“Walter,” she said. “I’m so sorry to do this to you, but I have to take a rain check on dinner tomorrow.”
“That’s quite all right,” I said. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, yes. Everything’s fine. I just found that I have to fly to Paris tomorrow for work. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” I said. “I understand completely.”
Only later did I register that Maddy had said Harry was making a quick trip to Paris as well. His second since December. In New York we think that flying to Paris is such an undertaking, but really, when one is living in Rome, it’s no more than a trip to Long Island. A direct flight is only two hours, after all. And the price these days is nothing. I remember marveling at my English friends who would jet off to Verbier or Gstaad for a weekend of skiing. For them it was practically next door.
I nearly called Claire back to tell her Harry would also be in Paris and she should look him up. But then I thought better of it. I was sure they both already had plans and the last thing they would want to do would be to race around Paris trying to have a quick drink together. There’s nothing more boring than an obligation drink, something quick, early in the evening, when the other person keeps looking at their watch because they have to dash off to something else.
When Harry returns from that Paris trip it is late. He enters the apartment expecting, hoping that everyone will be asleep. A single light burns in the living room and he goes to turn it off. But the room is not empty. Maddy is sitting there, staring out into the black Roman night, the ghost of her face reflected in the window. A glass of red wine sits in front of her.
“I thought you’d be in bed,” he says.
“How was Paris?” She does not look at him. Her face is still turned toward the window, her voice neutral, contained.
“Fine. You know how it is. It’s less fun being there when it’s all about work. I never thought I’d get bored of Paris, you know?”
She doesn’t respond. He is standing in the middle of the room, not advancing toward her as he normally would, sensing danger like an animal.
Finally she looks at him. “Harry, what’s going on?”
“What do you mean?” He begins to walk boldly to her, the best offense, smiling, his hands outstretched.
She recoils from him, and his hand stops just short of her shoulder. “Don’t.”
“What’s the matter?”
Still seated, she whips her head around to look at him. He has never seen her so angry. Not a screaming, violent anger. Something worse. Something cold and hard and withering. Her eyes are two pieces of cobalt.
“Are you having an affair?”
“What? Of course not.” He tries to sound surprised, as though the very idea were ridiculous. “Why . . .”
“Don’t lie to me,” she shouts, standing suddenly, cutting him off. A single index finger, thrust out like a knife. “I am warning you. Never, ever lie to me.”
“Can you please explain to me just what the hell is going on?”
She glares at him. “Nina Murray e-mailed me. She said she saw you in Paris last night having dinner with a young girl.”
It had been in a little bistro near the hotel. The concierge had recommended it. Harry thought he had recognized a familiar face in a group of Americans on the far side of the restaurant but only now was he sure. Nina Murray and her husband, Burt. She was a plain woman. Their daughter had been in Johnny’s class. He barely knew them. She and Maddy had been better friends.
“That’s right,” he lies. “I had dinner with Michelle, the head of marketing at my French publisher.”
She looks at him evenly. “Just dinner? You aren’t sleeping with her?”
“No, I am not sleeping with her.” And then he sits opposite her. “I love you.”
“Do you?” she asks, softening, wanting to believe him. “I used to think so. But lately I haven’t been so sure.”
He takes her hands in his. “I’m sorry. I have been very selfish. Traveling so much. Working on my book. I didn’t think how hard it might be for you and Johnny.”
She sits back and sighs, withdrawing her hands. “I don’t know what to think.”
“It’s okay. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea coming to Rome. When we talked about it last year it did, you know? But the book isn’t coming along well. And now all this traveling is taking me away from you so much.”
“Maybe. It’s just that ever since Nina e-mailed me, I have been sitting here thinking about you having an affair and thinking how it all made so much sense. You’ve been gone so much, and when you’re home, you’ve been irritable. Isn’t that what men do at your age? Hit middle age, buy sports cars, screw twenty-year-old girls, leave their wives.”
