A Separation(23)
You are not going to wait for your husband to return?
As far as I could recall, I had not told Stefano that I was married, much less that I was here waiting for my husband—it was not necessarily so startling, presumably everyone in the hotel knew (Maria would have told them, and if not Maria then Kostas). But he looked suddenly embarrassed, as if the words had slipped out by accident, he knew that he had broken a code, the tacit understanding that underscores our social interactions, whereby we pretend we do not know what we in fact do know.
This had been exacerbated by the times we lived in, I thought as I observed his deepening color, the age of Google searches and social media profiles, how much of our behavior is regulated by disavowed knowledge? But the Internet is not even necessary, sexual conduct or misconduct is often enough, a friend once told me the story of a date she had with a man she was interested in, he was a musician, she said up front that she found him sexually very attractive.
They had arranged to meet for dinner at a local restaurant that she didn’t know. They both lived in a fashionable part of West London that was minutely documented in magazines, newspaper supplements and blogs, it was no small feat to suggest a restaurant that was unfamiliar to her. She agonized over what to wear, the usual conundrum of selecting an outfit for a first date—a question of making oneself desirable, but also a question of how much effort one chooses to reveal—was amplified by the fact that she was not familiar with the venue, was it casual or was it more formal, the kind of place where men were expected to wear a jacket?
Eventually she resorted to looking it up on the Internet. There, she learned that the restaurant was a favorite of locals in this fashionable neighborhood with a spectacular menu and a cozy, romantic vibe. This only served to heighten her anxiety—how was it that she didn’t know this restaurant? What did it mean that she didn’t know it and he did? Probably nothing, that was what she said when she called me, nervously, to describe what she was wearing, her green dress and black ankle boots.
I couldn’t immediately recall either item and told her that she should send me a photo, which she did, taken in the full-length mirror of her bathroom, one hand on her waist in a semi-seductive pose, however she had cropped the photo at the neck, or rather the bottom of her chin, so that her face was not visible. I wasn’t sure why she had taken the photo like that, the effect was a little eerie but the outfit was a good one, and I texted back my approval. Have fun, I think I added, although I should have known, when she sent me the self-decapitated photograph, that things were not likely to turn out well.
The restaurant was small, with perhaps only ten tables. When she arrived she saw that it was in many ways ideal for a first date, with dark-painted walls and candles and sprigs of wildflowers on the tables, the daily menu was written in chalk on a board, not fashionable or flashy. She couldn’t believe that she had never been there before, at the very least, she thought, she would know about a new restaurant, even if nothing came of the date itself.
As it turned out, the date did go well. It went so well that as they left the restaurant they decided to take a walk, it was an unseasonably warm night. They drifted without purpose, it was still light outside, they both lived in the neighborhood. But as they continued to wander, up the Portobello Road and all the way to Golborne Road, she began to grow nervous again, it was getting late, it had grown dark and although he had taken her by the arm when guiding her across the street, there had been scant physical contact, perhaps he was not so interested after all.
She was on the verge of despair when he came to an abrupt stop and said, indicating the small terraced house before which they were standing, This is me. She stopped, almost too nervous to speak. He continued, Would you like to come in for a coffee? She immediately wondered why he didn’t ask her in for a drink instead, it was past eleven, a coffee was strange and even a little ambiguous but a drink is obvious, everyone knows what a man or a woman means when he or she says, Would you like to come in for a drink?
However, when she did not reply, he smiled and repeated the question, Would you like to come in for a coffee? This time, he leaned toward her as he spoke and smiled—she thought teasingly, so that she felt there was no longer any ambiguity, a coffee or a drink, what’s the difference, and she blurted out, I can’t, I have my period.
She was astounded to hear the words leave her mouth, she remembered that she had thought to herself, before she left her apartment, that although it wasn’t ideal at least it meant that she wouldn’t leap into bed with the man at once, thereby ruining everything. But now he stepped back, with an expression somewhere between amusement and disgust, as if to say, But I only asked if you wanted a cup of coffee, I didn’t inquire after the status of your uterus, the availability of your vaginal passage. In reality, he only said three words, Good night, then, before politely kissing her on both cheeks—she leaned, numb, into this formal and distant embrace—and disappearing into his terraced house, the door clicking shut behind him.
She was not surprised when he did not call. Her main regret, she said as she recounted the story to me, was that she could never go back to that wonderful restaurant, a mere ten-minute walk from her apartment. But what about the man himself, the attractive musician? Couldn’t she call him, make a joke of it—after all, they had been getting along well, he had asked her into his house, they liked each other. All she had done was refer directly to what they both knew had been on the table, what else does such an invitation imply, at such an hour, but eventual coitus? She shook her head vehemently, no, never. Even the thought was enough to make her feel sick. And besides, she added, I no longer desire him. The whole thing is impossible.