A Separation

2.

But I did not leave. I told Kostas that I would stay another day or two, it was very pleasant at the hotel. To sit and do nothing in the perfect weather. I had my lunch outside and then I swam in the swimming pool, which was as warm as Kostas had promised, more like an enormous bath than a swimming pool. Isabella had been correctly informed, it was a very nice pool. I read a little, I had some work to do but nothing very taxing, nothing that was urgent.

And I did not mind this delay, this waiting, which on the face of it did not look like hesitation. But until a decision is acted upon, it is only hypothetical, a kind of thought experiment: I had decided to ask Christopher for a divorce but I had not yet committed the act, I had not looked at him and spoken the words. It was important, this act of enunciation, these words, or rather this one word—divorce—which thus far had been notably absent from our conversation, and which, once spoken, would change the course of our separation inalterably.

Of course it had been in the air—as the endgame, the worst-case scenario, an inevitability or relief. The word was weighted, ça me pèse, a condition of adulthood. In childhood, words are weightless—I shout I hate you and it means nothing, the same can be said for I love you—but as an adult, those very words are used with greater care, they no longer slip out of the mouth with the same ease. I do is another example, a phrase that in childhood is only the stuff of playacting, a game between children, but then grows freighted with meaning.

How many times had I myself spoken these words? Only once since becoming an adult. Christopher and I were married in a courtroom and arrived only minutes before the brief ceremony, there was no rehearsal, the judge assured us that we need only repeat after him, even an idiot couldn’t get it wrong. And so when I said I do before the assembled group of our family and friends, it was for the first time, or at least the first time since childhood.

I remembered being surprised by the power of the ritual, the ceremonial act of speaking these words, which took on a deep and almost maniac significance. It suddenly made sense that these words—I do—would be paired with the archaic and unreasonable phrase until death do us part, which was morbid and apparently out of place in what was meant to be a joyful occasion, but which nonetheless served a clear purpose: to remind the participants of the crazed wager they were making in this act, this act being marriage.

I tried to remember what else I had felt during the ceremony, not so many years ago but long enough for my memory to be uncertain. I thought there had been a brief moment of terror but mostly I had been happy, I had been very happy, for a long time it was a good and optimistic marriage. For all these reasons, it was difficult to contemplate the pronouncement of the word that would destroy all that optimism, however outdated—and so although I remained at the hotel in order to ask Christopher for a divorce, I found that I was in no hurry to confront him, I had made a decision that I believed to be absolute, and yet I could have sat in the sun for days, for weeks, without moving, without doing anything, without speaking a word.

Later that afternoon, a couple arrived who could only have been the pair that was to occupy Christopher’s room. They stumbled through the lobby already drunk, they must have begun in the car, the same driver who had delivered me to the hotel followed them into the lobby dragging three large cases behind him. Briefly, his eyes met mine, but apart from a small nod he did not acknowledge me, he had his hands full with the couple.

They looked Scandinavian, both pale and blue-eyed and essentially incongruous in this landscape, for which they had not been designed. The woman’s hair was bleached blond and the man was somehow already sunburnt, his skin a hectic and uncomfortable red. They were evidently very fond of each other. They kissed constantly, even from across the lobby I could see how they were flexing their tongues in an impressively muscular fashion, they could not give Kostas—he was on duty behind the desk, his face stoic—more than a single piece of information—their name, their country of origin, their date of departure—before they were at it again.

Kostas stared at the wall behind the embracing couple as he told them that breakfast was served on the terrace, asked which newspaper they wanted in the morning, whether they would be needing a wake-up call, although it was obvious they would not. The pair seemed undeterred by the utter quiet of the hotel. When they spoke they were overloud and giddy, they allowed their voices to carry, it was as if they believed themselves to be checking into a hotel in Las Vegas or Monaco.

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.

