Necessary Lies(32)
Anna opens a small blue envelope, and takes out a folded piece of paper. Her heart stops for a few seconds and begins again to pump blood, rushing it to her face. The paper shakes as she holds it. Darling, It is so empty here without you. The rooms echo my steps, and your voice is still around me. I’m pretending that you’ve just stepped out for a moment and that you will be back, soon, a good husband, away on a short trip. I feel married to you in the most profound sense of the word. Why would we need anything more? Ursula
Another sheet, folded in four, rustles as she unfolds it. No date. Got home late, and the apartment was dark and cold; I had turned the thermostat down before I left. My old Prussian hatred of waste, the miserly me. I crawled into bed thinking of you. Today, I don’t want to talk to anyone, for then I would forget your voice. Urs.
London, then. We will have late dinner at Durrants Hotel and then walk on George Street and kiss. I want to be courted. Please, buy me a ribbon and a comb and take me to the wax museum, and we will laugh in the still faces. We will make love and drink horribly strong tea (milk first), and be as British as only Germans long to be.
Anna sits down, legs unable to support her. Something has snuck up behind her, is touching her shoulder. She turns her head and looks at the bookshelves she has just emptied. Nothing there but specks of dust. It’s not what you think, she says to herself. It can’t be.
“It’s just for a few days,” she remembers him saying. “I need to be alone. You do understand, don’t you?” She stood in the doorway and watched him pack his brown leather suitcase. Round balls of socks went to their place on the right, his beige corduroy pants lay flat on the bottom, Shetland sweaters were folded into even squares, empty sleeves tucked neatly inside. He closed the zipper of a brown leather sachet with its scent of sandalwood.
“Be together but not too close together, like two pillars of a temple,” he had said. A line from The Prophet, one of his presents for her, the maxims of the sixties. She didn’t drive him to the airport; he hated that. It was better to say goodbye here, at home, and she was careful not to hold him for too long, faking impatience to cover up the pain. Anger she couldn’t afford. It could simmer in her, but she would not let it boil over. “Thank God you are not like Marilyn,” he said once, and she remembered everything he had said about his first marriage. “You don’t have her vindictiveness.”
William was already anticipating his own return, slipping his hand under her sweater, around her waist and pulling her toward him. “I’ll call,” he murmured into her ear.
He did. From Frankfurt, Berlin, Munich, his voice cheerful, concerned. “Do you miss me, love?” he asked and she laughed. “You do understand, don’t you?” But she thought he just wanted to be alone for a while. Did he really believe she was allowing him to betray her? Not him. Not William. She must be wrong, of course she is. She has no right to suspect him.
Finished “The Faces of Women” today. All shots are black and white. Colour spoils the deadly transformations I want. You don’t have to be alarmed, William, my obsessions are not too easy to spot. The Nazi women are there in spirit only, in the looks of submission, fanaticism, and self-annihilation. I didn’t have to go too far for looks like that. A few night tours of Berlin bars sufficed. Lothar didn’t say anything, but gave me a bear hug. That was the best review I got. Walked along Ku-damm, still watching. Disco music pours out of the stores. Young women are wearing tight blouses and jeans and balance their bodies on platform shoes. Schoolgirls have loud voices and bold looks. Of course, I’m emptied and sore. Way too concerned with trivia, distracted by moments of inconsequence.
Anna takes off her glasses and closes her eyes. Her eyelids feel as if there were tiny cracks in them, itching and sore. She knows the only way to conquer the itch is to stop rubbing the eyelids, to wait through the surge of pain, but she rubs them until tears appear and torn eyelashes stick to her wet fingers. When she opens her eyes, the edges of the room look softer. Books on the shelves turn into patches of colour; the ceiling is a stretch of white, without a blemish.
Darling, No! No regrets. None! I wake up at night, watch the lights of Berlin and pretend that you are here with me. What I want is the sea — green, cold, smelling of seaweed and wet wood. Some escape from this constant fever. You tell me I’ve forgotten that there is something worthwhile beyond ecstasy and despair. I do listen. Sometimes, U.
Anna’s cheeks are flushed, and she presses her hands to hot skin. She waits for something to happen now, some necessary sequence to this discovery, something that would explain it, make it go away. From a distance she hears doors open and close, someone’s voice outside is rising then falling sharply, silenced, cut short. “Yes, yes of course,” she hears, “I’m sorry.” It occurs to her that Valerie must have placed all these letters into William’s mailbox; for years she must have watched as he picked them up and hurried to his room to read them.
She stands up and takes a few steps away from the desk. It’s not fair, she keeps thinking. Not now. Not when he is dead, when he cannot explain. She sits down again.
Darling, Your voice sounded rather sad and whiny, and I’m sorry I was so rushed. You caught me in the middle of a session. Tried to call you back, but you were out already. No, it’s not easier on me. Just because I was the one to say it, doesn’t mean it’s solely my decision. There is historical evidence that we would end at each other’s throat, and that we would burn in this hatred, so don’t try to change my resolve. I might be in Montreal next month, to photograph the faces in your Canadian national parades, the progress of the Referendum, so don’t sulk for too long. Rather, tell me what will your wonderful, innocent country do if it splits. “Je me souviens?” Isn’t that what your license plates say?