She can’t be reasonable even if his proposition appears reasonable—reasonable and attractive for someone else. She cannot be that person. Even if her own position is groundless, the fact is she has no position, she has no plans, she is nowhere. She has only her feelings to rely on. And she must say no. Perhaps she is really in another room, a young woman listening to Ezra Blind’s marriage proposal fifteen years ago. Must this time say no.
“We have made mistakes,” he is saying. “But we are not children any more. I have changed, Sophie. I promise you.”
Even if he means it, she can’t forgive herself for making the mistake the first time, or risk making this mistake again. Even if it’s not reasonable. Sometimes it is imperative to be unreasonable.
“I am not pressing you, you don’t have to give your decision now. But think about it. I will be in Paris again in two weeks. Think about it, Sophie,” he concludes. “And now, after we have spoken as friends...” He is asking her to come to bed. It’s three A.M., he points out, it’s only proper after all. “But Sophie, why not?” he laughs. “Come, I’ll woo you. Sophie, you know even if I fool around with other women, you’re the only woman I ever loved. You’re the only woman who arouses me.” He will prove it to her right now. She won’t lie down. She demands he get out of her bed. He rises laughing, puts his arm around her, pulls her toward the bed.
“No, Ezra. Please. The children will wake up.”
“But why? How odd. You’re really strange.” He smiles at her, baffled. Not sleep with her own husband when she sleeps with other men? He knows all about it—her affair with Roland and some rich young art collector she got to know through his girlfriend. He knows everything and it’s all right if she’s enjoying herself. No one can say he isn’t the most generous husband. “Come, be nice...Don’t be afraid to put your head on my arm,” he laughs. “All right, put it on the pillow.”
“I can’t,” she whispers.
His hand moving to caress her breasts, still laughing, “But Sophie. Baby. Are you crying? I know how you feel. It can’t be so bad. Pretend I’m a stranger. Don’t cry, please don’t cry...”
She gets out of bed. “What’s the matter? Come back, Sophie.”
“I can’t,” she says, putting on her coat.
“What can’t you?”
“I can’t forget that I loved you once.”
“Where are you going?”
She needs to take a walk, she tells him quietly. No, alone. She needs to be alone. It’s all right, she tries to soothe him. She’ll be back at seven in time for the children.
“Go back to bed. I’ll go. Take off your coat.”
She won’t take off her coat till he’s out. She wants to see him go. “Now. Right away.”
“I may put on my clothes. You really want me to go?” Maddening to watch—he can’t tuck in his shirt properly. He boohoos shamelessly like a child, the tears drop on his shoe. Wouldn’t it have been better to go to bed with him—for the hell of it, do anything, pull each other’s ears...“I’m going, I’m going,” he sobs while she is trembling with rage. But he does it very slowly. He is out. She latches the door. But he hasn’t really left. She can hear him crying on the next landing. “The only woman who really loved me...I know...I know...no woman will ever...” she hears Ezra howling up the stairwell. It’s how Ezra wants it. Ezra always wins. He leaves after a while. Of course. He is mad only so far. And he’ll be back in two weeks once again to die the old comic death.
─────
It has narrowed down to a lack of choice. Rereading the long letter from New York—not a love letter, she decides—and yet it’s clear he is as powerless as she to break off their relation. He does not accept her silence as a way of ending. A right ending is impossible under the circumstances, but no ending is intolerable. It’s maddening like an unfinished book, you know the missing last pages exist in someone else’s hands; at the address on the envelope before her—or, if in the hands of fate, all the more reason for her to take this trip. A folly...A necessity...She must make a trip if only to destroy the mythic personages that feed on human time, growing larger with each letter, created by a barrier of water, mere miles, that convert into flight hours, that convert into French francs...
Perhaps he simply wants to continue writing to her; wants her to continue writing to him...
What exactly was contained in the letter Sophie finally stamped and dropped in the slot of the blue CTP box is out of grasp. When Ivan’s reply came a week later she was climbing the dingy stairway with bottles of limonade, Vichy, vin ordinaire, baguettes, the envelope on top of the bulging bag of