I’m fine, I said. Thank you again. He opened the door, he stepped aside and let her enter first. The waiter’s silhouette blocked out the sun. There is nothing else I can get for you? he said, almost wistfully. Inside the room it was cool, the windows had been left open and the door to the balcony was ajar, she tensed—suppose one of the maids was in the room, it was unlikely at this hour but possible—he dropped the room key onto the table, he checked his phone for messages, he was relaxed in a way that seemed miraculous to her, she could not imagine being so at ease in this luxurious room.

No, thank you, really I am fine. At last he moved away. She thought he would offer her a drink—wasn’t that what was supposed to happen? She didn’t know, she had never been in this situation before, he could have called for room service, a bottle of champagne like the ones she had seen sent up to so many rooms, so many couples—but he put down his phone and then he turned and seized her by the shoulder without preamble, so that she was at once affronted and excited. Had it been this way? Almost certainly. I closed my eyes. It was a long time ago but I remembered it well enough, it would not have been very different, with this woman or another.

And then the rest, the same as well. She would have been pleased by the end of it, almost certainly, and there might have been as long as ten minutes or even half an hour before the doubt began. What happened now? He was not asleep (he never fell asleep in that moment, but she would not know that), he was not looking at her, he was simply staring at the ceiling. She hesitated, she had drifted off—for how long? She could hardly ask him—tentatively, she placed her hand on his arm. Hardly a touch at all, but he turned, smiled, covered her hand with his.

I had dinner early. Once again, the terrace was deserted. The restaurant had been set for the dinner service, there were now white tablecloths on every table, flowers and even candles. There was a German family with two young children, who ate quickly and left shortly after I arrived. The children were very solemn, very well behaved. They sat mostly in silence, the mother occasionally leaning forward to cut the boy’s food. I recognized the waiters from breakfast, once the family departed they quickly cleared the table and set it afresh, as if the restaurant were fully booked for the evening, and then they were idle again.

As I was ordering my coffee, the honeymoon couple arrived. That was how I had come to think of them, although Kostas had said they had come to Gerolimenas to celebrate their anniversary, they behaved in every way like newlyweds. They were still drunk, or had become even more drunk, since their arrival that afternoon. Upon entering the restaurant they began exclaiming enthusiastically at the view, the woman clutching at the man’s elbow, it was true that the vista was spectacular, the sun was setting and the sky was a vivid smear of color.

They sat down to their dinner. The man immediately ordered champagne. They were celebrating, why not? Everything why not, they repeated the phrase again and again, tossing it back and forth as if it were a ball. They ordered lobster, why not, caviar, why not, they spoke in English to the waiter, gesticulating wildly, at one point the woman actually waved her menu through the air. The waiter brought their champagne, a basket of bread, glasses of ice water.

I asked for the bill and signed it to the room. It was early and I did not want to spend the rest of the evening in my room, so I walked along the stone jetty that ran from the terrace out into the water. It was a solid and impressive construction, perhaps ten feet wide and stretching out some hundred feet into the sea, far enough for the water to feel enveloping. Soon the persistent clatter of the restaurant, even the noise of the honeymoon couple, had been absorbed by the darkness.

And then nothing but the sound of the water. I reached the end of the jetty and sat down on its edge. In another life, Christopher and I might have been like the quiet family, or even the honeymoon couple, they were possibilities that had never come to fruition, and only because of that been rendered absurd. I heard footsteps behind me. The waiter appeared, bearing a glass of wine, compliments of the hotel, he said. Perhaps I looked as if I needed it. I asked if the tide was rising and he said yes, at high tide the water nearly reached the top of the jetty. I asked him if people ever drowned in the water.

Yes, sometimes. But the water is safe. There are no whirlpools. No sharks.

I looked up to see if he was smiling but his expression wasn’t visible in the dark.

Most of the people who drowned were suicides.

The statement had the air of a joke.

Were there so many?

He shook his head, he was backing away, he seemed almost affronted.

Hardly any.

