A Separation(7)

I watched as they followed Kostas across the lobby, arms wrapped around each other, it was remarkable how constantly they telegraphed their desire for each other, it simply did not let up. They disappeared up the stairs and in the direction of Christopher’s room, although of course it was no longer Christopher’s room, the porter following with their bags. Earlier that afternoon I had seen the same porter carrying Christopher’s cases, one in each hand, down rather than up the stone staircase, to the lobby storage room.

Of Christopher himself there had been no sign. I sat on the terrace for the remainder of the afternoon with a novel I was considering translating, about a couple whose child goes missing in the desert. The novel had been sent to me by a publisher, I would need to translate a sample chapter at least, we would need to see if it was a good fit. The task of a translator is a strange one. People are prone to saying that a successful translation doesn’t feel like a translation at all, as if the translator’s ultimate task is to be invisible.

Perhaps that is true. Translation is not unlike an act of channeling, you write and you do not write the words. Christopher always found the way I spoke about my work too vague, it did not impress him, perhaps because he thought it was imprecise and even mystical, or perhaps because he intuited what I was really saying, which was that translation’s potential for passivity appealed to me. I could have been a translator or a medium, either would have been the perfect occupation for me. Such a statement would of course have horrified him, and been crafted to do so. Christopher had wanted to be a writer—not just a writer, but an author—since he was a child.

I continued reading for several hours. Once or twice I saw Kostas, he brought me a coffee, asked if I planned to dine in the hotel that evening. He made no mention of Christopher, and the one time I asked if he had returned, Kostas shook his head and shrugged. No sign of him, nothing at all. In the evening, the young woman who had been on duty that morning returned, giving me a sour look as she passed through the lobby.

I watched her as she went on her way, although the hotel was quiet she apparently had a great many things to do, she was constantly rushing from one side of the lobby to the other, answering the phone, barking orders to the porters and maids. She was not unattractive, I tried to imagine Christopher and this woman together—he would have flirted with her at the very least, perhaps he had even gone to bed with her, such a thing was not impossible, or even unlikely.

As I continued observing her, I could see that although she was not pretty—her features were too heavy to be described in such conventional terms, they were very expressive, which was generally not considered appealing in a woman’s face (hence the mania for treatments like Botox, for face creams that promised to freeze the features into youthful immobility; it was more than the mere pursuit of youth, it arose out of a universal aversion to a woman’s propensity to be excessive, to be too much)—she was alluring, undoubtedly so.

She had the kind of body that intrigued men. They looked at it and wondered what it would be like to touch, how its contours would feel beneath their hands, what was its weight and heft. I noted that, with her heavy brow and long black hair—plaited in a simple braid that hung halfway down her back—she was my physical opposite. It was more than a question of coloring, she had a supremely practical body, one whose purpose was clear. The purposes of my own body were sometimes too opaque, there had been many moments when its discrete parts—legs, arms, torso—made no sense even to me, as they lay there on the bed.

But this woman’s body made sense. I watched her through the glass as she moved back and forth across the lobby, she was wearing a hotel uniform and was shod in sensible shoes, it was the kind of job that kept you on your feet all day long. Although she walked quickly, it was as if her body were leaden, she was a woman firmly tethered to the ground. Perhaps such carnality was in the end irresistible. Christopher would have perceived her allure at once, he was a sophisticated man, whose marriage was suspended, also a man with no scruples and a tourist in this place, everything around him would have appeared essentially disposable.

And she would have been susceptible to Christopher’s charm—he was handsome and wealthy, alone and unencumbered, evidently idle (only an idle man could stay in this hotel and village for so long, most visitors stayed for a few days, a weekend, most people came for a holiday). I sat on the terrace, the sun beating down on my face. The images came easily, I knew the ways of one half of the coupling, and it took very little imagination to see the rest. I could remember—with a dispassionate eye, it had happened a long time ago—Christopher’s way of approaching a woman, of entering her consciousness, he was very good at impressing himself upon a person.

I ordered a drink. It was hot, sweat pooled in the crevice of my collarbone. He grasped her wrist, pressing first his thumb and then his forefinger against her skin. She looked up, not at him, but to see if anyone was watching. The lobby was empty, there was nothing to worry about. The waiter brought my drink. Would I be needing anything else? No, I was fine. Let me adjust the umbrella, the sun is very hot. Before I could stop him he had dragged the heavy stand several feet, the base made a loud scraping sound against the stone floor.

The waiter gripped the edge of the umbrella and tilted it over my face. It was better, there was shade, it was true that the sun was too bright, and I thanked him. He led her by the hand, she walked behind him but urged him to move quickly, the shame if they were caught. The waiter did not move away. There’s nothing to worry about, he said. In that moment, she chose to believe him. She followed him up to his room. They were still on the hotel premises, there was nowhere else to go, she would have died rather than bring him back to her house, with her mother and father sleeping in the room next door and her brother and sisters, all of them living in the same house.