“Not all of us.”
She looks as though she is about to cry. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe Rome wasn’t a good idea. I don’t know. Can we do anything about it? Can we go back to New York?”
“I’ll look into it in the morning. Come on. It’s late. Time for bed.”
He holds out his hand, and she accepts it, lifting herself to her feet. She is precious to him at this moment.
In bed, they make love. Silently, sweetly. Her kisses passionate. They know each other’s bodies well. When it is over, he washes in the sink. For the first night in months, they lie in each other’s arms, her head on his bare chest. He is asleep. She closes her eyes, but stays awake for a long time.
2
Life is a series of remembered impressions. A smell, a touch, a sunset, carved angels in a cathedral, the death of a parent. We cannot take in everything we see, so we make sense of what we can, using these fragments to make up a whole. Patterns emerge, sometimes randomly; sometimes they mislead. Sometimes they reveal the truth.
Around this time Maddy e-mailed me a video she had taken of Johnny and Harry skating in Rome. During the winter, an outdoor rink is set up in the shadow of Castel Sant’Angelo, burial place of emperors. Harry and Johnny are skating easily clockwise around the rink, free as birds. Every time they pass, they stop and wave, smiling at the camera. The sky is white behind them. Other faces occasionally fill the screen: children holding on to the edge, young girls, pure faces surmounted by woolen caps, snatches of Italian from their mouths as they pass by. In the center of the ice, a young man is showing off, spinning and twirling. A light snow is falling. Everyone looks so happy.
It took several weeks for Harry and Maddy to extricate themselves from Rome. Arrangements had to be made, but it was easier than they had thought. They agreed to pay their landlords the remainder of the rent. The prize committee was understanding and regretted that the Winslows had to leave but did not penalize them. They had had other families leave early. Artists—they shrugged—need to be where they can work best. The tenants in New York were unhappy, but a clause in the contract gave the Winslows the option to revoke the lease early with thirty days’ notice. Even Johnny’s old school was cooperative, permitting him to return so late in the year. If he needed extra help to catch up with the rest of the class, the Winslows would have to hire a tutor. Harry stopped traveling.
I had been surprised to hear they would be returning within the month. It seemed out of character, but I also knew how important home was to both of them. Maddy e-mailed to tell me they would be back sometime in March. I was, of course, overjoyed. I even offered to let them stay with me in my small apartment (I never needed anything more). That’s when she told me their tenants were leaving. She made no mention of what Nina Murray had told her.
Carelessness is the handmaiden to tragedy. Cataclysmic events often have their origins in the mundane. We turn left when we had meant to go right, and the world changes forever.
It happens in late February. It is only a matter of days before they were to leave Rome. Maddy has rushed out to the macelleria near their apartment to purchase chops for dinner. It is almost five, and the shop is about to close. Harry is out for one of his walks. He will not be back for hours. In her hurry, she has
taken his credit card, which he had left on the front hall table. When she tries to pay with it, the cashier tells her it has been declined. He is apologetic. He tries again, but the response is the same. Embarrassed, she leaves the shop empty-handed even though the butcher insists she could come back and pay tomorrow. She has been a good customer, after all. These things happen.
But not to her. Every quarter, the trustees at her bank deposit money into her account. And she is good with money, never spending too much, keeping track of her withdrawals, always knowing to the penny what is available. For years she and Harry had lived off her income, with his officer’s salary supplementing where it could. When his book became a success, he was able to pay for more things on his own, but they had always maintained separate accounts. He had been very proud of finally being financially independent. But she knows money flows through his fingers like water. He is generous, yet irresponsible to a fault. That is one of the reasons they kept their accounts separate.
She returns home, an agonizing suspicion gripping her. In a drawer in his office, jammed in the back, she finds unopened bills from his credit card company. She opens the most recent one and is shocked to see the balance. There are hotels in Paris, restaurants, and airfare. She had assumed the publisher had paid for all his trips. Then she spots the name of a famous shop on the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. The date is from his first trip to Paris. It is for several thousand dollars. She knows that whatever was purchased had not been for her. Then she opens another envelope from the credit card company. It contains a notice requesting immediate payment; failure to comply will result in suspension or termination of privileges.