He retreated and I called out after him, I said I would be along in a moment, in the event that he was worried. He nodded and then went back inside. I rose several moments later, as I stood in the darkness, the glass door on a small balcony on the third floor of the hotel opened. The honeymoon couple emerged. They were embracing passionately and did not stop to look out at the water, or lean on the edge of the rail and light a cigarette, any of the things one usually steps out onto a balcony to do. The man was running his hand up and down the woman’s back and she was gripping his jaw with one hand as she slipped the other down the back of his trousers.

I was embarrassed—it was unpleasant to be standing in the dark like a Peeping Tom, I didn’t know where to look, almost everything around me was dark, while up above the embracing couple was brilliantly illuminated, as if they were standing on a stage. There was nothing elegant or even erotic in the sight of them, their passion was grotesque. They continued grinding up against each other with animal passion, it was clear that however much of a performance they made of their desire for each other, it was nonetheless the real thing.

It was the real thing, and yet I was certain they were aware of how dramatically the light fell on them, how the balcony was framed against the night. Having paid a premium for the suite, for this hotel, so evidently designed for romance, they would have been aware of its theatrical possibilities. Every romance requires a backdrop and an audience, even—or perhaps especially—the genuine ones, romance is not something that a couple can be expected to conjure by themselves, you and another, the two of you together, not just once but again and again, love in general is fortified by its context, nourished by the gaze of others.

As for this particular context, I thought, it had also been Christopher’s room, and he must have stood on the balcony himself, in the very place where the passionate couple now stood, alone or perhaps with someone else. I remained at the end of the jetty a moment longer and watched the couple’s long embrace, I watched until at last she took him by the hand and led him into the bedroom, closing the door behind them. Then I walked back to the terrace and into the lobby. The young woman was behind the desk. I nodded to her as I entered the lobby, she raised her eyes and then called to me.

Have you heard from him?

I stopped. When I turned, she was looking down at the floor, it was as if she had been unable to keep herself from asking the question and now regretted it. Then she raised her eyes defiantly and looked directly at me with her frank gaze. We had nothing in common, there was nothing between us. And yet I was certain that we were both waiting for the same man, her question only furthered the belief. I shook my head. She looked both disappointed and relieved, I understood at once that it would have been a blow to her if I had said yes, that I was going to meet him, that he was upstairs in my room at that very moment.

He’ll turn up, I said. She nodded. Has he done this before? Is this what he is like? Essentially unreliable? Does he simply disappear, without a word? The questions as clear as if she had spoken them. I did not want to comfort her for troubles that were not my own, that it was not my business to know. But for some reason I continued, although she was silent, I felt as though I needed to say something. Lately, he has not been himself. She flinched, I saw that the words were disagreeable to her, perhaps she thought I intended to imply that the encounter—whatever it might have been, if there had been one at all—was out of character, weightless, a meaningless aberration.

He has not been himself. She had become sullen again. A flash of anger darkened her features. It was possible that for once Christopher had bitten off more than he could chew, that she was more than he’d bargained for. Perhaps he had fled this woman, perhaps that was the reason for his absence—but then why leave his belongings behind, why not simply depart or change hotels, there were any number of establishments in the area that would have served just as well. And Christopher, in the way of serial womanizers, never had difficulty shaking off a woman.

After a moment, I asked her what her name was and she hesitated and then told me, Maria. It is nice to meet you, I said, and when she did nothing more than give another curt nod, her eyes averted, I turned and left. I thought to myself as I went that I had bungled the encounter somehow. But how could I have known that she would be so emotional? I felt a surge of relief, I did not envy her the tumult of feeling, the jealousy and uncertainty, she evidently did not know whether to feel outraged or ashamed. And despite everything, she remained hopeful, I could see it in her face. It was a terrible thing, to love and not know whether you were loved in return, it led to the worst sensations—jealousy, rage, self-loathing—to all these lesser states.