Ms. Hempel liked to think that this was the moment at which their grand passion began. Of course she could be wrong; Mr. Polidori performed sudden, extravagant gestures all the time—kissing your hand in gratitude, wrapping his fingers around your neck and gently throttling you, draping his arm across your shoulders with comradely indifference—gestures that thrilled Ms. Hempel whenever she happened, through luck and proximity, to be the recipient. Her skin on fire, she felt how ridiculous it was: Mr. Polidori, as a rule, could not be taken seriously. And Ms. Duffy did not appear to do so. After he came gliding across the floor, arms outspread, she merely offered him her hand and hoisted him up, never once losing the beat of her winsome little dance. But what if, as their hands joined, a secret message was exchanged? A message that took them both by surprise. Ms. Hempel wished that she had been sharp enough to catch the exchange; she thought of this moment only in retrospect, as she tried to make a story of what had happened. How interesting it would have been to witness the very inception of an affair! Or, rather, a thing; these days only married people were entitled to affairs. Either way, she could have hoarded up the image—he on his knees, she swaying above him—to share with Amit when he came home. Walking back dreamily from the bar, the afternoon light slanting across the pavement, Ms. Hempel was full of marvelous jokes and observations and stories to tell him. But then she went inside and it got dark; she turned up the television and felt a headache coming on, and by the time Amit returned from the lab, she couldn’t think of anything to say, even when he wrinkled his nose and tranquilly asked, “How come you smell like cigarettes?”
MS. HEMPEL WONDERED about the father of Ms. Duffy’s baby. A sloe-eyed camel driver singing beneath his breath? A poet studying English at the university, or maybe a young doctor who led the way through a bazaar? She spent much of last period considering the possibilities. And if in her speculations she caught a whiff of something faintly rotten and imperial, she ignored it. Of all the wonderful novels E. M. Forster had ever written, A Passage to India was her favorite. It made her wonder, Were there any caves in Yemen? Caves that Ms. Duffy could have wandered into to explore, and then stumbled out of, dazed and transformed?
At the entrance to the library, Ms. Cruz sat behind her enormous wraparound desk. It resembled a sort of cockpit, its high sides studded with librarian paraphernalia, Ms. Cruz wheeling expertly about the interior in her ergonomic chair. The desk had two levels; the lower level was intended for the librarian’s use as she tried to do her work, while the higher level was meant for those standing around the desk and bothering the librarian. It was chest-high, the ideal spot for quickly finishing one’s math problems before class, or asking importunate questions about the fate of the dinosaurs, or resting one’s elbows, as Mrs. Willoughby was now doing, and speaking in confidential tones with Ms. Cruz below.
“Did you see—” Mrs. Willoughby turned to Ms. Hempel with excitement. Then she remembered. “Oh yes, you were there. Isn’t she gorgeous?”
Ms. Hempel said, “Gorgeous. And very—” She extended her arms.
“I know, I know! Not what we expected. I thought she’d come back with a slide show and some nice scarves. But no! So much more.”
She leaned toward Ms. Cruz, resuming: “Thirty-five miles from the nearest hospital. Is that madness?”
“There’s a midwife. She’ll be fine.”
“Of course she will be. But still. Out in the middle of nowhere? With your first child? You have no idea.”
“She was tired of living here. She said so all the time.”
“You girls don’t know what it’s like. You get lonely at the beginning. You’re tired, your nipples hurt, you can’t remember what day it is.”
“Roman will be there. And they’re building a second yurt,” Ms. Cruz said firmly, and then glanced up at Ms. Hempel. “Anna is moving upstate,” she explained.
But that explained nothing. “A yurt?” Ms. Hempel asked. “Is that something … Yemenese?”
She blushed.
“Mongolian,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “I had to ask, too. Don’t worry; I won’t tell Meacham. Not everybody who teaches here is a walking encyclopedia. It’s a big circular tent made out of animal skins. Or, in Anna’s case, some fancy, state-of-the-art, flame-retardant fabric.” In the air, Mrs. Willoughby conjured up a miniature yurt with her hands. “Not like a teepee, more like a circus tent. Made out of yaks.”
With a laugh and a wave, she demolished the little dwelling.
“But the father,” asked Ms. Hempel, “is he from Yemen?”
Mrs. Willoughby looked at her peculiarly. “Heavens, no.”
For the trip abroad had been cut short. Something in the food made Anna sick, dangerously so. Only two months out of the country and she was doubled over, shitting water. Thus the end of the lyrical e-mails. She had lost nearly twenty pounds by the time she crept onto the airplane and came home to convalesce at her mother’s; it was there, looking pale and otherworldly, that she met Roman. A kite artist.
“He was visiting his mother, too,”