Maddy closes her eyes. She can’t think, can barely breathe. She places her hand on the table to keep herself upright. The truth rushes in on her. With a scream she rips the envelopes in half and then heaves Harry’s desk over with a loud crash. Papers flying everywhere. The laptop smashing on the floor.
“Bastard!” she yells. “Bastard!”
The noise brings Johnny and the maid running. “Mommy, are you okay?” asks Johnny. The child peers nervously from behind the door.
“Signora, stai bene?”
“Sì, bene, bene,” Maddy answers, struggling to regain her composure.
“Johnny, darling, Mommy’s fine.”
“What happened to Daddy’s desk?”
She kneels down and hugs her son, to reassure herself as much as him. “It’s nothing, darling. You know how you feel when you get angry, and sometimes you just want to hit something? Sometimes mommies get angry like that too.”
“You’re crying.”
“I know. I know. It’s okay, sweetheart.”
She knows what she has to do. To the maid she says: “Angela, per favore, impacchettare vai valigia di Johnny. Siamo in partenza stasera.” We are leaving tonight. “E la sua medicina.” And his medicine.
“Per quanto tempo?”
“Non lo so.” I don’t know.
The maid says nothing. She can read the signs. She has been married, has brothers, uncles. Roman men don’t even try to be discreet. Taking Johnny with her, she goes to pack.
Maddy hurries to her room and pulls a suitcase from under the bed. She throws in a few important things—jewelry, underwear, warm sweaters—and removes their passports from her bureau. Her cell phone. American dollars. She can’t stop to think. If she did, she might not have the courage.
“Where are we going, Mommy?” asks Johnny.
“We’re going home, darling. To New York,” she answers. She hadn’t known the answer herself until just that moment, but it seems the only possible response.
“What about Daddy? Isn’t he coming too?”
“He’ll come later. We need to go now.”
The old woman says nothing but picks up Maddy’s bag and carries it down the stairs to the street. “Stronzo,” she mutters under her breath. Asshole.
Maddy takes Johnny’s bag and her purse, giving the apartment a last look before closing the door. There is nothing she wants to remember. She does not leave a note. Maybe she will send one later. Harry should be able to figure out for himself what happened. Or not. Right now she doesn’t really care.
On the street she runs to a cash machine and withdraws the daily limit. She hands five hundred euros to Angela. “I will send more later. Io manderò più tardi.” Then she gives her a hug. “Mi dispiace molto. Thank you for everything. Mille grazie.”
Angela has hailed a taxi, and the driver has already put their bags in the trunk. She kisses Johnny, her eyes ringed with tears, pressing his small form to her. “Addio bel ragazzo.”
It is time to leave. Maddy doesn’t want to start crying again. “Leonardo da Vinci airport, per favore,” she says. They will buy tickets there. Johnny huddles close to her in the car. “When will Daddy join us?”
“Shhh,” she says. “Soon, sweetheart. Don’t worry.”
The industrial suburbs flash by as in a dream. She inspects small things. The back of the driver’s seat. The veins on her hand. The strands of hair on her son’s head. The thin fibers mesmerize her. It is the same as when her father used to beat her; she would stare at his shoes, fascinated by the pattern of the seams, the grains, the texture of the leather, pushing out the pain. Johnny sings softly to himself an Italian nursery rhyme he had learned in school: “Farfallina, bella e bianca, vola vola, mai si stanca, gira qua, e gira la poi si resta sopra un fiore, e poi si resta spora un fiore.” He flutters his hands together like the wings of a butterfly.
