A Separation

5.

I walked down to the sea, I did not want to remain in the hotel any longer. I left my things on the beach—it was a harsh and rocky shore, hardly luxurious, the landscape something more than picturesque, edging toward a bleak and extreme blankness—and swam out into the water. It was cold but the water was calm and I went far, well past the buoys and the edge of the cliff, to where the bay opened up into ocean.

I was an infrequent but relatively strong swimmer. The cold was bracing, exactly what I needed: it was impossible to think in the face of it. When I was tired I stopped and rested, treading water before resuming, over time my breath grew short and I did not recover so easily, then I floated on my back and stared at the sky—the color white rather than blue, so that the face of the cliff graded imperceptibly into the atmosphere—and then, as I flipped myself upright, down to the black and blue of the water. I closed my eyes against the sun’s glare and then reluctantly turned and began swimming back to shore. I had gone farther than I intended, I did not know how long I had been in the water.

There were several things I would need to do in order to organize my departure, deferred more than once and now suddenly imminent—the ticket, the packing, the phone call to Isabella. This time, I hardly stopped to rest and by the time my feet touched the bottom—the surface rocky, so that I winced in pain and lifted them at once—I was exhausted and gasping for breath.

When I stepped out onto the shore, two men shouted to me from the embankment, a young woman translated: They say it’s too cold, it’s too late in the season for swimming. I said that I was fine and they shook their heads, they had been watching, they half expected to call a rescue boat but I was a strong swimmer, I had returned to shore without problem, they were impressed. They saw that I had only stopped twice for breath, barely at all, that was very good, better me than them. I shouted my thanks and they waved before resuming their own conversation.

This meaningless interaction raised my spirits, it was the first time I had spoken to anyone in Gerolimenas apart from the staff at the hotel, they had been friendlier than I expected. As I walked back to the hotel, I remembered Stefano’s disdain for the tourists who flocked to the area, it was not difficult to imagine what the villagers must think of me, I was exactly the kind of person they would despise. An outsider, rich—at least relatively speaking, I was staying at the big hotel rather than the more humble establishment at the opposite end of the village’s main road, which hardly seemed to attract any foreigners—a city dweller, a tourist.

A tourist—almost by definition a person immersed in prejudice, whose interest was circumscribed, who admired the weathered faces and rustic manners of the local inhabitants, a perspective entirely contemptible but nonetheless difficult to avoid. I would have irritated myself in their position. By my presence alone, I reduced their home to a backdrop for my leisure, it became picturesque, quaint, charming, words on the back of a postcard or a brochure. Perhaps, as a tourist, I even congratulated myself on my taste, my ability to perceive this charm, certainly Christopher would have done so, it was not Monaco, it was not Saint-Tropez, this delightful rural village was something more sophisticated, something unexpected.

Christopher on the loose in this place—I laughed, I could not help it, it was a terrible thing to imagine. The combination of his charm and erratic sympathy, his persistent inability to imagine the reality of other people’s situations—it was no wonder he was causing such havoc. Suddenly, I was glad I had come to Mani in order to ask for a divorce. I imagined journeying this far in hopes of a reconciliation, only to find Christopher roaming the countryside, chasing one woman after another. Briefly my eyes were wet with tears.

I had reached the hotel, and went up the stone steps leading from the embankment onto the terrace. I thought with some relief that I had only one more dinner to eat at the restaurant, now that I had decided to leave, I could not wait, it could not happen soon enough. As I reached the lobby, I saw Maria and Stefano standing together by the desk. I realized it was the first time I had seen the pair together, despite the fact that they were stubbornly coupled in my mind. They appeared to be in the midst of conversation, perhaps even arguing.

Maria was dressed in her own clothes, she was wearing a pair of blue jeans and a blouse, I had never seen her wearing anything other than the hotel uniform and the effect was jarring. Both she and Stefano were almost unrecognizable; although they looked exactly as they always did, their demeanor, even from a distance, was entirely different from the manner they exhibited while they were working, it was enough to transform them into strangers. In their professional contexts they were polite, reserved to the point of being stilted, all the time they were conscious of being observed.

