illustration irrevocably published for the world to see. Surely it was asking little enough, this once, to turn back the clock—not years or anything, nor months nor even weeks, but barely a day. Once again they would lean in tandem over the snooker table, inches apart, as Ramsey demonstrated how to brace the cue. Drifting uneasily to sleep, Irina looked temptation square in the face, smiled bravely, and withdrew.
To Irina’s mind, it was the most underrated of symphonies: the jingle of the ring, the hard rasp, the clop of the bolt withdrawing, open-Sesame. The soft brush of wood against carpet. Engrossed in her reading, she had turned down Shawn Colvin, the better to keep her ear cocked. Curled impatiently in her armchair, she had more than once brightened in a false start as neighbours tromped past the flat and on upstairs. At last there was no mistaking the bold assertion of dominion, of access, of belonging, into their escutcheon. These were the unsung peak moments of domestic life: those Pavlovian leaps of the heart on an ordinary night when your beloved walks in the door.
“Irina Galina!”
Still in the hallway, he missed the flush of her smile, though there would be others. Only Lawrence would be able to redeem a middle name otherwise a mocking misnomer. Galina Ulanova was the Bolshoi’s prima ballerina in the 1940s, and Irina’s squat pliés (before her mother gave up on her altogether) had conspicuously failed to live up to her namesake. She’d always hated that name, until Lawrence converted it first to joke, and then, if only because she now associated it with his voice, to joy.
“Lawrence Lawrensovich!” she cried, completing a responsive ritual that never grew tired. As for the sardonic patronymic, his father’s name was Lawrence also.
“Hey!” He kissed her lightly, and nodded at the stereo. “The usual tear-jerking soundtrack.”
“That’s right. I do nothing while you’re gone but sob.”
“What are you reading?”
“Memoirs of a Geisha.” She teased, “You’d hate it.”
“Oh, probably,” he said airily, returning to the hall. “What don’t I hate?”
“Come back here!”
“I was just going to unpack.”
“Sod unpacking!” While Lawrence maintained a militantly American vocabulary as a point of pride, Irina appropriated British lingo whimsically, and even, after seven years here, as a matter of right. “You’ve been gone for ten days. Come back and kiss me properly!”
Though Lawrence duly dropped his bags again and U-turned to the living room, his expression as she looped her wrists about his neck was perplexed. He tried for a closed-mouth kiss, but Irina was having none of that, and parted his lips with her tongue. So rarely had they locked mouths in these latter years that their tongues kept smashing into each other, as at ten she would bumble into partners during a pas de deux. Unpracticed, he pulled back prematurely, stringing spittle between their lips—not cinematic romance. Lawrence glanced at her askance. “What’s got into you?”
She would rather not say. She was not planning to say, and didn’t. “You call me your ‘wife.’ Well, that’s what husbands do, when they come home. They kiss their wives. Sometimes they even enjoy it.”
“It’s coming up on eleven,” he said, launching back down the hall with his bags. “Thought you might want to watch Late Review!”
He was a hard case.
When Lawrence sprawled on the couch after unpacking, she took a moment to study his face. The feeling it induced was gratitude, if only for her own restraint. Last night had been close, as close a call as ever she had encountered, and a fleeting shadow crossed her mind, of that other life in which she could only look at Lawrence in guilt and shame and frantic desperation to cover her tracks. The contrasting cleanliness would have been even more refreshing had she intended to tell him everything, but she and Lawrence had been leaving something out—it was hard to identify what—for long enough that to gush that she had nearly kissed Ramsey Acton last night and then thought better of it would have been dangerous, however wryly she recounted the moment. To recount it wryly would entail a gross distortion anyway, and unless she related the crisis as the Gethsemane it had been there’d be no point. Fully truthful, she’d make him anxious, and create a wariness of Ramsey forever after. It was Lawrence’s friendship with Ramsey as well as her own with Lawrence of which she had been mindful when she’d wished the snooker player happy birthday and then excused herself hastily, in a panic, to the loo.
Curiously, contemplating Lawrence she felt less the recognition of when they met than the mystery of his eternal unfamiliarity. There was a discomfort in Lawrence that his bluster would disguise, and in truth she was never quite sure what really went on in his head. As striking as the planes in that drastic face, they were like theatre flats that shut you from the pulleys behind the scenes. She even thought tentatively, He looks a trace melancholy.
There was no doubting that Lawrence’s was a beautiful face, or better than beautiful; fascinating. The kind you could dive into like dark water and get lost. She felt privileged to be allowed to study it, and to follow the unexplained clouds as they crossed his countenance and then dispersed with the changeability of island weather. It was peculiar how the more you got to know someone, the more you grew to appreciate how little you knew, how little you had ever known—as if progressive intimacy didn’t involve becoming ever more perceptive, but growing only more perfectly ignorant. To whatever degree she had been assembling a vivid portrait of Lawrence Trainer’s nature, its refinement was all about deconstruction. She would no sooner limn this or that quality than rub it out for being wildly inaccurate or cartoonlike in its simplicity or exaggeration. He was kind; no, sorry, he was savage. He was selflessly devoted to her; to the contrary, he held something back in a way that was decidedly selfish. He was sure of himself; uh-uh, how could she buy into that superficial confidence when it was obvious that he was achingly insecure? At once, Lawrence was kind, he was devoted, and some portion of that assurance drove to his core. Were her mental picture of Lawrence an illustration on her drawing table, it would after over nine years appear a messy smudge of erasures. Maybe by the time she was eighty-five she would approach the limit of having absolutely no idea who Lawrence was, when before she might have listed out “character traits” as if together they amounted to a man. Maybe arriving at this state of being stymied was an achievement. Maybe to live successfully alongside anyone was to come to understand not how much he was like you but how much he was not-you—and hence to allow, as we do so rarely with one another, that the person sprawled across from you on the sofa is actually there.
“What are you looking at?”
“You.”
“Seen me before.”
“Sometimes I forget what you look like.”
“Been gone ten days, not ten years.” Lawrence glanced at his watch. It wasn’t eleven.
“You haven’t asked me how it went last night, with Ramsey.”
“Oh, right. I forgot.” She sensed Lawrence had not forgotten.
“We had a much nicer time than I
