Katie Kitamura - A Separation

I stopped the waiter when he brought my toast.

It’s very quiet. Am I the last to come down for breakfast?

The hotel is empty. It is the off-season.

But there must be other guests.

The fires, he said, shrugging. They have discouraged people.

I don’t know about the fires.

There have been wildfires all over the country. Fires all summer. The hills between here and Athens are black. If you go outside the village, up to the hills, you will see, the earth is still hot from the fire. It was in the newspapers. All around the world. There were photographers—he mimed the click of a camera—all summer.

He tucked the tray under his arm and continued. They shot photographs for a fashion magazine here, at the hotel. The fire had spread to the cliff, you can still see the black—look. He gestured to the black-scarred surface of the rock. They put the models by the pool and the fire behind them and the sea—he sucked in his breath—it was very dramatic.

I nodded. He drifted away when I didn’t say anything further. Unbidden, the image of Christopher in the midst of this photo shoot rose up. It was implausible, he stood between the models and the makeup artists and the stylist with a wry expression, as if he could not possibly begin to explain what he was doing in this circus. He looked even more like a stranger. I gazed around the terrace uneasily. It was nearing ten, evidently I had missed him at breakfast, he must have eaten early, perhaps he had already left the hotel for the day.

I rose and went into the lobby. The man who had checked me in the night before had been replaced by a young woman with heavy features, she wore her hair scraped back in a manner that did not suit her, the style was too severe for her soft, full face. I asked her if Christopher had been down that morning. She frowned, I sensed that she did not want to tell me. I asked if she could call his room. She kept her eyes on my face as she dialed the number, I listened to the pulse of the bell, beneath her professional hairline, her expression was openly sullen.

She hung up.

He’s not in his room. Would you like to leave a message?

I need to speak with him urgently.

Who are you?

The question was blunt, almost hostile.

I’m his wife.

She looked startled, at once I understood—Christopher was a careless flirt, he did it without thinking, as a reflex, the way people said hello, thank you, you’re welcome , the way a man held open a door for a woman. He was too liberal in this regard, he risked spreading his charm thin. Once you perceived the patches where it had worn through, it was hard to see the charm—hard to see the man himself, if you were in any way wary of charisma—entirely whole again. But most people did not stay in his orbit long enough for this to happen, most people were like this young girl, I could see that she was protective of him, still in his thrall.

Him, Him, as if he belonged to her. I stepped back from the counter.

Please tell him that his wife is looking for him.

She nodded.

As soon as he returns. It’s important.

She muttered something below her breath as I left, cursing me no doubt. The wife is always the subject of cursing, never more so than in such a situation.

I’d like to go for a walk.

She looked up, she could not believe that I was still there, she was waiting for me to leave, my presence was clearly unpleasant to her. But I found myself lingering, it was true that I wanted to go for a walk and I did not know where to go. She gave me directions to the quay, she said the village was small and I would not get lost. I nodded and went outside. Although it was September it was still hot and the light was very bright. For a moment I was almost blinded, I thought I could smell the faint whiff of char in the air, as if the land was still burning: a moment of synesthesia.

Almost as soon as I stepped past the hotel gates, the stray dogs appeared. They approached me with their tails fanning through the air in a manner that was neither friendly nor hostile. I liked dogs. I would have even gotten a dog, once upon a time, but Christopher was against it, he said we traveled too much, which was true. I reached out to touch the nearest dog. His hair was thin and short, the surface so sleek that it was more like touching skin than fur. His right eye was milky with blindness but the gaze was both intelligent and desolate, its animal blankness unmitigated.

The other dogs writhed around me, their bodies momentarily rubbing against my sides, my hands and fingers, before falling away. They accompanied me as I made my way down to the embankment, running forward and then circling back again in a slow spiral of movement. Only the dog with the milky eye remained fixed at my side. It was nearing noon. The water in the bay was clear and blue. A few solitary boats dotted its surface.

Gerolimenas was a small fishing village, I came upon a handful of shops—a newsstand, a tobacconist, a pharmacy—all of which were shuttered. As I walked and the dogs eventually dispersed, I looked for Christopher among the scant faces seated outside the taverna, most of which were lined and well weathered, much darkened by the sun. They bore nothing in common with Christopher’s smooth and pampered countenance, which would have stood out in contrast. He had been attractive—to women, to people in general—his entire life and that could not help but have an effect.

Nor was Christopher to be found among the figures on the embankment, idle men and women, a couple of fishermen. The small beach itself was empty. I stood by the water and looked back at the hotel, which had become entirely incongruous in the ten minutes it had taken to walk here. Within the grounds of the hotel you could have been anywhere, luxury was by and large anonymous, but once you passed beyond its carefully guarded confines, you were forcibly in this particular setting and place. I was aware that the villagers were watching me—it was their right, I was the intruder here—and I lowered my head and retreated in the direction of the hotel.

When I returned, less than an hour had passed. In the lobby, I saw that the young woman had disappeared and the man from the previous evening had returned. He looked up, then stepped from behind his desk and hurried in my direction.

I’m sorry to bother you—

What is it?

My colleague has told me that you are the wife of Mr. Wallace.

Yes?

Your husband was due to check out this morning. But he has not checked out.

I looked at my watch.

It’s only just noon.

The fact is, we have not seen him for several days. He went on a trip, and hasn’t returned.

I shook my head.

Where has he gone?

He hired a car, a driver, but that is all we know. He had already paid for the room in advance, he said that he would keep it while he was gone.

For a long moment, we stared at each other in silence. Then the man cleared his throat, politely.

You see, his room is needed.

Excuse me?

The persons who have reserved that room are arriving today.

But the hotel is empty.

He shrugged apologetically.

Yes, I know. But people are absurd. A wedding anniversary, I think. The room has special meaning to them, they passed their honeymoon in it. They are due to arrive in the afternoon, and so you see . . .

He trailed off.

We would like to move his belongings from one room to another.

That seems reasonable.

Or perhaps we should pack them up, if he intends to leave with you today?

I don’t know how long he plans to stay.

Yes, I see.

He is doing research.

The man held his hands up, as if I had said something unnecessary.

We will need to begin packing his room now. Perhaps you could accompany me?