Here too, they were being observed—Kostas stood behind the desk, he was writing in a ledger, from time to time he lifted his head to look at them with a wry expression, once he even shook his head, it was obvious that this was not the first time he had seen the pair together, behaving in this manner—after all, they were standing in the middle of Maria’s workplace, in the lobby of the hotel. And yet they seemed unconstrained by the setting, they were speaking loudly, gesturing with their hands and even shouting on occasion.

I stood by the entrance. Kostas watching Maria and Stefano, Maria and Stefano watching each other, their attention describing an almost geometric form. I had a towel around my waist, my hair and bathing suit were still wet—the sun had not been sufficiently strong or the walk long enough to dry them out, at least my sandals no longer left wet tread marks on the tiles—and I felt self-conscious opening the door and entering the lobby, it felt intrusive, ridiculous and somehow undignified. I sat down on one of the terrace chairs, perhaps they would leave before too long.

I continued to watch them from where I sat, the driver and the receptionist. Although at that moment there was not exactly an excess of affection between them, they were by no means an illogical couple, they looked well together, they made a handsome pair. They both had youth on their side, which was no small thing. In fact, Stefano was nicer-looking than Christopher, whose looks had long begun to dissipate from age. Seen like that, it was not difficult to imagine them in a passionate embrace, the dispute—assuming it was a dispute, but I did not see how it could be anything else, the signs were unmistakable—could simply be read as a lover’s quarrel.

And yet it was not. I soon saw there was something in the nature of the exchange, the intimacy between them was not unqualified, they did not behave exactly like people who were sleeping together, not even like people who had slept together at some point in the past, or people who necessarily intended to in the future. I couldn’t hear what they were saying from where I sat, of course they would not be speaking English. The glass doors reflected not only my own image but that of the water and the sky behind me, the jumble of chairs and tables on the terrace, the effect obscured the scene inside.

It was frustrating in the way that watching a film without the soundtrack can be, the mouths of the actors opening and closing but no words coming out. I wanted to hear their words, even though I knew I would not be able to understand what they were saying, and the entire affair was of course none of my business. I stood up and wrenched the door open and entered the lobby, sitting down on one of the chairs that was arranged near the desk. I worried that it was eccentric, sitting down in the middle of the lobby in my towel and bathing suit, I expected Maria and Stefano to turn and look at me, I expected Kostas to ask how he could help, if I needed anything.

But none of them reacted, it was almost as if I wasn’t there. I sat in the chair and was transfixed despite myself, it was all too plausible that the problems of these particular people were related to my own—for example, I could not help but believe that the root of their disagreement was Christopher, it was a reasonable assumption. Kostas had said that Maria had been upset to hear about this other woman, that she had been in tears.

Maria said something in a loud, rough voice—as expected, they were speaking Greek, and in deciphering the substance of their conversation, I could only go by the tone and gestures they employed. However, I could observe all these more clearly, now that I was inside. As Maria spoke, she shook her head. She lifted her chin sharply and looked directly into Stefano’s eyes as if she were issuing a challenge. I leaned forward, the damp from my bathing suit was soaking into the cushion, I worried it might leave a stain. Did water leave stains? Maria and Stefano continued to take no notice of me, for a moment I regretted not choosing a chair that was closer to the pair.

Now Stefano was speaking in a low and urgent tone. Maria was listening in sullen silence, eyes averted, he should have known better than to lecture her in that way, I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but I recognized the hectoring tone all too well, he was patronizing her without being aware of it. Although Maria listened without interrupting, her expression remained sullen, she twisted her mouth into a grimace and continued to look away from him.

Whatever he was saying, it did not please her. Her face contorted, moving from one grimace to the next, passing through an extraordinary range of expressions, all of them unhappy. She no longer seemed attractive, her eyes were red and the lids were swollen from crying, it further weighted her already heavy features. I couldn’t tell if Stefano noticed, it seemed to be the furthest thing from his mind, perhaps he was incapable of perceiving the alteration. He was gazing at her with adoration, although he was trying to be stern—or, at least, so I gathered.