At the airport she pays the driver, and they enter the vast departures hall, a testament to postmodernist architecture. She sees the logos of many airlines. Royal Air Maroc. Air China. Air Malta. TAP. The endless possibilities. The chance to start over completely, randomly. Pick a place on the map blindfolded and go there. But that is too much. She knows what she wants, where she needs to go. She sees the same American carrier that brought them over. Walking to the ticket counter, she asks the agent for the next flight to New York.
“I am sorry, signora,” he says in excellent English. “There are no more flights this evening. The next is tomorrow morning at six. But nothing until then.” Maddy has forgotten that there are no flights to the United States this time of day. It wouldn’t have made a difference.
“Grazie, signore,” says Maddy. She shoulders Johnny’s bag and grabs the handle of her roller bag. “Come on, sweetheart. We need to go try a different airline.”
The news is the same at the British Airways counter. There are no more direct flights this time of night. They would be happy of course to book the signora tickets for tomorrow morning. What time would she like to leave?
“How about London?” she asks. “Are there any flights left to London tonight?”
“Sì, signora. There is a flight at 20:25. It gets in at 22:25.”
“I’ll take it,” she says, handing over her American Express card and their passports. “And can you book me on a connecting flight from Heathrow to JFK tomorrow? Both one-way.”
“Of course. What class would you prefer?”
“Business, please.”
“Bene. You are booked on the 20:25 to London Heathrow. Your flight tomorrow leaves at 15:05 from Heathrow, arriving in New York at 18:10, eastern standard time. Would you like to check your bags?”
“Sì. Thank you.” She places first her bag and then Johnny’s on the scale. Her hand trembles as she writes their names and New York address on the luggage tags. They have never flown without Harry.
“Prego. Here are your tickets. Present them at the British Airways Executive Club on the second floor of Terminal C. The agents there can help facilitate your passage through security.”
In the lounge Maddy finds a quiet area for Johnny to sit among the well-dressed executives chatting urgently in many languages or staring intently into the brightness of laptops. She hands Johnny his Game Boy and says she’ll be right back. “I have to go talk to the concierge, sweetheart.”
She asks the concierge to bo
ok a hotel room for them tonight in London. Does the signora have a preference? It has been a long time since Maddy stayed in a hotel in London. They usually stay with friends, but she doesn’t feel up to that right now. She remembers a hotel where she once stayed with her grandmother. It was charming, discreet, on a cul-de-sac off St. James’s. She doesn’t know if it is still there. The concierge affirms that not only is it still in business but it has availability for tonight. A deluxe king room. The price more than seven hundred dollars.
“Fine,” sighs Maddy. “We’ll take it.”
Returning to where Johnny is sitting, she looks at her phone. She had purposely put it on silent mode. She sees several missed calls from Harry. She doesn’t want to talk to him. Not now. Maybe not ever. She checks her e-mail. There are also several e-mails from him. She doesn’t open them. Where are you? reads one of the subject lines. Call me reads another. She cannot. She ignores them and puts the phone back in her pocket. But it doesn’t stay there. She has to think, to plan ahead. So what does she do?
She e-mails me, of course.
I am sitting in my office when her message arrives in my in-box. The subject line is Maddy, and it reads, Johnny and I flying back to NYC. Arrive from London. Stay with you for few days? Thank you. Love, M.
I immediately e-mail her back. Mi casa su casa. U ok????
Fill u in tom. Thx. U R an angel.
My fingers tap out Can I do anything? Pick you up at airport?
Not ncssry, comes the reply. Arrive @ 6. Take taxi.
3
And what of the third person in this drama? Naturally I don’t include myself. I am merely the amanuensis. What of Claire?
I am filling in details I learned only later. When she is not with Harry, she lives her normal life. He had told her he would not be able to see her for a few weeks, and that he and Maddy would be returning to New York sooner than originally planned. She was excited but also nervous. How would this proximity change their relationship? Would she be able to see him more? Or less? It was a question she ignored, like a crack in the ceiling, knowing that at some point, it would have to be addressed. So she waited.
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