Marijke smiled. She opened the letter and a tiny package fell into her blue-gloved hand. She had to take the gloves off to open it. At first she thought it was empty-she shook the package and nothing came out. She probed with a finger, and found two bits of metal and pearl clinging inside. They spilled onto her palm.
She raised her head, looked at her one-room flat. It had been the hayloft of a livery stable in the seventeenth century. It had pitched ceilings, heavy beams, whitewashed walls. Her futon occupied one corner, her clothes hung in another corner behind a curtain. She had a table with two chairs, a tiny kitchen, a window that overlooked the little crooked street, a vase of freesias on the windowsill. She had a comfortable chair and a lamp. For more than a year now this room had been her haven, fortress, retreat, her triumphant, undiscoverable gambit in her marital game of hide-and-seek. Standing there, clasping the earrings in her hand, Marijke saw her snug room as a lonely place.
Martin stood in his office with the phone in his hand, watching the clock on the computer count up to two o’clock. He was wearing a suit and tie. He was holding his breath. When the clock hit 14:00:00 he exhaled and pressed 1 on his speed dial.
“
“Marijke. Happy birthday.”
“Thank you. Thank you.”
“Has Theo called yet?”
Marijke laughed. “I don’t think he’s even awake yet, hmm? How are you? What’s new?”
“I’m fine. Everything’s fine.” Martin lit a cigarette. He glanced at the list of questions on his desk. “And you? Still no smoking?”
“Yes, no smoking. It feels amazing, you should try it. I can smell things. I had forgotten what things smell like, water, freesias. There are so many beautiful smells. Those gloves you sent, they smell like the first day of winter.”
“You like them?”
“Oh, it was all perfect. I can’t believe you found my earrings.”
“The Americans have a new word for that:
“No, I was so happy…and the letter, and the crossword…”
“Have you worked it out yet?” he teased her.
“
There was a contented pause. “What are you going to do for your birthday?” he said finally.
“Mmm, coffee and cake with Emma and Lise. I’ve told you about them.”
“Oh, right. And dinner?”
“No-I’ll eat at home.”
“By yourself?” Martin was inspired. “That’s no good. Listen-let me take you out for dinner.”
Marijke frowned. “Martin-”
“No, listen, here’s how we’ll do it. Pick a restaurant, somewhere nice. Make a reservation, wear something beautiful, bring your mobile. We’ll talk on the phone, you have a lovely dinner, it will be almost as though we’re together.”
“Martin, those kinds of restaurants don’t allow mobiles. And I would feel conspicuous eating by myself that way.”
“I’ll eat too. We’ll eat together. Just in different cities.”
“Oh, Martin…” She weakened. “What language?”
“Whatever you like. Nederlands? Francais?”
“No, no. Something unusual, for privacy…”
“Pali?”
“It would be a very short dinner, then.”
Martin laughed. “Think about it and let me know. What time shall we dine?”
“Half eight your time?”
“Okay, I’ll be here.” He thought perhaps he shouldn’t have reminded her of that. “Don’t forget to charge up your mobile.”
“I know.”
Martin put the phone in its cradle. He had been standing in the same spot for the duration of the conversation, leaning over the phone on the desk. Now he straightened and turned, smiling-and his hand flew to his heart. “Oh!”
Julia stood in the doorway, a dark form against the dim light. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He lowered his face and closed his eyes, almost as though he were going to hide his head under a wing; he waited for his heart to slow. “That’s all right. Have you been there long?” He looked at her. She stepped into the room, and became only herself.
“No. Not very long. Was that your wife?”
“Yes.”
“Did she like the gloves?”
Martin nodded. “Come into the kitchen, I’ll make tea. Yes, she liked the gloves very much. Thank you for choosing them.” He followed her through the aisle of boxes that led across the dining room and into the kitchen.
“Um, Valentina actually picked them. She’s the one with clothes-sense.” Julia sat down at the table and watched Martin getting out tea things.
“You’re like an old married couple, you and Valentina. You have everything divvied up, all the talents and the chores.” Martin glanced at her as he ran water into the electric kettle. There was something different about her.
She put her fingers on the bruise. “Do you have any ice?”
Martin went to the freezer and shifted things around until he found an ancient bag of frozen peas. “Here.” Julia clamped the bag to her cheek. Martin went back to his tea-making. Neither of them said a word until he had finished pouring out.
“Choccie biccie?” he offered.
“Yeah, thanks.”
“Would you care to talk about it?”
“No.” Julia stared at her teacup, her expression hidden behind the peas. “She didn’t mean it.”
“Nevertheless.”
“How long have you and your wife been married?” she asked.
“Twenty-five years.”
“How long has she been gone?”
“One year, two months, six days.”
“Is she coming back?”
“No. She isn’t.”
Julia leaned her elbow on the table, leaned her face into the peas so that she was regarding him at an angle. “So…?”
“One sec.” Martin walked to his office and gathered his cigarettes and lighter. By the time he returned to the kitchen he had worked out his answer. “I’m going to Amsterdam.” He lit a cigarette and smiled, imagining Marijke’s surprise.
