She was sitting across from me in the therapist’s office. She was by an open window, maybe to take advantage of the breeze from outside. And it was hot in that city, that summer. The breeze blew her hair across her cheek and reminded me of things I didn’t want to be reminded of. Of an advertisement, stupidly, of a woman turning towards the viewer with brown hair blowing across her cheek, for a hair product the name of which I don’t remember. It reminded me of Sarah, when I imagined she wanted to be looked at by me. It reminded me of rushes by a riverbank, an inlet near the sea, of a kingfisher darting through the rushes, the colour blue, again.
It also reminded me of that dusty, scorching room full of shell-shocked rubble where we first met. I was part of the detail to secure the wrecked museum. She was there to catalogue what was left of it. Abyssinian brooches from the first century BC. Sumerian tablets from even earlier. She was by a window then too, a ruined one that showed the burnished river and what remained of the smoking city outside. It fell to me – or did I choose the task? – to keep track of her movements and her presence there, to be the last one to leave when she did, to wait patiently in the Mesopotamian night, sweating rivers under the flak jacket, while her small oil-lamp still burned inside among the ruins.
There is something comforting, she told me one night, driving back to the compound, in being watched.
It’s my job, I told her, and of course never said what I was thinking, that I would have watched her for ever, if I was allowed.
And was it not your job, she asked, to prevent all of this ruin in the first place?
No, I said, and tried to smile, that was someone else’s job.
The military’s, she said, and gave a matching wry kind of smile.
Yes, I told her.
So our job, she replied, is to pick up what we can of the pieces?
No, that’s your job, I said. My job is to see that you remain in one piece.
You’ve managed well, this far, she said.
Thank you, I told her, and was aware of boundaries already being crossed.
We had a drink that night and she told me about Eridu and Urak, the world’s first cities, about Gilgamesh and Nimrod and the historical Babylon, epics of destruction that were dwarfed by the current destruction all around us. I pretended to listen and to learn, but then, as now, was just watching. The way that hair fell over her well-cut cheekbone.
And now the therapist sighed, from his seat by the bookcase, and began once more, in his tentative, heavily accented way.
So the problems have not yet resolved themselves.
You can tell?
And that was me, trying to fill the silence. I never liked long silences.
I can sense a certain . . . reluctance . . .
Please, said Sarah, and brushed the hair back from her cheekbone. But to no effect, since it slunk back again immediately. As it always had done.
You have both been under a lot of stress, lately.
Ten out of ten, she murmured.
And why is that?
Please. Isn’t that your job? And isn’t this shrink city?
That would be Vienna, he said, delicately.
Aren’t you from Vienna? I asked, stupidly, since it was of no consequence either way.
I will admit to training there.
He obsesses, she said. About those damned cufflinks. He obsesses, constantly.
It’s my job, I said, and it already sounded lame. I am employed to obsess about all sorts of things.
But about me? she asked.
Well, you are my wife, I said.
You know, I do remember that. Occasionally.
Some kind of forgiveness, said the Viennese, would be a beginning of kinds.
So, get him to say it then.
What?
That he forgives me.
For what? I asked. I have to know for what.
For whatever the fuck it is you’re assuming.
He is assuming . . . some kind of intimate betrayal, the therapist murmured.
I won’t admit to that.
Why not, Sarah?
And this was me. It would have been some kind of comfort to hear her say it, at least.
It’s unmanly of you, she said. You used to be manly.
What exactly is unmanly?
This jealousy. This watching. I used to love the way he looked at me. Now I hate it.
Why?
Because it’s a different kind of watching. It’s obsessive. It’s cold. It’s unnerving.
She turned quickly, so her hair bounced around her face.
Can I smoke here?
He nodded. And she sat on the windowsill and lit one.
There’s no love there. Any more. In his eyes.
And there was once?
Yes, she said, and bit her lip. Being loved by him was . . . comforting. We have a child. You know that.
Your daughter.
Jenny. And we have only fifteen minutes, doctor, before I have to pick her up.
You share a house, still.
Yes, she said, and threw the cigarette out the window.
I imagined it falling lazily to the street outside, and being trampled on by a random passer-by.
Why haven’t you moved out?
Why hasn’t he, doctor?
And the Viennese turned to me. His forehead formed itself into a wrinkled question mark.
It’s called marriage, isn’t it?
I am angry, doctor, she said. And maybe I have no right to be. But I am angry, and I don’t know why.
She kissed me on the way out. On the cheek, briefly, a kiss that felt more like a smack in the face. And she left me there with him, to finish the session.
Why did you come here? he asked.
To this session? We had already paid.
No, he said, to the city.
Sarah was offered a job with the archaeological department.
The university?
Yes. And I met an ex-serviceman on an aeroplane who told me about opportunities in the former Soviet republics. I found myself a colleague, opened a tracing agency.
A tracing agency?
We find people. Who may or may not want to be found. The one who manufactures fake Glenlivet whisky. The one who markets ersatz versions of Gucci. The husband who has left his wife.
For a more attractive version?
Actually, generally less, in my experience.
And the doctor smiled.
In my experience too.
His smile thinned out, as if it hadn’t meant to be there.
And your partner? Who wears the . . . he hesitated for barely a moment . . . cufflinks?
You’re asking me is he a less attractive version? Of me?
No. What function does he have in the . . . scheme of things . . .
He was full of pauses, this Viennese.
He helps me on the ground. He knows the language. I put the systems in place. Or thought I would. Open another branch, in another city.
Ah. A franchise. Like Starbucks.
Yes. The Starbucks of Security. Kind of thing.
And how many branches?
Just the one, to date. Here.
Is that a concern?
No. We do well enough. Here. Just haven’t . . . multiplied . . . And you’re fishing now, doctor.
Fishing?
For something. What is it?
There is a lot of anger in the air.
Unjustified, you think?
I do not make judgements. I just look for the source. Frustrations in work. Disappointments in life. Can lead, of course, to stress with a marriage.
Are you asking am I disappointed in myself? Perhaps. But I love my wife, doctor. My daughter.
And she seems to love you.
Can you be sure?
I can detect a certain . . .
And here came the pause again.
. . . residual affection.
Will that be enough?
To sustain a marriage?
He shrugged.
It is better than contempt.