Katie Kitamura - A Separation

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.