found his approach, it was not much different from that of the husbands of her friends.
She thought of her neighbor, Odette, whose husband forbade her to go out without a male servant or family member for fear that she would be accosted by other men. And Paulette’s sister, who didn’t buy clothes without her husband’s approval. Dominique knew scores of women who tolerated their husband’s philandering, viewing them as a male prerogative. If a woman philandered, however, her husband could conceivably murder her, and the general view would be that he was rightfully defending his honor. Male dominance was unquestioned in the Middle Hast, and the French and Italians who lived there originated from countries almost as paternalistic.
Dominique stared up at her husband, not sure what to say. He regarded her with an air of tried patience, as though she were an unruly child. It was a look she had often seen on Solange’s face. And she was tempted to throw out a caustic remark, to argue, as she so often had with her mother. But she knew she wouldn’t get her money that way. All she would accomplish would be to create hostility at the outset of her marriage.
So, for now, she clamped her mouth shut and turned away, vowing to assert her independence when they settled into their new life together.
“So… you’re still here.”
Anton’s voice woke Dominique. The room was dark and he appeared as a shadowy form hovering over the bed. She squinted at the alarm clock on the night stand. Seven-thirty—evening already. Then she remembered. They’d argued. She’d turned away from him, silent, mentally exhausted, wanting only to be rid of him. He, too, had seemed anxious to escape. Mumbling something about cocktails, he’d hastily withdrawn. Dominique had taken off her suit and lain down, too drained for anything else.
Now she sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “What time is dinner?” she asked. She was refreshed from the long nap and her stomach growled with hunger.
“Eight thirty. We’ve plenty of time,” Anton said.
Dominique eased her legs over the edge of the bed. “I’m going to have a shower.”
“You can do that after,” Anton said.
He’s used to getting his way, Dominique thought. Already she could hear the rustle of his clothes as he undressed. “Lie back down,” he commanded.
Dominique started to protest, then changed her mind. Maybe it was better to get it over with, since there was no way to avoid it. She did as he ordered, but made no effort to undress or get under the covers. Anton, apparently, didn’t care. The mattress creaked as he moved to join her. She turned her head in revulsion as his whiskey-laden breath hit her full in the face. But he wasn’t drunk. With the same economy of motion he might have used to open a window, Anton gathered the hem of her slip and pushed it up around her waist. His voice was collected as he said, “Would you please remove your panties?”
Astounded by his methodical approach, Dominique’s first instinct was to balk, but her desire to finish as quickly as possible made her obey. She left on her slip, though. She didn’t want to be nude in front of Anton.
When she lay down again, Anton mounted her. The soft, hairy feel of his thighs on hers was startling—Stephen’s had been hard and muscled. In the dim room, Dominique couldn’t see much of Anton’s physique. Nor did she want to. He felt surprisingly underdeveloped. Stripped of his well-tailored suit, it was clear that his shoulders were barely wider than Dominique’s; his waist was thick, almost gelatinous in texture. But his skin was cool and dry, betraying no sign of passion. She wondered what he expected of her in the way of response.
For a few seconds, Anton groped feebly at her breasts, still covered in her lacy white slip and brassiere. An impulse of kindness made Dominique roll to her side so that he could unsnap the bra. There was no point in being uncooperative—Anton was her husband and this was only the first of many such episodes, she was certain. It was best to resign herself to the inevitable and try to make it as successful as possible. Solange’s words echoed in her memory: “You don’t love Anton now, but you’ll learn to, as I did your father.”
Dominique closed her eyes and tried to muster a pinpoint of tenderness for her husband. But his gestures were so hopelessly clumsy, so lacking in fire, that they were distracting. Nevertheless, Dominique was dismayed to discover that he was immediately ready to penetrate her. Without making any attempt to excite her, Anton inserted his member. Every muscle in Dominique’s body rebelled against the intrusion. She went rigid, crying out at the friction against her dry skin.
“It always hurts the first time,” Anton explained, his tone apologetic but dismissive. He thrust himself more deeply into her.
Dominique squeezed her eyes shut and resolved to endure it. She wanted to be anywhere but there. Her mind fled to Stephen. She could withstand the experience if she imagined him in Anton’s place. The memory of his lean, hard muscles and warm, bronze skin made her relax a little. But she had no time to immerse herself in her fantasy, for Anton finished almost at once. He stroked perhaps a dozen times before he shuddered silently and collapsed on top of her. For a few seconds, he remained in that position, then he rolled off her and hurried into the bathroom. Dominique clamped her legs together in involuntary disgust. The encounter had in no way resembled lovemaking. Dominique wondered if Anton had any real desire for her or if he, too, was simply performing a dreaded duty. He had mentioned more than once that he wanted to begin a family.
Dominique vowed to obtain contraception immediately.
