But once more I am raising my voice, and making you rather uncomfortable besides. I apologize; it was not my intention to be rude. In any case, I ought instead to be explaining to you why I did not speak to Erica of my fury at seeing American troops enter Afghanistan. After that night when we celebrated in my bed her obtaining an agent, I had no contact with Erica for several days; she did not answer when I rang and she did not respond to my messages. I was hurt by this behavior — taking her silence for inconsideration — and I arrived in a reproachful mood for the drink that she eventually did invite me to. I was utterly unprepared for what I saw.
At the counter was a diminished Erica, not the vivid, confident woman I knew but a pale, nervous creature who could almost have been a stranger. She seemed to have lost weight and her eyes darted about the bar. It was not until she smiled that something of the old Erica glimmered within her, but her smile left her face as quickly as it had come. My consternation must have been evident because she smiled again and said, “Do I look that bad?” “Not at all,” I lied, “just tired, perhaps. Have you been unwell?” “Yeah,” she said. “I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner.” “That is quite all right,” I said. “I hope I was not a pest.” “Never,” she said. “I’ve been going through a bad patch. It’s happened before. But it hasn’t been like this since the first time, after Chris died.”
We ordered, beer for myself and a bottle of water for her, and I considered giving her an embrace but decided against it; she seemed too brittle to be touched. “What happens is,” she went on, “my mind starts to go in circles, thinking and thinking, and then I can’t sleep. And once a couple of days go by, if you haven’t slept, you start to get sick. You can’t eat. You start to cry. It just feeds on itself. I’ve got some stronger stuff from the doctor, so I’ve been sleeping again. But it isn’t real sleep. And the rest of the day I feel like I’m out of it. Like when you get off a plane and you can’t hear properly. Like that, except it’s not just my hearing, and I can’t pop my ears.” She took a sip of her water and managed to wink at me. Then she said, “Freaky, huh?”
I stood there in silence, unable to think of what to say or even to offer her a smile; I was horrified. But she was waiting for me to respond, so I said, “But what is it you think of that causes you to become so upset?” “I think of Chris a lot,” she said, “and I think of me. I think of my book. I think some pretty dark thoughts, sometimes. And I think of you.” “What do you think of,” I asked, “when you think of me?” “I think it isn’t good for you to see me so much right now,” she answered. “I mean it isn’t good for you.” “No,” I reassured her, although I was frightened, “I want to see you.” “That’s what I mean,” she said, looking into my eyes with great seriousness. “Do you get it? That’s what I mean.”
I did not get it in the least, and I asked her to come home with me. “I don’t think I should,” she said. “Really.” But there was a softness in her expression, and when I continued to insist, she finally did acquiesce. During our taxi ride my mind struggled to comprehend what was happening. I had over these past weeks — sentimental and old-fashioned as it may sound, but then I was raised in a family where brief courtships were the norm — been indulging in daydreams of a life as Erica’s husband; now I found not just those daydreams but the woman herself vanishing before my eyes. I wanted to help her, to hold on to her — indeed, I wanted to hold on to us—and I was desperate to extricate her from the maze of her psychosis. But I did not know how to proceed.
In my bed she asked me to put my arms around her, and I did so, speaking quietly in her ear. I knew she enjoyed my stories of Pakistan, so I rambled on about my family and Lahore. When I tried to kiss her, she did not move her lips or shut her eyes. So I shut them for her and asked, “Are you missing Chris?” She nodded, and I saw tears begin to force themselves between her lashes. “Then pretend,” I said, “pretend I am him.” I do not know why I said it; I felt overcome and it seemed, suddenly, a possible way forward. “What?” she said, but she did not open her eyes. “Pretend I am him,” I said again. And slowly, in darkness and in silence, we did.
I do not know how to describe my experience of what happened next; I cannot, of course, claim that I was possessed, but at the same time I did not seem to be myself. It was as though we were under a spell, transported to a world where I was Chris and she was with Chris, and we made love with a physical intimacy that Erica and I had never enjoyed. Her body denied mine no longer; I watched her shut eyes, and her shut eyes watched him.
I can still recall her muscularity, made more pronounced by her gauntness, and the near-inanimate smoothness and coolness of her flesh as she leaned back and exposed to my touch her breasts. The entrance between her legs was wet and dilated, but was at the same time oddly rigid; it reminded me — unwillingly — of a wound, giving our sex a violent undertone despite the gentleness with which I attempted to move. More than once I smelled what I thought to be blood, but when I reached down to ascertain with my fingers whether it was her time of month, I found them unstained. She shuddered towards the end — grievously, almost mortally; her shuddering called forth my own.
“You’re a kind person,” she said afterwards, as we lay there. “It sounds like a stupid thing to say but it’s true.” I held her and did not reply. I felt something I have not felt before or since; I remember it welclass="underline" I felt at once both satiated and ashamed. My satiation was understandable to me; my shame was more confusing. Perhaps, by taking on the persona of another, I had diminished myself in my own eyes; perhaps I was humiliated by the continuing dominance, in the strange romantic triangle of which I found myself a part, of my dead rival; perhaps I was worried that I had acted selfishly and I sensed, even then, that I had done Erica some terrible harm. But this last explanation is — I hope — unlikely; surely I could not have known what would happen to her over the weeks and months to follow.
Erica fell asleep that night without medication; I remained awake, in part because I had not yet eaten. I hesitated to rise and go to the refrigerator for fear of disturbing her, but her sleep was deep, like that of a child, and eventually I managed. I ate only bread and drank only water, a tasteless meal, but I kept at it until my belly was full, and when I returned to the bed it was as though I had a tight drum strapped to my front, which forced me to lie on my side.
It is impossible to tell, sir, given the gloom about us and the unexpressive cast of your face, but I suspect you are looking at me with a degree of revulsion; certainly I would look at you in such a manner if you had just told me what I have told you. But I hope your disgust has not banished your appetite, for I am summoning our waiter to take our order. Tonight, I can assure you, our meal will be anything but tasteless — and here he comes. Good man!
Chapter 8
I OBSERVE, SIR, that there continues to be something about our waiter that puts you ill at ease. I will admit that he is an intimidating chap, larger even than you are. But the hardness of his weathered face can readily be accounted for: he hails from our mountainous northwest, where life is far from easy. And if you should sense that he has taken a disliking to you, I would ask you to be so kind as to ignore it; his tribe merely spans both sides of our border with neighboring Afghanistan, and has suffered during offensives conducted by your countrymen.