Кейт Кристенсен - The Last Cruise

They badly wanted to tell the others, because they very badly wanted to switch bedrooms. Miriam was hoping Isaac would agree to move over and bunk with Jakov in the stateroom with two single beds so she and Sasha could share the stateroom with the big bed. But that meant Isaac would have to leave his place by his ex-wife’s side so she could sleep with his colleague and friend instead. They were, technically, divorced. But somehow that didn’t matter. Miriam didn’t know how to tell Isaac. Sasha didn’t know how to tell Jakov, who had nursed a long crush on Miriam himself, in spite of the continued existence of his own very devoted wife, Devorah. Miriam couldn’t believe Isaac didn’t see the sparks shooting off her skin, didn’t notice the lusty fire in her eyes, didn’t feel the new passion raging in her.

Miriam had known Sasha for her entire adult life, but now she realized she’d hardly known him at all. He seemed deeply mysterious to her, this man she’d worked and traveled with for more than forty years. She knew he was handsome, he was kind, he could be bossy, he was a brilliant violinist, he was occasionally overcome with emotion, especially when he played Schubert, and he had loved his wife and still loved their three children. She knew he’d grown up in Brooklyn in an Orthodox household. She knew he’d rebelled against his father after graduating from the Mannes conservatory and had become a lefty political activist for a while before emigrating to Israel, and shortly afterward had met Sonia, who became his wife. Miriam had always liked her, but she was a tough bitch, with good reason. Her parents and older brothers had all been killed in the Holocaust. She had been hidden as a child by a generous, heroic family in France until the war was over. Then she’d been sent to her Polish aunt, who’d miraculously survived Auschwitz, and who had brought her to Israel as a young girl.

Sasha had always been devoted to this force of a woman, but something had always pulled him to Miriam, she knew, just as she had always been pulled to him. Their spouses were so different from them. And they were the same kind of person, both of them practical and responsible on the outside, but inside they were frustrated romantics.

They whispered all these things, and so many more, into each other’s ears and necks and mouths, embracing on the deck for hours. As they ran their hands over each other’s bodies, Miriam felt how much strength was still there, how much juice and vigor. They laughed with giddy joy. And then they wept with how much time had been wasted, and was gone forever.

“Finally,” said Sasha.

“At last,” Miriam echoed him.

“I’ve loved you all along.”

“I’ve loved you, too.”

Oh, they were glorious, those headlong passionate hours.

But how would they tell Isaac? And Jakov, too. If Jakov had been the one whose wife had died, he would have charged right at Miriam like a lusty bull. But his wife was still alive, that lively, opinionated woman who cooked like a dream, hence Jakov’s girth. So Jakov couldn’t blame Sasha or begrudge him or Miriam their happiness, but he wasn’t going to be thrilled to hear the news of their love affair.

And Isaac—he’d never had to share Miriam with another man. The two short-lived affairs she’d had, he’d never known about because she’d protected him from knowing. She’d been discreet for his sake, and also for their children’s, although when she’d recently confided in her daughter, Rachel had applauded. Rachie had always gravitated to Sasha, even as a squinty-eyed, impatient, precocious little girl. Sasha had always known how to talk to Rachel. He’d never condescended to her. He’d treated her as if she were his equal, his contemporary. Miriam realized with a whole new rush of happiness that her daughter would be over the moon about her and Sasha, her skeptical sour-patch of a daughter who was never over the moon about anything.

“Let’s tell them in the morning,” said Sasha. “It’s time.”

“At rehearsal,” said Miriam. “I can’t wait another minute.”

“Neither can I.”

“I’ll say it,” said Miriam. “I’m the one who has to. You leave it to me.”

After they parted in the hallway in front of her door with one last lingering kiss, Miriam got into bed and lay awake the rest of the night while Isaac snored beside her. At dawn, to avoid facing him, she got up and fetched some coffee and paced along the promenade until it was time for their rehearsal.

When she arrived at the chapel, Sasha was alone practicing his part for Rivka’s piece. Without the rest of the instruments to give it a context, it sounded even weirder, even uglier, as if he were a teenager screwing around with atonal dissonances, trying to annoy his mother.

“My darling,” he said.

Her chest felt like a giant slow bubble was rising in it, just because of the sound of his voice and the sight of his familiar but suddenly thrilling face.

He put his violin down and stood up and embraced her. The feel of his hands firm on her waist, his warm breath against her temple, made her press her face to his.

“You look as beautiful still as you ever have,” he said with amazement as they pulled apart, smiling at each other.

“So do you,” she said. “As handsome.”

They kissed slowly, with their mouths open, breathing hard.

“We’d better stop,” she said, chuckling. “They’ll be here any minute. They shouldn’t walk in on us before we tell them.”

Sasha sat in his chair again, picked up his violin, and noodled around while Miriam got hers out and tightened and rosined the bow, tuned the strings, put on her reading glasses.

Isaac arrived first, and then Jakov. Miriam felt her hands shaking slightly at the sight of them. Her heart thudded as she put her violin down and looked at Sasha. He looked steadily back at her, willing her to be the one to say it. It had to be her.

She and Sasha had been speaking in English. But now she said in Hebrew, “Jakov and Isaac. I have to tell you something. Sasha and I have fallen in love.”

“What was that?” said Isaac with a confused expression. He’d been staring into his viola case, lost in thought, as he often was in the mornings.

Jakov had heard Miriam just fine. He stared at her, and then at Sasha, and then at Isaac. Then he looked back at Miriam with a fierce expression. “Say it again,” he said. “Go on.”

“Sasha and I have fallen in love,” she repeated. It was much easier the second time. She was so relieved, she felt like laughing, but she restrained herself. It would be so impolite to Isaac, whose befuddled vague expression was shifting, sharpening, comprehending, and then in an instant, trying to compose itself into dignity, acceptance, pride.

“Mazel tov,” he said to Sasha, and then in English, “She’s nothing but a headache.”

All three of them burst into laughter, but Jakov was scowling. “This is unprofessional,” he said. “This isn’t good. You’re acting like a couple of idiots. Please stop it. You’re old and you’re losing your minds.”

Isaac cradled his viola against his stomach and caressed its curves with his thumb. “Jakov,” he said, “surely this is my battle to fight, not yours.”

Jakov twanged the C-string of his cello. It gave a deep burp. “Sure,” he said. “Fight away. Only you’re not fighting. You’re divorced, or so you say. Well then, why can’t I say something? This quartet, it’s my entire livelihood. You think it’s funny? Be my guest, laugh.”

“Why is this bad for the quartet?” Sasha asked mildly. “What Miriam and I choose to do in our personal lives is our business. We’re telling you as a courtesy.”

“Actually,” said Miriam, “we’re telling you because we want to switch staterooms. To be honest.” God, it felt good to just say it, after tiptoeing around in secrecy for two days. She went on boldly, “In fact, Sasha wants to switch with Isaac. We want to share a room.”