Dominique gripped the armrest on the inside of the taxi door as it plummeted down the steepest road she’d ever seen. Every so often the automobile would veer alarmingly, the result of hitting a cable car track. The driver would jerk the wheel back, and the taxi would resume its jangling progress.
Anton studied his bride with a look of amusement. “Lucky it isn’t raining,” he remarked, “or it would be even worse.”
Dominique smiled weakly and tried to relax. It wasn’t that she didn’t like San Francisco. From the time the boat had entered the choppy waters of San Francisco Bay that morning, Dominique had been awed by the dramatic surroundings. Everything about the city was exhilarating, from the brisk wind that chased the final wisps of late morning fog, to the green mountains and vast bridges that punctuated the landscape of the bay. But the city was so strange—unlike any she had seen before. She was acutely aware of being a foreigner, of being thousands of miles from home.
As they rose to the crest of the hill and turned a corner, Dominique blinked, not believing the vision before her. Rising surrealistically from the street was a Chinese pagoda—in the middle of an American city! The taxi turned again and entered a narrow street lined with busy shops, many with their doors thrown open to attract passersby. Stands filled with vegetables, fruit, and fresh seafood spilled into t
he walk. An old woman in a pointed straw hat scurried out of a fish market carrying a pole across her back with a bucket suspended at each end. It was like something out of a painting!
“The Chinese like their seafood very fresh,” Anton joked, following her gaze. “There are some wonderful restaurants here.” He smiled. “This is a little out of our way, but I thought you’d like to see the city.”
“Oh, yes!” Dominique said enthusiastically. She gave Anton a look of polite appreciation, as she might have given an acquaintance who had done her a favor. He still seemed almost a stranger to her. Though they’d spent three weeks together on the ship, Dominique knew very little about her husband. Other than the initial dispute over money, their relations had been civil, but distant. They had spent little time together during the day: Dominique enjoyed the beauty treatments and shops (charging her few purchases to their stateroom), while Anton played cards or billiards. When the weather was warm, Dominique would settle cozily into a lounge chair with a novel, often chatting with neighbors. Anton preferred to socialize at the bar. In the evenings, they dined at a table for eight, so there was no chance for intimacy. Anton didn’t seem to mind; indeed, he showed little interest in Dominique. He danced the requisite dances with her, told her she looked nice when she dressed for dinner, and carefully confined his toiletries to one corner of the bathroom. Otherwise, their contact was limited.
“It’s a shame you don’t like cards,” he’d commented once as he dressed to meet his group. But his tone betrayed no genuine regret.
If Anton had been less indifferent, Dominique might have felt more guilty about her daydreams of Stephen. She tried to stifle them. But they came unbidden to her, surprising her, ambushing the course she had set for herself.
Now, as she gazed out the car window, she forced herself to mentally focus on Anton. They would be arriving home soon. His home. Her new home. She would meet his mother, whom Anton had written with news of their marriage. Dominique pragmatically anticipated that Madame Renard would be pleased by her son’s match. After all, the old woman had, according to Anton, encouraged him to return to Egypt to find a wife. And he had found a wealthy one.
Anton’s voice broke into Dominique’s introspection. They were in the financial district now, he told her. Dominique looked up at the skyscrapers that flanked the street. Each area of the city was so different from the last! A few more blocks and they were in the downtown shopping district. Then the sophisticated department stores and hotels of Union Square gave way to gingerbread Victorians trimmed in bright colors. They turned again and encountered a series of splendid mansions overlooking the sea. This was the most beautiful neighborhood Dominique had seen so far. “Are we close?” she asked hopefully. She leaned forward and looked at the vista below: blue water tipped with whitecaps, misty mountains, and careening seabirds. She felt her heart quicken in excitement. She could live here! This neighborhood seemed familiar, with its grand European-style architecture: generous bow windows overlooking the water, sweeping terraces, and imposing porticos.
“Nothing’s very far in San Francisco,” Anton replied.
Dominique settled back in her seat, feeling less apprehensive. San Francisco was really quite lovely.
They came to a vast park, an oasis of green. The kind of deep, vivid green reminiscent of England. Dominique saw mothers pushing strollers, lovers walking hand in hand. “What a huge park!” she exclaimed.
“Golden Gate Park,” Anton said proudly. “We’re almost home.”
The car traveled south and they exited the park. Soon Dominique spotted row after row of stucco houses painted a lively variety of colors, but mostly white, cream, pink, and yellow. Their tile roofs reminded Dominique of Italy. Each little home had a neat green lawn bordered with colorful flowers. The area was well tended, obviously comfortable and respectable, but unmistakably several rungs down the economic ladder from the neighborhood that had impressed Dominique a few moments before.
The taxi slowed in front of a white house with second floor awnings of dark blue. Like its neighbors, it had a patch of crisp, green lawn and several rose bushes. Anton smoothed his hair and put on his hat. He turned to Dominique. “This is it,” he announced, not meeting her eye.
