lovers’ chicory coffee with nutmeg hallucinations and spitting spells into the pages of their Bibles.
But there was some element of what she and Will had both shared, and the way they were together, that made her wonder if this was not different. She had liked the way his hands had held her, pushing and pulling her body. There was reassurance in such strong, demanding need. She had liked the rhythm they had found, steady and forceful without feeling in any way automatic. She liked too the way his eyes moved over her body as they made love, not staring or overly attentive—which some men were out of their pure wonder at the luck of being with her. Nor did he make love with his eyes shut tight—which she had always found insulting—but instead it felt as if they were two animals running wild through some thick, shadowy wilderness, repeatedly catching each other’s glances as they raced on, always reassured to find they were still so close together.
Amid all this, she sensed the seeds of a pure bond with him that she knew her many tricks would only taint and dilute. But the heavy rhythms of history called to her as she lay on the bed, tugging at her the same way she imagined the past pulled at opium addicts and alcoholics. No matter what the scientists say, heartbeats and appetites show that we are made as much of habit as either blood or flesh, she thought to herself as she rose from the bed and began to retrace the practiced patterns of old.
She began by pacing out the perimeter of the apartment, thoughtfully plotting all her careful geomancy. Then she sang knots of simple spells into the apartment’s corners. She hummed and chewed on strands of his hair pulled from a hairbrush and then opened a tea bag and sprinkled the dry leaves on a pair of old family photos she found in the desk. After letting them soak up the image, she collected the leaves and steeped them in hot water with mustard seeds and drank it down. Afterward she opened the kitchen window and stood over the sink, burning three fifty-franc notes. She heavily doused the ashes with black pepper and sang the old backward songs as she washed it all down the sink. Squatting, she urinated in the doorway to the bedroom, then sprinkled white flour across it. It left an ochre paste that she scrubbed into the floorboards while she sang some more. She wrote out a pair of small, crooked blessings—the first she wrapped between the tines of a dinner fork and hid it in the recesses of Will’s sock drawer, and the other she slipped into the inner band of a gray fedora that hung by the door. She pricked her finger with a pin and squeezed a drop of blood out, which she meticulously dabbed above the bathroom mirror. Sitting at his desk, she sketched a primitive drawing of Will surrounded by abstract oval shapes and, folding it up, tucked it into the back of a picture frame. She placed a complete suit of his clothes out on the bed and, lying naked on top of them, brought herself to another sexual climax. Then she hung the clothes up again, chanting softly as she set them neatly back into his closet. After that, she napped, exhausted from her exercises, rising a little over an hour later to shower and dress.
She was combing her hair when she heard the key in the lock. She didn’t know if Will would be happy or upset to find her still in his home, but she knew much of their new relationship would be defined by whatever expression he wore when he found her there. It was the moment of first return, a critical test in any union. She tried to fix a simple look on her face, nothing too intense, no needs or expectations embossed on her gaze, only the sort of simple, friendly expression you’d like to see as you walk through your door, a smile that only says, “I am yours.”
What she saw was Oliver.
“Oh, hullo,” the tall man said, briefly pausing for a double take. Will came in behind him, taking the key out of the door.
“Hello, Oliver. Hello, Will,” she said with a small but friendly smile.
Clearly embarrassed, Will looked beet red. She could tell Oliver had invited himself over and that Will was awkward and uncomfortable. But then Will made a gesture that surprised her. Striding over in a couple of steps, he gave her a warm hug and kissed her forehead. It was only a moment, but like every embrace, it told a story, and this was a most surprising one. It said he was glad to have her there, he had missed her, and he was sincere and even devoted. She had not expected him to be that strong, or even that clear. Perhaps he was not such a lost rabbit after all.
Then he stepped back and blushed again, grinning. She watched Oliver observe it all, a slightly bemused smile crossing his own lips as his head cocked slightly to the side. He understood. It was decided. Theirs was not the bourgeois romantic triangle that the modern cinephiles might expect. It was a much simpler thing: she had been with Oliver and now she was with Will. The small wordless gestures, Will’s touch, holding one another, had made it all apparent to the three of them in the room within seconds.
“Well, then,” said Oliver, raising an eyebrow as he glanced around the apartment, “where is your telephone hiding? Oh yes, I remember. Excuse me for a moment.” He strode over to the desk phone and dialed a number.
Will shook his head, embarrassed. “I’m so sorry, he wanted to make a phone call and I thought you might be gone.”
She kissed his cheek. “It’s fine, he doesn’t care. Oliver is one of those modern men, you know, he’s used to passing women around like candies at a party.”
He pulled her close. “I’m not like that.”
“Really?” She smiled and kissed him again.
The toilet flushed and Oliver came striding back into the room. “Will,” he said, “before we go, I suggest you use your washroom here, they’ve got one where we’re headed but it will make your flesh crawl.”
“No thanks, I’m fine,” Will said. Zoya suspected Oliver was trying to create a moment alone with her, which she was happy to avoid. Jealousy could be declawed and defanged with simple tricks, though she suspected Oliver only wanted some token acknowledgment that despite her moving on, their exchange had not been completely superficial. She found even the most cavalier sorts still hated to let things pass completely unspoken. Everyone wanted to put a meaning to things.
“Okay, then let’s be off. The cab should still be out front. I’ll go make sure. Zoya, what a nice surprise to see you. Amazing and wonderful.” Oliver kissed her on the cheek and left, clearly in a hurry.
Zoya took Will by the lapels of his jacket and kissed him hard. “Why don’t you come to my apartment tonight, whenever you finish with him.”
“I don’t know how long we’ll be, last time I went off with Oliver, I was gone all day.”
“Later is probably better, right?” She smiled. “Come by anytime; if it’s after dinner I’ll give you dessert.”
“Okay, after dinner, then.” He grinned and kissed her.
She scribbled down the address and slid it across the table. She felt bad playing this trick on him, she could sense it was unnecessary. But again ancient habits drove her to a well-practiced routine, for whenever circumstances allowed it, she liked to have new lovers stay in her bed for one night. When they saw the sad conditions she lived in, generally shabby, run-down lodgings in unsavory quarters, the men’s protective impulses took over and they pulled her in closer to their lives. She remembered how poor Leon had spent less than an hour in the squalid hovel she had behind the park stables before announcing that he would lease her that apartment in the 5th.
She felt a little guilty watching Will fold up her address and tuck it into his wallet. She was still tempted to stop him, to hold back the spells and let things unfold naturally, if only to see where they would go, but she knew it was too late for that and so she bit her tongue, staying silent as he took his gray hat off the hook, kissed her cheek, and went out the door.
Once she was alone, Zoya caught her breath. The work was done. There was no room for romantic sentiment, she reminded herself, it was only about survival. But the feeling that she had committed some unseen error nagged at her, for the emotions she held for her rabbit were becoming quite real and substantial; small lightning sparks jolted about in her blood at the simple thought of him. This wasn’t good. She sniffed the air, and all she smelled was trouble.
