Katie Kitamura - A Separation

Was it my imagination, or did Mark’s body relax at that moment? As if his child had been restored to him. I turned once more to look at him but he did not move, he did not return my gaze, it was as if I were not there. After a brief pause, the police chief continued.

I am only attempting to give you the full picture of the case. I do not know if you intend to stay here in Mani, but I must advise you that I do not expect this matter to be resolved at once. If there is any kind of breakthrough, we will of course inform you immediately. He paused again. For now, I think you should return to England, with your son.

Briefly, Mark’s shoulders slumped—I nearly asked if he was okay—but then he straightened, he asked if I would leave the two of them alone. I rose to my feet and nodded, I said that I would wait in the hall, in the lobby. Without turning to look at me, Mark said he would not be long. I lingered at the door for a moment, hesitating, but neither man looked up.

I watched the two men sitting across from each other. I had not yet said anything to the police about Stefano, if not a jealous husband or even lover, then a jealous friend, a jealous man, perhaps the one who would have solved the case for us , I knew he had sufficient cause for envy. But it did not seem possible to mention this before Mark of all people, he would have mostly felt this to be an accusation against his son, perhaps in some ways it was—Christopher was not, after all, without guilt in this scenario.

And jealousy in and of itself was not the same as guilt. It would take only a small gesture on my part—the articulation of a fear, which was perhaps not the fear that the driver had killed my husband, but the fear that Christopher’s betrayals went further and deeper yet, that they would continue to reveal themselves, long past his death—to ruin a man’s life, such a thing was not to be taken lightly. I stood at the door, I could not even confirm to myself what it was I thought I knew, Christopher had slept with Maria, but then he had likely slept with several women here in Mani, there might have been multiple men in Stefano’s position, I had nothing but a vague suspicion.

I returned to the waiting area. For the first time, I was conscious of being widowed, of lacking the protection of a man, it was an entirely atavistic sensation. Here in the lobby of this police station in Greece, I suddenly felt extraneous to the workings of the world, which is to say the world of men, I had grown invisible, standing at the threshold of that door. I sat down in one of the plastic chairs. The man with the head injury had disappeared, it occurred to me now, how strange it was that he had come to the police station without first tending to his wound, he should have gone to a hospital or a doctor, perhaps there wasn’t a local hospital or perhaps it was necessary to first lodge the complaint, certainly you would be more effective in doing so if you were bleeding from the head. If only Christopher had been able to do the same.

Still, as I sat there, even as I felt the essential injustice of his death—perhaps all deaths were unjust, but some were more so—I could not imagine a denouement such as the police chief had evoked only to negate again: the revelation of a jealous husband or boyfriend, someone in Stefano’s position, a man in search of revenge. The idea was abhorrent, not simply because it exposed Christopher’s own infidelity, but because of its patent absurdity, the image of a man who had been cuckolded, possessed with the impulse to kill, that man would have come with a knife or a gun, he would not have planned to kill with a rock of all things.

No, it was almost certainly as it had appeared from the beginning: a robbery, both a stupid and a simple death. I thought it likely, however, that Mark would persuade the police chief that a culprit must be found, he would incentivize the situation, wasn’t that what happened in these cases? I was about to rise to my feet and go back into the room when Mark appeared. His face was grim and he only said, Let’s go.

I followed him out of the police station, once we were in the car and before I could stop him, he said, They will continue the investigation, but I am not hopeful. They appear to have no leads, not even one. I don’t know how I’m going to tell Isabella, I don’t know what she will do.

Stefano was watching us. I had felt he was listening to our conversation, as soon as I met his gaze in the rearview mirror his eyes flicked back to the road, but not before I saw some complex emotion pass across his features, not before Mark saw him too. He leaned forward without warning and shouted, Why are you listening, why are you eavesdropping? What does my son have to do with you?

I gripped Mark’s arm and he leaned back into his seat and then he began sobbing, he said again, I don’t know what Isabella will do, I don’t know what she will do. I embraced him as well as I could, he was a large man and the car was bumping along the road. He held my hand as he continued sobbing, my arms around him. I looked up and my gaze met Stefano’s, we watched each other for several long seconds and then he dropped his gaze back to the road in front of him.

How is Maria? I asked him.

Although he did not look at me, I saw from his reflection in the rearview mirror that he was startled. She is fine, he said after a moment, she is okay. He still looked uneasy, he had been caught off guard, I continued watching him in the mirror but he did not meet my gaze, he was looking at the road ahead, perhaps it did need his attention, the surface was in terrible condition.

Deep down, Stefano must have known that Christopher was only the external manifestation—like ectoplasm from a medium’s mouth—of the deeper and more intractable deadlock between him and Maria, the problem of his unreciprocated love. I continued watching Stefano, as we drove out of the village and toward the hotel, Mark’s body heavy in my arms. What was the meaning of the relief I had seen in his face, when he had been listening to Mark, was it the fact that there were no suspects, very little evidence, a net with plenty of holes, through which he might yet escape? Could it have been, as he drove us back to the hotel, that he sat in the front seat with his feeling of relief—the police didn’t have a clue, they didn’t even know that Maria had seen Christopher just before his death—and his belief that he was still a free man?

A free man. Who soon would carry on with his slow courtship, who once again had all the time in the world. Maria would be in need of comfort, and Stefano would be in an ideal position to provide it. If he was smart he would not denigrate Christopher too much ( that scum, he got what was coming to him ) but would be kind, sensitive, entirely forgiving ( what a terrible and unfathomable thing, a man in the prime of his life, no, I couldn’t have wished such a death on anyone ).

And if he was patient, if he was not too pushy (as was his wont, this was his fatal flaw, but perhaps he had learned a thing or two), she would eventually turn to him. Because however insubstantial the affair with Christopher—and for all I knew it had been nothing more than a night, two nights—his death would have left a hole in her life. Where previously there had been the fantasy of love, of escape, the excitement of an unknown man, there was now nothing, a woman could coddle a fantasy for only so long, particularly a dead one.

And then there would be space for Stefano. Perhaps it would not even take that long—once you had made up your mind, if Maria were to make up her mind, then things progressed very quickly, perhaps that was even why she had been so reluctant, knowing that once she gave in to Stefano, the remainder of her life would be delineated in an instant, the entire future known. She was young, it was only natural that she would fight against such certainty.