Dominique’s smile froze. She looked from the modest house back to Anton, dumbfounded. There was nothing wrong with the house, nothing to cause Dominique to shrink from it. But Anton had given the impression that he was very well off, and this certainly wasn’t the house of a wealthy man.
The taxi driver opened Dominique’s door. Mechanically, she stepped out. Her high heels sank into the damp grass and she looked down in dismay as the wetness seeped into the delicate kid of her pumps. She lifted her foot carefully, so that her shoe would stay on, then stepped forward. A high-pitched bell sounded a warning and she stopped just in time to avoid a young boy speeding down the sidewalk on a red bicycle with training wheels. The boy passed her in a whoosh of air, then turned around and yelled over his shoulder, “Sorry!”
Dominique couldn’t help laughing. “Okay!” She said the first American phrase she could think of. She would have to get back into the habit of thinking in English. On the boat, Anton had spoken only French to her.
Somehow, the exchange with the little boy cheered Dominique. She stepped onto the sidewalk and took a good look around the neighborhood. It reminded her of the idyllic small towns she’d seen in Mickey Rooney movies. It was a world away from what she had expected of Anton, but, she decided, it was charmingly American. The prospect of living in a place so different from the one she was used to made her feel adventurous.
Eager to see the inside of her new home, Dominique turned and watched Anton pay the driver. She shivered as the wind whipped through the fine wool of her dress. If this was what San Francisco was like in May, she would need to buy heavier clothes.
Anton came to Dominique’s side and took her arm. “The driver will get the bags.”
Dominique noticed that he didn’t ask her how she liked the house. In fact, he continued to avoid her eyes. She followed him through a hip-high picket fence, then up a stone walk. There was a small porch in front, but it was devoid of furniture or flower urns. Dominique would have festooned it with wisteria or jasmine or whatever grew in San Francisco’s chilly climate. Yet this place was oddly sterile.
As though reading her thoughts, Anton said, “This is just a temporary rental. We had a house on Nob Hill before, but things took a downturn.” His tone was not apologetic; rather, it warned Dominique to accept the situation without comment.
“How long have you lived here?” she asked as she mounted the steps.
Anton shrugged and mumbled something unintelligible. He searched in his pockets for his keys, but before he could find them, the door was thrown open.
Anton’s mother stepped onto the porch and flung her arms around her son. Anton hugged her back, holding her close for a few seconds, then kissing her with genuine feeling. Dominique was surprised at the emotion he displayed. Pleased. Perhaps there was more to Anton than she thought. The affectionate exchange between mother and son gave Dominique the chance to study Madame Renard. She was a short, wiry woman with dark hair almost entirely devoid of gray. She might have looked almost as young as Anton were she not wearing the sort of shapeless black dress common to older women in Mediterranean countries.
After a few moments, Anton gently disengaged himself from his mother’s grasp. The woman released her son with obvious reluctance, but she allowed him to turn her toward Dominique. She continued to smile as she regarded her daughter-in-law, but the glow disappeared.
“Mother, this is my wife, Dominique Avallon.”
Dominique extended her hand. “Enchantée, Madame Renard,” she said warmly.
The older woman’s eyes showed no responding warmth, though she kept her smile in place. Her gaze dropped to Dominique’s handmade shoes, then rose to take in her ivory wool dress, her windblown curls and fashionable hat. When her eyes met Dominique’s, their exp
ression was calculating. Her fixed smile widened slightly. She stretched her hand out to meet Dominique’s and squeezed it in a grip of surprising strength. “How do you do?” Though uttered in French, her words had none of the welcoming lilt of that language.
An awkward silence fell over the trio as they waited for the taxi driver to struggle to the porch with the last of the bags. Dominique searched her mind for a topic. “Anton tells me you prefer to speak French. That will be good,” she said in a gracious tone. “I don’t want to forget my own language now that I’m in America.”
“I don’t speak English,” Madame Renard said. She turned to lead the way into the foyer.
On the left was a straight wooden staircase, on the right, a living room decorated with old-fashioned fussiness. Dominique stopped under the arch that marked the entrance to the living room and waited for the other two, now occupied with hanging Anton’s raincoat in the hall closet.
She couldn’t imagine that the living room reflected her husband’s taste. A pair of beige drapes trimmed with small brown pom-poms blocked most of the sun from the wide window that overlooked the front yard. Perpendicular to the window was a frilly-skirted sofa covered in brown, pumpkin, and gold flowered chintz. Opposite the sofa, two dark brown Victorian armchairs with antimacassars draped over their backs. They flanked a fireplace that appeared never to have been used. Dominique’s eyes traveled upward. In a place of honor over the mantle was a still life of poor quality.
Dominique tried to stifle the depression that threatened her. After all, the house was clean. The hardwood floor gleamed and there wasn’t any dust. With the drapes thrown open, a few nice paintings, and some bright pillows, the house could be inviting.
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