A Separation(13)

No, at a certain point, one had to move forward, either by untangling the situation or by learning to live with its complications, the latter being the more common solution—people’s lives grew messier as they grew older, then simplified again when they became truly old. Men were better at this, they were able to propel themselves through life, often a man was barely divorced before he was married again, it was merely a question of expedience, which was not cause for shame. Matters were different for a woman—women were more self-censoring, they excelled at it, having been taught to be so over a lifetime—and yet the emotions I felt for Yvan, so different from the man I had been married to, the man I was still married to, stubbornly failed to dissipate.

I did move into Yvan’s apartment, three months after Christopher and I separated. Yvan’s work as a journalist provided him with a comfortable but not lavish lifestyle. He had far fewer things than Christopher, but those things seemed to matter more, to be more accommodating, and I placed my own belongings in among them with surprising ease. We lived in the apartment, often we would work in the same room together, eat our meals and get into bed without parting company. Although it was much smaller than Christopher’s apartment, as a couple we seemed to require less; it was discord that had required all that space.

And soon enough, Yvan began encouraging me to finalize the separation from Christopher, or at the very least tell him that I was no longer living in the old apartment, at present Christopher did not even know this. At first Yvan was hesitant, he seemed uncertain as to what his rights were—the progress of a relationship, for good or bad, can always be described through the accumulation or the disbanding of rights—but as the affair continued, now that I was living in his home, he made it clear that I was putting him in an awkward position, he only wanted to know where he stood.

Which was a fair request, I knew that myself. From a merely logistical point of view, it was vital I tell Christopher that I had left the apartment. What if there was a leak, what about the mail that was accumulating in the post box? These were simple matters, practical ones. Why then did I hesitate to call Christopher and tell him what was unlikely to be a blow, was it because of the previous acquaintance between Christopher and Yvan? Or was it because Christopher had asked me not to tell anyone about the separation, a request to which I had agreed, despite the fact that I was already living in another man’s house, a man who was in fact his friend?

For obvious reasons this indecision—what might become for Yvan and me, as with the couple we had dined with, a fatal hesitation—had to be kept from Yvan. I told him that I would tell Christopher—precisely what I would tell Christopher, we never specified. He never demanded that I ask Christopher for a divorce outright, perhaps he sensed that this would be going too far, and in any case, it was humiliating to force a woman to ask her husband for a divorce, a woman should offer such a thing of her own free will, in order to be with the man she loves.

But the longer I stayed in Gerolimenas and waited for Christopher, the more the desire to actually confront him seeped away. I did not doubt the depth of my feelings for Yvan, but the issue began to feel like a question of administration rather than passion, a difficult thing to admit to oneself, much less to an impatient lover. Perhaps it was a question of age: You cannot say you did it out of love, since at your age romantic passions have grown weak, and the heart obeys reason.

And yet reason dictated that I could not be married to one man and live with another, at least not for very long. The heart obeys reason. What would be irrational would be to remain in this state of indecision, neither in nor out of the marriage, neither with nor free of this man. The sooner I was able to deliver myself from this situation the better, I could not remain beholden to two separate and antagonistic sets of expectation, I reminded myself that there were reasons why I needed to find Christopher, for my sake if not his.

Why don’t I come out and join you? Yvan asked again.

I don’t think that’s a good idea, I said.

I worried that he would hear the response as too aggressive, too hostile, I wasn’t trying to negate his anxieties, although I didn’t exactly want them to blossom either, that would do neither of us good. I continued, It would muddy the water, I don’t want to involve you in this, that doesn’t seem fair to anybody, and before I could go much further he cut me off, he said, Of course, you’re right, it’s only that I miss you. I miss you too, I said.

We talked a little longer, I told him about the hotel, about the girl Maria—he found the idea that Christopher might have seduced her immensely entertaining, that was, he said, exactly the kind of thing Christopher would do, he was thoroughly perverse, but in a way that was somehow—chic, he said, the inverted commas around the word were audible in his voice. We both laughed, it was a good moment, it was as though we were discussing a mutual friend, of whom we were both fond, and in some ways that was true.

I told him again, before we said good-bye, that there was no reason for him to worry, Christopher was unlikely to object to my request for a divorce, he had seemed indifferent the last time we spoke, mostly he had been in a hurry to get off the phone, as if he had somewhere he needed to be. It was the first time I had used the word divorce, and I felt rather than heard the explosion of Yvan’s happiness. It’s an awkward situation but nothing more, I continued, once Christopher returns I will tell him that I want a divorce and then it will be over, then it will be mostly a matter of paperwork. In that case, Yvan said, and I could hear that he struggled to keep his voice light, I hope he returns soon.