Stefano continued speaking, as if he were afraid that if he stopped even for a moment, he would lose her conclusively. Now and again he gestured with his hands for emphasis, he leaned toward her imploringly. She did not reply. Even if he succeeded in persuading her—I speculated on what the finer points of his argument might be, it might have to do with Christopher (he was a waste of time, a treacherous and useless sort, I could not disagree) or it might have to do with something else entirely, it hardly mattered, I was certain that the real goal of all his discourse was to persuade her that she should love him, as he loved her—he would not win her, not in this way.

As if he sensed this, Stefano drew back, exasperated, his face clouded, he made a small but distinct and even violent gesture of anger. That anger was not necessarily directed at Maria, but it was anger nonetheless, directed perhaps at Christopher, perhaps at the situation or himself. From his perch behind the desk, Kostas raised his eyes to look at me. I met his gaze for a moment, then looked away.

Maria let out a sudden and wordless cry. Both Kostas—who had been looking at me—and I turned to look at her. She was standing with her arms rigid and her eyes pinned to Stefano’s face. Her own face, which was ashen, blank and inexpressive, was alarming. It was generally too expressive, it expressed things even when she did not mean to, even when there were not actually things to express. Now, although it retained its rounded fullness, it was as if it had been drained, the features had caved in. Stefano had turned away, he was still saying something, muttering to himself, but he would not look at her, he took a step toward the doors and then stopped, it was not so easy for him to leave her.

Maria then spoke, the words sounded harsh and rasping as she pronounced them. Behind his desk, Kostas let out a long and low whistle. Stefano’s face—he was still standing with his back to Maria—slowly turned a deep and troubled red. He raised his hand, as if to strike the face of someone standing before him, but of course there was no one there, he had turned away from Maria—and it was Maria, this time, who was without doubt the object of his anger. He was shaking, his face was growing mottled, as if he were having difficulty breathing.

She had humiliated him in some way, and I knew then that he was aware that I sat in the lobby behind him, although he gave no new indication of seeing me, it was obvious. And I also knew that Maria was similarly aware of my presence, of the fact that I was watching them, and that she had used this in order to humiliate him further. My skin prickled, I felt newly uneasy. The chair was now soaking wet, when I stood up there would be a large stain. Kostas continued to observe them from behind the desk, as though he were providing color commentary at a sporting event, with an expression at once jovial and concerned.

Soon, Stefano appeared to regain control of himself, at least to some degree: he lowered his hand. But his face was still flushed, he had not entirely mastered his emotions, his physiognomy was giving him away. He was obviously a man who was capable of violence, like so many. I turned to look at Maria, I expected that she might show some sign of fear, it was not a pleasant sight—this man, with his strangulated emotions, his barely suppressed rage, it would not have been made better by the fact that she did not love him, that she already held him in contempt—but she was in no way cowed, she only stood with her hands pressed to her sides.

Then, she repeated the phrase—or I thought she did, the words sounded much the same as before, but the intonation was entirely different, if her expression had not been so stony, her posture so rigid, I would have sworn she was beseeching him in some way. And indeed, Stefano’s posture seemed to soften, he turned his head a little, as if reconsidering. Yes—he was beginning to turn around, his face was hopeful, he was truly her slave, I had never seen a man so enthralled by a woman, and with so little effort on her part.

As she observed him, she briefly frowned, it was one of the quandaries a woman sometimes faces, not just a woman, but all of us: she entrances one man without effort, a man who is undesired, who follows her around like a dog, however much he is whipped or abused, while all her efforts to attract and then ensnare another man, the truly desired man, come to naught. Charm is not universal, desire is too often unreciprocated, it gathers and pools in the wrong places, slowly becoming toxic.

Her grimace was growing more and more self-reflexive, a smirk that was directed no longer at Stefano but at herself, she was obviously not unaware of the ironies of the situation. I did not see that either the situation or their respective positions had changed, her expression was not one that gave much hope. Nevertheless, Stefano reached forward and embraced her, using both arms to pull her body toward him. And although she did not appear to soften her posture, she also did not pull away. The result was an embrace that could not have satisfied Stefano, it was not unfriendly but it was certainly not sexual or romantic, she was only suffering his touch.

