She’d meant the passion of their marriage to endure, of course. No one’s to blame, but passion is not intended to endure. The overture is short or else it’s not the overture. Nor is marriage meant to be perfect. It has to toughen on its blemishes. It has to morph and change its shape and turn its insides out and move beyond the passion that is its architect. Falling in love is not being in love. Waiting for the perfect partner is self-sabotage. Alicja knew all these things. She still wanted, though, to be womanly, not wifely. Lix had failed her in that regard. Yet saying so was difficult and cruel. She’d spent the month since she’d accepted that their marriage was in ruins running her wedding ring up and down her finger and practicing how she should phrase the uncomfortable news of her infidelity. Now, as they crawled through the traffic in the suburbs and the rain, all she had to practice was an explanation and an apology.
Lix had not been such a dreadful lover, mostly. He’d been attentive, regular, prepared to act on her advice. What more could any woman want? Nobody could expect a faultless performance every time. This was not the theater. She had no grievances. But repetition takes its toll, she supposed, as does parenthood. Habituation dulls the soul. She would not have been the first woman who had become bored after three years of well-rehearsed routines or who had lately much preferred those tender contacts that were neither sexual nor time-consuming. To want your husband as an undemanding friend and a reliable relative but not a lover, was that the first sign that love was lost? She’d been a fool to let him think she’d never had an orgasm with him. She’d undermined their three not unhappy years together. Marriages consist of more than orgasms, of graver spasms and contractions. She’d had a child with him for heaven’s sake! As soon as they were home, she thought, she’d sit him down and make him talk.
THEY WENT THROUGH the house from room to room, tiptoeing almost, careful not to make a noise. Lix’s fists were clenched and his toes were rolled inside his shoes ready to run or kick if anybody was still inside their home. Alicja was trembling.
The ornamented metalwork on the window by the entryway had been chiseled out of the holding mortar and bent back enough to let a small man, hardly bigger than Lech, it seemed, clamber through the broken glass. That was the only damage. Thank goodness the thieves had been professional. There was no soiling and no gratuitous mess apart from the contents of the fridge and freezer, which had been tumbled onto the kitchen floor and were already weeping icy water. There was, though, evidence of disregard. Lech’s toys, always neatly kept in boxes, had been tipped out on the rugs and pushed about the floor either by somebody who believed that toys were hiding places for jewelry and cash or else was young enough himself not to resist the invitation of a plastic car, with a friction engine and flashing lights.
One of the faucets was running in Alicja’s bathroom. Someone had used the toilet — the seat was up — and rinsed their hands: the soap was wet. The upstairs curtains had been drawn halfway across their windows. The burglars had not wiped their shoes between each trip out to their van. Nor had they, thankfully, paid much attention to the cupboards and the drawers. A wallet was missing from the mantel but their passports and the family papers had not been touched, and Lix’s acting memorabilia had been ignored. Nothing had been spoiled or damaged out of spite. The thieves had not been desecrators, just hasty businessmen.
“It doesn’t matter, does it?” Alicja said. “It’s only machines. No one’s hurt.” She didn’t say, as she was tempted to, “I’ll not be hugging my washing machine today.” Another joke would not be wise. Nor did she say, “We’ll get new stuff within a week or two. My father only has to say his name in certain ears.” She didn’t say it, because in fact she thought, We won’t get new stuff, actually. There’ll be no need. The cargo of their marriage was already shipping out, and though she was not exactly pleased, the burglary seemed meaningful. Beyond the shock and sense of violation, there was a sliver of elation as they toured their perfect and expensive house, noting all the spaces. Rid yourself of chattels first, and then the man.
The man was by now almost in tears again.
“What should we do?” She had to put her arm around his waist. Today was not the day, she realized, for admitting her affair. It would have to wait until he got back from America.
“What can we do? They’ve taken everything and gone.”
“We ought to call the police. We’d better not touch anything. I’ll telephone my father …”
“Call the police? Call the police on what? They didn’t leave a telephone,” he said. “Let’s leave your father out of it.”
“Go to the neighbor’s house and call from there.”
Lix did not want more invaders yet, tramping through the house, unnerving him with questions. And Alicja preferred to deal with problems in the order in which they arose. So they did not tell the police or call for help for twenty minutes more. Instead, she suffered him. She had first to restore at least one of the orgasms she had denied in front of all his friends downstairs below the Debit Bar. She had to make amends and reassure her failing husband. That was only fair. A marriage should be straightened out before it’s pulled apart.
HE MADE HER pregnant again, of course. The contraceptives, not much used in recent months, were kept in Lix’s missing wallet. Thanks to burglars perhaps, their second son was taking shape. Thanks to the purchase of a blouse. Thanks to the risky game of Never. Thanks to the guilty fondness that endures, survives the breakup of a marriage, she would have a second son.
By ill fortune and good luck, Lix had done as much as any man could do in natural history to see his scoundrel rival slink away, his tail and nothing else between his legs. Vasectomized Jupiter, the columnist, would speedily lose interest in the senator when he discovered she was pregnant. So Lix would never have to hear the truth about his lunch pal Joop — because by the time he got back from Nevada, his wife’s new relationship would be over and she’d be two months pregnant.
We should not, though, expect a reconciliation, for this would be the last occasion Lix and his Alicja, his plump and much improving wife, would ever kiss, embrace, make love. For it was love, this final time. Not perfect sex. Not orgasms and passion such as she would have with Joop and with the fellow after Joop or with the man who’d be her second husband and the father of her only daughter, but tender love nevertheless, two bodies being thoughtful, being kind and fond, and being slightly desperate, because at moments such as these the truth is always on display.
Alicja had not admitted anything just yet, and Lix had not dared to ask. His cowardice was without boundaries. Besides, her beryl blouse was lying on the bed, and her indented body was so engaged with his that he could hardly think or grieve. Perhaps it was just as well that when the sex was over and before they called the police they could lie in bed and not feel obliged to talk. Talk at that time was dangerous.
Then Lix was in the car again, the smell of her not quite removed by showering, not quite hidden by his spray cologne. He’d have to be Don Juan Amongst the Feminists at eight o’clock that night, and if he didn’t hurry he’d arrive too late for staging notes and makeup calls. It was as dark by now as it had seemed when they were dining in the Hesitation Room. He was heading into town while traffic from the offices and shops was heading out. The actor’s face was flecked and flashed by lights and indicators, profile, profile, then full on.