“It will hurt,” William told her. “It always does. But we will be all right, won’t we?”
“Yes,” she said. “We’ll be all right.”
She did not think of it much until then, the pain of parting with Piotr, breaking up her marriage. With William beside her she was happy, blissfully happy.
In the first week of December she dictated Piotr’s number to the operator. By the time he picked up the phone her heart stopped a million times, a torrent of little deaths. Her palm was sweaty, and she gripped the receiver too hard. She was to remember this for a long time afterwards, the spasm, the tingling of her hand.
Piotr didn’t understand. “You’ve met someone? You are not coming back?” he asked, as if she were talking of something entirely impossible, ridiculous even.
She had to repeat, for the connection was poor, the buzz of static overwhelming, and then there was the echo that made her hear her words as if they were spoken into a vacuum, returned to her before she had finished speaking. It humiliated her that he didn’t understand. In her mind she had already altered the past, made him expect her desertion, and his surprise was an affront, a slap on the cheek. How could he not understand? How could he not see it coming? Did she pretend so well? Feign her happiness with him, her love? For she must have feigned it. If she truly loved Piotr, she would not be in love with William now. Would she?
Marie, of course, did not think so. “You are not the first woman, darling, to discover you can love two men at the same time.” But Anna could not believe it.
Now, with Piotr at the other end of the receiver, Anna did not know how to find words sharp enough, words that would make him hear, that would make him understand.
“Please. Try to forgive me,” she said. “I didn’t think it would happen, and I can’t explain it. It’s all my fault. I’m sorry.”
William was in the other room when she made the call. They were still unsure of their territories, still learning to judge what could be demanded and what should be left unsaid. He paced the living room floor. He could hear her speak, but he could not understand what she was saying. Her voice, he would tell her later, seemed to him all consonants, sharp, whistling, a shiver.
Piotr must have understood finally, for he told her to suit herself. “I haven’t really known you, have I?” he asked, and then she heard a muted curse and a slam of the receiver.
She wept the whole evening. She let William rock her to sleep, give her a tall glass with gin and tonic. She drank hastily. Sleep was an escape, long, deep, incoherent, filled with the images of the world disconnected, hands, knees, the warmth of someone’s skin. Wetness. The pillow was wet when she woke up, in the middle of the night, alert.
She slipped out of the bedroom, quietly not to wake William up. In the credenza drawer there was an old packet of cigarettes she had spotted a few days before, a leftover from an old, discarded habit. The window in the living room had a stained glass panel, and she sat in the wicker armchair, legs curled up, staring at the grey patterns of squares and circles. The taste of smoke surprised her; she had not smoked since that day, thirteen years ago when she met Piotr on Partisans’ Hill. It hit her lungs with a force she had forgotten. Her brain swirled. She inhaled the smoke deeply and let it out. Another long drag, the glowing tip sparkling and fading in the dark. She sat like that for a long time. Cars passed, the lights made patterns on the ceiling, flashes of light, one chasing another. She did not move. In the morning William found her with her head resting on her arm. Asleep.
On December 12, 1981, they gave their first party to celebrate their coming together. Marie brought Anna a bouquet of red roses and hugged her for a long time before she let her go. “Just take care of yourself,” she whispered in her ear. William’s friends came with good wishes and curious glances. “Long time, no see,” she heard voices in the hall as William greeted them, “You lucky man. How do you do it?” Her extended hand was squeezed and shaken as William introduced her to his colleagues, former students, their wives and girlfriends.
She was asked how she liked Montreal, if she had already been to Place des Arts, to the Laurentians. “William is a great guy,” she was told in conspicuous whispers. She was nodding her head, smiling, recounting all the trips they had already taken. No one asked her about Poland any more; she was no longer a visitor, and it was now tactless to mention what she had left behind.
By degrees the living room became too warm, too smoky, and she found herself drifting off, unable to fend off the thoughts of her mother who must, by then, have learned about her and Piotr. In her big, dark Wroclaw apartment, among the mismatched pieces of furniture and threadbare carpets her mother and father were getting ready for Christmas. There would be tears at Christmas Eve supper, and an empty plate at the table where she would have sat.
“Are you all right?” William asked. “You look pale.”
“It’s nothing, love,” she said. “I’m fine.” It pleased her so much to call him love, to hear the concern in his voice. To exchange little smiles of understanding across the room. She thought she should hide her pain from him, keep the old life away from the new.
There were too many people she didn’t know to make her feel comfortable. Marie was busy talking to a tall, handsome man who was sitting cross-legged on the floor. She was kneeling opposite him, making large circles in the air with her hand. The black strap of her silk blouse kept falling off her shoulder. From where she stood, Anna could hear Marie’s laughter, see her thick, black hair tossed back. She did not want to interrupt.
Anna walked to the window to open it a bit more, to let in fresh, cold, wintry air. Outside, the world was covered in a white snowy blanket. Thick caps formed over street lamps, fire hydrants, parked cars. Enormous white flakes danced in the light. She wanted the party to end, to stop the growing noise, the laughter, the stories of events that had no resonance for her yet, memories of the lost referendum, absurdities of the French language policy, upcoming constitutional wrangles.
“Lévesque was stabbed in the back,” she heard a fierce whisper. “Once again!” Someone hummed a few notes of a song. “Oh, come on!” she heard. “Stop it!” By candlelight the faces of the guests looked long and lean. No, not frightening, but strangely distant.
Piotr she dismissed when he appeared to her then. It was not an easy decision, but she had the right to make it. Even if she did go back, she told herself, how long would it be before she started to blame him for every day that went wrong. How long before she would make his life miserable. It all made perfect sense. She could betray either him or herself; there were no other choices to make.
On the morning of December 13, Anna woke up in what she still, in her mind, called William’s bed. In his light pine bed, on a thick, springy mattress, between his smooth white sheets. He was quite conservative that way, she had discovered, linen, towels, tablecloths had to be white, snow white, without a blemish.
She thought she should get up and start cleaning up after the party. They had both been too tired to do it in the evening. A pile of dirty dishes had been left soaking in the sink. Even in the bedroom, with the window opened a crack, there was the faint smell of cigarette smoke and wine.
William was still asleep beside her, snoring. She smiled. She wanted to shake him gently, to make him turn on his side, but knew she would only wake him up. It moved her to discover these little things about him, to learn of his habits. Piotr wouldn’t have woken up even if she switched on the radio or talked to him. She didn’t feel like getting up, not yet. The alarm clock was set for nine o’clock. There were still a few minutes left.
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