Audrey Niffenegger - Her Fearful Symmetry

Julia said, “Great. When?”

“Oh, erm, soon. When I’m able to leave the house. Maybe in a week or two.”

“Oh.” She looked disappointed. “So, like, never?”

“Never say never.”

“You know, I’ve been doing some research. They have drugs for OCD. And there’s behavioural therapy.”

“I know, Julia,” he said gently.

“But-?”

“Part of the condition is refusing treatment for the condition.”

“Oh.” She took the peas in both hands and tried to break up the big clumps. Martin thought the bruise had become darker, though the swelling had perhaps lessened. The peas made a crunching sound that Martin found distressing. “It’s not your problem, my dear. I’ll get to Amsterdam eventually.”

Julia gave him a small smile. “Yeah. Okay.” She sipped her tea, then put the peas against her cheek.

“Are you going to be all right?”

“What? Oh, sure, it’s just a little sore.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Not since we were little. We used to hit and bite and spit and pull hair and everything, but we kind of grew out of it.”

Martin said, “Will you be safe when you go back to your flat?”

Julia laughed. “Of course. Valentina’s my twin, she’s not some huge monster. She’s actually pretty timid, usually.”

“Mmm. Timid people can surprise you.”

“Well, she did.”

Martin smoked and thought about Marijke. What will she wear? He imagined her getting out of the cab, walking into a restaurant, flowers, white tablecloths. Julia thought about Valentina, who had locked herself in the dressing room. Julia had stood by the door, listening to Valentina sob, waiting. Maybe I should go back. She stood up.

“I’m going to see how she is.”

“Why don’t you take these?” Martin handed her the packet of chocolate digestives. “A peace offering.”

“Thanks. May I borrow the peas? We don’t have any ice cubes.”

“Of course.” He stood up, smiling, and led the way through the boxes. Peas, peace, piece, please, pleas…Say something. “Somehow I always thought Americans were obsessed with ice, all those iced drinks and such. You don’t have a herd of little glaciers in your freezer?”

“No, they evaporated…You know, we’re half-English. Maybe we’re not totally average Americans, you know?”

“I’m sure you’re not average at all,” Martin said. Julia smiled and went downstairs. Peas, peace, pleas… He looked at his watch. Three hours and twenty-eight minutes to kill before dinner. Just enough time for a shower.

Marijke sat at a long table in the Restaurant Sluizer, clutching her mobile under the tablecloth. She had explained her predicament to the head waiter, and he had kindly escorted her to a room that was usually reserved for private parties. He lit several candles and quickly cleared away a few of the surplus table settings, leaving her in solitary possession of a room that could have seated twenty. She skimmed the menu, even though she always ordered the same thing here.

Her phone rang just as the waiter brought her a glass of wine. “Martin?”

“Hello, Marijke. Where are you?”

“Sluizer. In a private room.”

“What are you wearing?” he asked.

She glanced down; she was wearing slacks and a grey turtleneck. “That red dress with the low back, open-toed heels, my earrings.” She actually was wearing the earrings. “What are you having for dinner?”

“Mmm, I thought I’d go with the Seekh kabob of mutton starter, and then roast saddle of Oisin red deer with pickling spices for the mains. And a nice Merlot.”

“That sounds meaty. Where are you pretending to be?”

“The Cinnamon Club.”

“Isn’t that the Indian restaurant that’s in a library?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve never been there.”

“Neither have I, I’m experimenting.” Martin was ripping open boxes of frozen food as he spoke, his mobile clamped between head and shoulder. Chicken tikka masala and saag aloo. The Cinnamon Club didn’t do takeaway. “Are you having your usual sea bream?”

“Yes, indeed.” The waiter arrived and took her order. Marijke handed him her menu and stared at her own reflection in the restaurant window. In the soft light of the reflected candles she looked almost young. She smiled at herself.

“Did Theo call?” asked Martin.

“He did, yes. Just as I was going out, so we didn’t talk long.”

“How is he?”

“He’s fine. He may come and visit over the break. And he has a new girlfriend, I think,” said Marijke.

“Ah, that’s news. Did he tell you much of anything?”

“Her name is Amrita. She’s a foreign student, from Bangladesh. Her family has a tea-towel factory, or something like that. According to Theo, she’s a looker and a genius. And she can cook, he says.”

“He sounds smitten. What sort of genius is she?” Martin pressed the buttons on the microwave and the food began to rotate.

“Maths. He explained but I’m afraid I didn’t comprehend. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

Martin felt a sudden lightness, a temporary lifting of worry. “That’s excellent. They’ll be able to talk about their work.” He and Marijke had met in a Russian class; they had always enjoyed being able to share the intricacies of translation, of one language melting into another. “I was afraid he’d end up with a kindergarten teacher, one of those terribly cheerful women.”

“Mmm, don’t marry him off yet.”

“Yeah, I know.” He poured himself more wine. “That’s the thing about living vicariously; it’s so much faster than actual living. In a few minutes we’ll be worrying about names for the children.”

She laughed. “I have them all picked out. Jason, Alex and Daniel for the boys, and Rachel, Marion and Louise for the girls.”

“Six children?”

“Why not? We don’t have to raise them.” Her food arrived. Martin removed his from the microwave. It looked rather colourless, and Martin wished himself at the Cinnamon Club in reality, not just imagination. Then he thought, That’s silly. I wish we were eating together, anywhere.

“How’s yours?” he asked her.

“Delightful. As always.”

When the table had been cleared and she was sipping her brandy, Marijke said, “ Diz-me coisas porcas .” (“Talk dirty to me.”)

“In Portuguese? Kind mistress, that’s going to require a dictionary or two.” He went to his office, grabbed their Portuguese-English dictionary, went to their bedroom. He took off his shoes and climbed into bed. Martin thought for a moment, riffling through the dictionary’s pages for inspiration. “Okay, here we go. Estamos a sair do restaurante . Estamos num táxia descer a Vijzelstraat. Somos dois estranhos que partilham um táxi. Sentados tão afastados um do outro quanto possível, cada um olhando pela sua janela. Vaiser uma longa viagem. Olho de re-lance para ti. Reparo nas tuas belas pernas, collants de seda e saltos altos. O vestido subiute até às coxas, terá sido quando entraste no táxi, ou talvez o tenhas puxado para cima deliberadamente? Hmm, é difícil dizer …” (“We’re leaving the restaurant. We’re in a taxi, driving down Vijzelstraat. We’re strangers, sharing a cab. We’re sitting as far apart as possible, each looking out of a window. It’s going to be a long ride. I glance over at you. I notice your beautiful legs, silk stockings and high heels. Your dress has ridden up your thighs, maybe when you got into the taxi, or perhaps you deliberately pulled up your dress? Hmm, it’s hard to tell…”)

Marijke sat by herself at the long table, brandy in hand, mobile at her ear, her mind in the past and in a taxi meandering through the streets of Amsterdam. I want you. I want us, the way we were before.