She released the water and cleaned the bath and at the door paused for a moment, reluctant to leave. Briefly, for a few minutes at least, she had been able to do whatever she liked; it was something approaching a moment of freedom.
Levy was waiting immediately outside.
“Your face is all shiny and pink,” he said.
The remark disconcerted her, confused her. “I enjoyed the bath,” she said. “Thank you.”
“The boy’s sleeping. The fever’s still the same, but he’s sleeping.”
“Good.”
Neither appeared to know what to do.
“We might as well have breakfast,” he said.
“All right.”
Initially they ate without speaking, Levy attentive to her needs and passing the coffee pot and the basket of croissants towards her without being asked. Once, as he offered her some butter, their hands touched and he smiled apologetically.
“This seems to be going on forever,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re not terrorists, are you?” said Karen in sudden challenge.
“We know what we’re doing,” said Levy defensively.
Karen shook her head. “I was reading politics in London, at the School of Economics, when my mother died. I went to South Africa for the funeral and never bothered to go back and complete the course because I’d met Richard. He was a friend of the family and already involved in politics-radical politics, for South Africa. He appeared in court for a lot of people, not just there but elsewhere. So I met plenty…” She stopped, knowing that she had made her point clumsily. “You’re not like them at all-none of you.”
“We’re not trying to be like anyone.”
“So what are you?”
“Jews. Doing what Jews have always done. Fighting to survive.”
Karen knew a sudden surge of pity. She had encountered terrorists; too many, because although she thought she shared many of their views, she had rarely liked or trusted the people who expressed them. She was also familiar with the men who confronted them: riot police, armoured units, and elite, trained squads, with dogs and gas, and plastic and rubber bullets, and water cannon. This gentle-eyed, crinkle-haired man who worried about breakfast civilities wouldn’t stand a chance. He had slapped her, certainly, knocked her down, although that had been more of an accidental trip. And beaten the boy. But that hadn’t been the ruthless unthinking cruelty she had known other people capable of; that had been sudden, flaring anger. And nerves. She corrected the thought. More nerves than anger, far more. Poor bugger, she thought.
“What time is it?” said Karen.
“Eight.”
She set and wound her watch. “Forgot,” she said. She wouldn’t let it happen again-it was important to keep track of the time. Though exactly why, she wasn’t quite sure.
“We could walk in the garden if you like.”
“All right.”
He stood back to allow her to go through the door ahead of him. She hadn’t been expecting the courtesy and half collided with him. They both smiled, embarrassed.
“You’re not going to run away, are you?” he said.
“No,” she said. Why give him that assurance so readily?
The faraway field was being worked again, bowed men following a machine that appeared to be ploughing a slow, unwavering line. She thought the field was pretty, neatly patterned as if they were knitting the design into the 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.