“You two remind me a little of how Ernie and I were in our day,” says the old lady, and Kirsten answers, “Bless,” and briefly puts an arm around her. The seller used to be a magistrate; now she has an inoperable tumor growing inside her spine and is moving to sheltered accommodation on the other side of town. They settle on a decent price; the seller isn’t pushing the young couple as hard as she might do. On the day they sign the contract, while Kirsten ventures into the bedroom to take measurements, the lady holds Rabih back for an instant with a remarkably strong yet boney hand. “Be kind to her, won’t you,” she says, “even if you sometimes think she’s in the wrong.” Half a year later they learn the seller passed away.
They’ve reached the point where, by rights, their story—always slight—should draw to a close. The Romantic challenge is behind them. Life will from now on assume a steady, repetitive rhythm, to the extent that they will often find it hard to locate a specific event in time, so similar will the years appear in their outward forms. But their story is far from over: it is just a question of henceforth having to stand for longer in the stream and use a smaller-meshed sieve to catch the grains of interest.
One Saturday morning, a few weeks after moving into the new flat, Rabih and Kirsten drive to the big Ikea on the outskirts of town to buy some glasses. The selection stretches over two aisles and a multitude of styles. The previous weekend, in a new shop off Queen Street, they swiftly found a lamp they both loved, with a wooden base and a porcelain shade. This should be easy.
Not long after entering the cavernous homeware department, Kirsten decides that they should get a set from the Fabulös line—little tumblers which taper at the base and have two blobs of swirling blue and purple across the sides—and then head right home. One of the qualities her husband most admires in her is her decisiveness. But for Rabih it swiftly becomes evident that the larger, unadorned, and straight-sided glasses from the Godis line are the only ones that would really work with the kitchen table.
Romanticism is a philosophy of intuitive agreement. In real love, there is no need tiresomely to articulate or spell things out. When two people belong together, there is simply—at long last—a wondrous reciprocal feeling that both parties see the world in precisely the same way.
“You’re really going to like these once we get them home, unpack them, and put them next to the plates, I promise. They’re just . . . nicer,” says Kirsten, who knows how to be firm when the occasion requires it. To her, the plain tumblers are the sort of thing she associates with school cafeterias and prisons.
“I know what you mean, but I can’t help thinking these ones will look cleaner and fresher,” replies Rabih, who is unnerved by anything too decorative.
“Well, we can’t stand here discussing it all day,” reasons Kirsten, who has pulled the sleeves of her jumper down over her hands.
“Definitely not,” concurs Rabih.
“So let’s just go for the Fabulös and be done with it,” inveighs Kirsten.
“It seems crazy to keep disagreeing, but I genuinely think that would be a bit of a disaster.”
“Thing is, I just have this gut instinct.”
“Likewise,” responds Rabih.
Though both equally are aware that it would be a genuine waste of time to stand in the aisles at Ikea and argue at length about something as petty as which glasses they should buy (when life is so brief and its real imperatives so huge), with increasing ill-temper, to the mounting interest of other shoppers, they nonetheless stand in an aisle at Ikea and argue at length about which sort of glasses they should buy. After twenty minutes, each one accusing the other of being a little stupid, they abandon hopes of making a purchase and head back to the car park, Kirsten remarking on the way that she intends to spend the rest of her days drinking out of her cupped hand. For the whole drive home they stare out of the windscreen without speaking, the silence in the car interrupted only by the occasional clicking of the indicator lights. Dobbie, who has taken to traveling with them, sits daunted in the backseat.
They are serious people. Kirsten is currently at work on a presentation titled “Procurement Methods in District Services” which she will be traveling to Dundee next month to deliver in front of an audience of local government officials. Rabih meanwhile is the author of a thesis called “The Tectonics of Space in the Work of Christopher Alexander.” Nevertheless, an odd number of “silly things” are constantly cropping up between them. What, for example, is the ideal temperature for a bedroom? Kirsten is convinced that she needs a lot of fresh air at night to keep her head clear and energy levels up the next day. She’d rather the room be a bit cold (and if necessary that she put on an extra jumper or thermal pajamas) than stuffy and contaminated. The window must stay open. But winters were bitter during Rabih’s childhood in Beirut, and combating gusts of wind was always taken very seriously. (Even in a war, his family continued to feel strongly about drafts.) He feels safe somehow, snug and luxurious, when the blinds are down, the curtains are tightly drawn, and there’s some condensation on the inside of the windowpanes.
Or, to consider another point of contention, at what time should they leave the house to go for dinner—a special treat—together on a weeknight? Kirsten thinks: The reservation is for eight. Origano is approximately 3.2 miles away, the journey is normally a short one, but what if there were a hold up at the main roundabout, she reminds Rabih, like there was last time (when they went to see James and Mairi)? In any event, it wouldn’t be a problem to get there a bit early. They could have drinks at the bar next door or even take a stroll in the park; they have a lot to catch up on. It would be best to have the cab come by for them at seven. And Rabih thinks: An eight o’clock booking means we can arrive at the restaurant at eight fifteen or eight twenty. There are five long e-mails to deal with before leaving the office and I can’t be intimate if there are practical things on my mind. The roads will be clear by then anyway. And taxis always come early. We should book the cab for eight.
Or, again: What’s the best strategy for telling a story at, let’s say, a rather swanky party at the Museum of Scotland, to which they’ve been invited by a client whom Rabih needs to impress? He believes there are clear rules in force: First establish where the action takes place, then introduce the key participants and sketch out their dilemmas before moving in a quick and direct narrative line to a conclusion (after which it’s polite to give a turn to someone else—ideally the CEO, who has been waiting patiently). Kirsten, on the contrary, maintains that it’s more engaging to start a story midway through and then track back to the beginning. That way, she feels, the audience gets a more solid sense of what’s at stake for the characters. Details add local color. Not everyone wants to cut right to the chase. And then if the first anecdote seems to go down well, why not throw in a second?
Were their listeners (standing next to a display of a giant stegosaurus whose bones were found in a quarry near Glasgow in the late nineteenth century) to be polled for their opinions, they probably wouldn’t express any great objections to either approach; both could be fine, they would affirm. Yet, for Kirsten and Rabih themselves—testily recapping the performance as they make their way down to the cloakroom—the divergence feels a great deal more critical and more personaclass="underline" How, each wonders, can the other understand anything—the world, themselves, their partner—if they are always so random or, at the opposite extreme, always so regimented? But what really adds to the intensity is a new thought that arises whenever a tension comes to light: How can this be endured over a lifetime?