earth. Crows were sounding approval from the high elms and she heard again the clock-chime she had counted in the bathroom. She turned, but couldn’t see the tower. There were more trees and more crows, their nests picked out on the upper branches like musical notes for a tune the occupants couldn’t get right. It was still wet underfoot. Karen saw her shoes were being stained black. More musical notes.
“How long have you been married?” Levy did not look at her.
“Nine years,” she said. “What about you?”
“Three.”
“Children?” It was a blurted question.
“Two,” he said. “Both boys.” He smiled in private recollection. “Shimeon is two… named after me. Yatzik is a baby, just four months.” The correction came immediately. “Five months. I’ve been away for a while.”
“I haven’t got any children.”
“Why not?” It was a thoughtless question from a man still enclosed in his own thoughts.
They reached the perimeter edge near the hedge and beyond it the trees with their tuneless birds. He took her elbow, an automatic gesture to guide her around. She was aware of the contact but didn’t try to pull away.
“Richard doesn’t want to.”
“Why not?” he repeated.
She shrugged. “He says he wants to get settled first… become established.”
She was aware of him stiffening at the words, his hand actually tightening against her arm. “My shoes are getting soaked,” she said.
“Why not take them off?”
She was seized at once by the careless, uncomplicated delight of doing something without thought of censure or explanation or excuse. For now. The coldness of the grass came as a shock. She shivered, and he tightened his grip on her arm. Around them birds screeched and guffawed, as if aware of the awkwardness; the sun finally shouldered itself up over the barrier of the trees. Karen’s feet were frozen and she felt ridiculous, standing before him with her shoes in her hand: they weren’t even her newest pair and the insoles were stained with wear. She hadn’t thought she was going anywhere.
“That wasn’t a good idea,” she said.
“No.”
She looked helplessly down at her feet, then at the shoes in her hand. “It’ll be worse if I put them on again.”
“We’d better go back.”
She gave another involuntary shiver.
“We’d better get you dry. I don’t want anyone else falling sick.”
They walked, self-consciously apart, back to the farmhouse. Karen made Man Friday tracks over the flagstones; they were even colder than the grass.
“I’ll use the towel in my room,” she said, wondering as she spoke why an explanation was necessary.
“I’ll see how the boy is.”
It was a wide staircase and they went up side by side, careful still not to touch.
“I’ll get dry then,” she said at the top.
“Yes.”
It wasn’t until she got back to the room that Karen realized that she had left so hurriedly, at Levy’s summons, that she hadn’t made the bed. She took the towel from its rail near the washstand and sat down on the thrown- back covering, crooking her leg in front of her. Her feet had dried already but walking barefoot had made them dirty. She put water from the jug into its matching bowl, placed it beside the bed and immersed both her feet.
She looked up to see Levy in the doorway.
“How is he?” she asked.
“Asleep,” said Levy. “Still sweating. No different really.”
She dried her feet, taking care to ensure that her skirt didn’t ride up over her thighs.
“Your shoes are still wet.”
“I’d better wait until they dry; they’re the only ones I’ve got.” She tucked her legs beneath her. She wished the bed were made.
“I’ll put them outside when the sun gets hotter.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s all right.” He remained in the doorway, as if there were a demarcation line he could not cross. “Would you like to try backgammon again?”
He had tried to teach her the previous afternoon, under Azziz’s contemptuous stare, and she hadn’t wanted to learn. “No thanks.”
“Cards?”
“I don’t know any card games.”
“I want to make love to you.”
“Yes,” she said. “I know.” Why wasn’t she outraged? Offended at least? Frightened?
He came into the room and closed the door. Karen knew that if she wanted to she could stop him. But she said nothing. Levy bent down and picked up the bowl. The water was dirty, creating a line around the edge and she wished it hadn’t. He put it on the washstand and came back to kneel before her, not touching her but leaning forward, to bring his face against hers and not really kissing; more biting and nipping, trying to get her lips between his teeth. Karen felt a flood between her legs, a flood she hadn’t known before and which embarrassed her. They collided in their urgency, his hands moving over her, not groping and pawing but seeking reassurance. She felt his touch beneath her skirt and opened her legs, wanting to help him all she could. He couldn’t wait to undress himself, just thrusting aside his trousers and stabbing at her. Karen came to him, the whimper rising into a moaning scream as they burst together and she felt his hardness going on and on as if forever. At first, after the initial coupling, they were wrong, mistiming each other, but then he slid his hands beneath her buttocks and held her, slowing her to his movement until they rode together, each in perfect time with the other. Despite their frenzy and the flow that had already soaked her, it took a long time: they grew comfortable with each other, enjoying the fit. It was Karen who started the race, nails deep into the thickness of his legs, hauling him into her with each thrust.
“Come on,” she gasped. “Come on, come on, come on,” bucking each time she made the demand.
Levy tried desperately to keep up, like a man running for a disappearing train. He just missed. She was already exploding in a back-arching groan when he made it, hurrying the more to finish at the same time. They ended the journey together, limp and exhausted against each other, conscious of the discomfort of clothes between them.
“Kiss me,” she said.
They undressed afterwards, giggling at the reverse order, reaching out to touch and to feel as if afraid that as quickly as it had happened it would end and they would lose each other.
“Your back is bruised,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
Naked they tunnelled into the bed, building their own burrow. Very quickly it became hot.
“I believe this is called the Stockholm Syndrome. Women developing sexual fantasies about men who kidnap them.”
“It didn’t seem like a fantasy to me.”
“It didn’t to me, either.”
“Sorry?”
“No,” she said. “Are you?”
“No.”
“It’s…” She stopped, unable to find the expression she wanted. “… strange though, isn’t it?” she finished badly.
“Yes,” said Levy. He was moving his hand over her body, as if he still needed the reassurance of her presence.
“What’s your wife’s name?”
“Rebecca.”
“What’s she like?”