Still, it was clear to me that although she did not love him, she did not want to let him go. She wanted to keep it—whatever was taking place between the two of them—in play, in her back pocket, every woman needed a backup, at least every sensible one did. She was no fool, as Stefano had said, she was a practical woman, and although she stood stiff as a corpse in Stefano’s arms, she did not repulse him in any definitive way, it was all open to interpretation. As she stood there, she might even have been contemplating a future with this man. On the one hand there was security and love, the possibility of children, on the other the well of his desire, which would have to be satisfied. The situation would only grow more suffocating with time—time, an entire life of it, of avoiding or scorning his touch. No doubt he would make her pay for her disdain, for the men she would have preferred to love.

The contempt she felt for the man who held her in his arms! And yet there were plenty of women who would have been only too delighted to love the driver, he was handsome and not without charm, and evidently he was capable of loyalty. There was of course the problem of his temper, but women could be surprisingly accommodating, as well as optimistic, one could live in the hope that his anger would subside, especially once he was loved in return, it was not impossible. Yes, it would have been better if she let him go—if she told him that she would never love him, that they had no future together.

But I saw, it was clear, that she had no intention of doing so. As I watched, she slowly raised one arm and stroked his back, a caress of sorts. The gesture was a lie, totally insincere, I could see her face from where I sat, the disjunction between its rigid expression and the gentle, intimate motion of her fingers was disturbing, her hand seemed to have a life of its own, like something from a horror movie. But Stefano, who could not see what I could see, took the gesture at face value, its effect was instantaneous. His features illuminated with such hope. He reached a hand up to stroke her hair and then hesitated, he didn’t want to push his luck. She pulled away immediately, that was enough of that, her manner seemed to say.

Of course, Stefano was disappointed but he remained pleased, the situation was better than he thought, it was not, as far as he was concerned, entirely a lost cause. Maria still appeared disgruntled but at least she was not crying, or shouting, or even glaring at him, she merely looked as if she wished to dismiss him, she had things to do, she had wasted enough time talking with him in this way. In an instant, she had transformed herself into a professional woman, a busy one, she even looked down at her watch and frowned, she had lost track of the time, it was far later than she’d thought.

She said something to Stefano—abruptly, a terse good-bye, perhaps—he nodded and stepped back. She opened the door to the staff room, it was probably the start of her shift, she would need to change into her uniform, brush her hair, collect her thoughts. But then she turned and looked, not at Stefano, but at me. Her gaze was direct and unequivocal, it had an uncanny effect—as if an actor you have been watching on television suddenly turned to acknowledge you, the spectator. I was disconcerted, she nodded coldly, perhaps it was a necessary acknowledgment—we both knew that she knew that I had witnessed the scene. I admired the gesture, it was more than I would have done in her position, undoubtedly she was formidable in her way.

The door closed behind her. I looked to see where Stefano had gone, to my surprise I saw that he was now walking toward me. Abruptly, I took out my phone and peered down at it—as if I had been in the midst of writing an e-mail or reading my messages, the pretense was stupid and futile, it would have fooled no one. But I didn’t know what else to do as I sat in the chair, waiting for him to approach, which he did with surprising rapidity. Within moments he was standing before me, his expression was friendly, a little sheepish, entirely unprepossessing.

His voice, when he spoke, was uncertain, he bore no similarity to the raging male, the passionate lover, I had seen only moments earlier. He spoke in English and while his control of the language was excellent, he naturally lacked the fluency he possessed in Greek. Listening to him, I realized that one of the reasons why he had seemed more appealing, more masculine, even when unsuccessfully wooing Maria, was his linguistic control. Even in that most undermining of situations, fluency had allowed him to be more assertive than he was in situations that called for English.

I came here looking for you, he said.

I looked at him with surprise, I had been listening to how rather than what he was saying, nonetheless the content of his words, the direct address of this statement, spoken in a flat and matter-of-fact tone, was impossible to ignore. It was obviously untrue, he had come to the hotel looking for Maria, in order to comfort her (she had been upset to learn that Christopher had been seen with another woman), or confront her (why must she be so upset?). I continued to look up at him blankly, without replying, I could not imagine what he could have to say to me, or the purpose of this lie.

Would you like to have dinner with my great-aunt this evening? he asked.

I hesitated, I did not understand, why would his aunt wish to see me again? When I did not respond, Stefano continued.

I can drive you.

He sounded hopeful. The invitation seemed genuine, it might have been a simple instinct for hospitality—I wondered if perhaps, after our day together, I was no longer simply a customer, my interest (borrowed from Christopher) in the traditions of the area having somehow stood me in good stead. It was as though he now felt an obligation to aid me in my mission, however poorly conceived and articulated, if he scratched only a little further, the pretense would collapse, I knew nothing about the subject.

I confess I felt a small wrench—I would need to decline, tell him it was impossible, that I was about to go upstairs and book my return flight to London, I had just been looking at flights on my phone. I had no reason to feel guilty but on the whole I was not good at disappointing people, even and especially people I did not know. I tried to avoid this type of interaction but generally only succeeded in postponing what was, from the start, clearly inevitable—wasn’t that why I was here in Gerolimenas in the first place? No, when you were going to let people down it was better to do it as quickly as possible.

The only problem, I said, is that I am leaving, immediately. There has been a change of plan, I no longer need to stay.

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.

Stefano was still standing before me. Having ruptured the pretense that he didn’t know what I knew he knew, he nonetheless recovered quickly. His manner—which now seemed to say, Let us bring an end to these fabrications, I know that you know that I know, or something along those lines—made it difficult for me to take up or even respond to this transgression. I realized, belatedly, that Stefano must have known all along that my purported research was nothing of the kind, the flimsiest of excuses, he must have known from the beginning that I had come to Mani in search of Christopher.

Perhaps he had driven Christopher and guessed at our affiliation the moment I stepped into the back of his car. Or perhaps Maria had told Stefano, although Maria did not know everything about Christopher, she did not know, for example, that the absent husband was soon to be an ex-husband. Would she have been relieved, had she known it? Would she have been made hopeful, to learn that I had come to Gerolimenas to ask for a divorce, that I was cutting this man, essentially a philanderer, free? Would that have led her to imagine a future, marriage, a life together, with Christopher? Imagination, after all, costs nothing, it’s the living that is the harder part.

I saw that Stefano was perturbed, no longer by his slip of the tongue, but by the announcement of my departure, which was, after all, what had caused his small indiscretion, it was the true matter at stake here. It seemed to cause him dismay, perhaps the fact of my existence—a wife was no small thing and I was not even in the abstract, I was a material presence in the hotel, I had barely left these three days, my being there must have been a source of constant consternation to Maria—had made his argument more persuasive, after all, it was absurd to be hankering after a man who not only had abandoned you but was, by all appearances, being pursued by his wife.

Would she grow more hopeful, would my departure be interpreted by Maria as some ceding of ground? Although it might not be in the end to her, it might easily be to the woman in Cape Tenaro, or the next woman, there would always be a next, particularly with a man like Christopher. Was that why Stefano was so eager for me to stay? This was assuming that Christopher was at the root of their disagreement. Stefano continued, But you should not leave, there is still a great deal to see in the area, I could show you, there are many attractions that can be easily reached, now is a good time, during the low season, there are not so many tourists.

Now I felt a wave of pity—he was so desperate, he appeared to know that his powers of persuasion were, in this situation, even more limited than they had been in his argument with Maria, there was something absurd about his attempt to convince me, virtually a stranger, to prolong my stay, he knew it himself, he was aware that his words had no purchase. He came to a stop, and then stood in silence before me.

I’m sorry, I said, and my voice was more brusque than I would have liked, but there’s nothing to be done, I need to go back to London. I wish I could stay, I added, as if this might soften the blow, but he was already retreating, he had turned and walked away, out the front doors of the hotel, without stopping to say good-bye. I was baffled. I looked up and saw that Kostas was—of course—watching, that he had observed the entire exchange. He shrugged, Ignore him, he called out across the lobby, he is not having a good day.