Elizabeth

 

"What should we name him?" he asked, covering his legs with the duvet.

There was a momentary silence, broken only by the ticking of the wall clock, her grandmother's wedding gift.

"How do you know it's a boy? It's only the first week," she replied, checking the greenish mask evenly spread across her face.

*

I met her at Elizabeth's, who, for some reason, had thrown her "standing party" in the middle of the week, on a Wednesday at that, when every normal guy would be sitting in front of the TV with a cold beer and watching football.

She wasn't very talkative, merely standing in a corner of the terrace, exchanging a few words with El, who, as always, tried to play the role of the model hostess. Incidentally, she sometimes succeeds in entertaining her guests effectively, and sometimes not, although overall, I was never particularly bored at her "parties." Just regular get-togethers over vodka, only standing up.

However, she was so busy that evening (she'd invited the mayor himself), she didn't have much time to attend to all the guests. Around nine, she decided that since I was staring at her secretary's buttocks and had nothing else to do, I could just kill some time and exchange a few words with her. "The girl shouldn't stand there alone, because those cigarettes you keep lighting up don't bode well."

"I'm not in the mood for entertaining teenagers today," I snapped.

"Stop whining, go and talk to her; her name is Martha. Besides,

she's not a teenager anymore. She turned twenty-five a month ago.

"

She didn't turn around when I moved the lounger so that the sound of metal pipes scraping against the floor caught her attention. Anyone else would have reacted to the sound by simply turning their attention to the source of the noise, but the stranger didn't. So I sat there like some loser, paralyzed by the overwhelming situation, with only one recurring thought in my head: I was at a party where the alcohol was flowing freely while I sipped juice from a carton and stared at some unknown brat. I actually wanted to leave the terrace and return to a spot where I could calmly observe everything, but one of the invited women, whom, to put it mildly, I wasn't particularly fond of, having spotted me a few minutes earlier, was eager to ask me to go to dinner with her again this year (in a joking manner, as always, though both she and I knew what I meant). So, willingly (or rather, unwillingly), I decided to focus on the stranger whose buttocks (as Elizabeth had said) I'd been staring at for half the evening.

To this day, I have no idea how the words that just rolled off my tongue contained so much trash – in a voice straight out of a bad romance novel, I declared that we were having a lovely night, to which, of course, she didn't react at all. And since I didn't react to her reaction either (at that point, I didn't care how this conversation would go or if it even started), we stood on that terrace, suspended on a balustrade shaped like a wall dotted with imitation sandstone: me with a juice box, she with a menthol cigarette, which she smoked rather lazily, albeit with years of practice.

*

"And if we have a daughter?" she asked again when he didn't reply.

And he didn't reply because he was basically joking about the boy. Basically, he doesn't care whether she gives birth to a son or a daughter, the important thing is that the child is healthy and grows up healthy. And if they have twins, nothing will happen either, worse than triplets – then that would be a real problem. He's not worried about Anna; she's a strong woman, though she looks fragile and weak; he's worse off (he doesn't know if she'll make it in the delivery room, even though he's already promised he'll be there). In the movies, of course, all births go smoothly and without complications: the woman in labor turns red for a moment, bulging her eyes as if in response to the command "push," the fearless father, bravely holding his wife's hand the entire time, imitating breathing as if during exercises in childbirth classes, and the baby, after seeing the world, has a full head of hair and, to top it all off, immediately sees everything, smiling with smiling eyes. Pathetic and unreal, yet wonderful at the same time.

"If it's a girl, we'll name her Martha," he replied after a moment.

*

"Yes, indeed, we have a beautiful night tonight," she said, still looking straight ahead.

Her voice caught my attention. Only then did I look at her more closely. Indeed, she didn't look like a teenager—my first impression upon seeing her proved false, for after combining her appearance with her voice and her tobacco-scented aura, that impression underwent a metamorphosis.

"I brought you some champagne," I announced, placing my glass on the balustrade.

She still didn't react. She continued to stare straight ahead, making no movement, idly yet gracefully smoking a cigarette.

She was attractive and extremely alluring. Incidentally, a man always pays attention to a woman's appearance, as if it had a decisive influence on the person whose legs and buttocks he is gazing at with his greedy gaze. Women are indeed right in their assessment of the (otherwise moronic) behavior of the male population, as I am, to some extent, an example of this. Like it or not, these are my innate reactions to the sight of a beautiful woman, over which I have little control because I do it involuntarily, as if it were ingrained in my daily routine, like breathing or sleeping. Sometimes I wish I could get rid of this affliction, but it somehow overwhelms me. Perhaps I'm not assertive enough about my own weaknesses?

She sensed I was observing her closely, yet she still didn't turn her head, keeping her gaze straight ahead.

"Please bring me a chair," she said dryly.

I looked around, but apart from a metal lounger with a blue-checked blanket on it, I couldn't find any furniture resembling a chair. So I excused myself to announce my departure and returned to the living room, which in Elizabeth's house is right by the terrace.

*

"Ann, will you pick up? My hands are wet, I'm washing the dishes," I shouted through the half-open door from the kitchen to the hall.

Anna, however, didn't answer – she was spending more and more time in the bathroom, sometimes a dozen times a day. Being heavily pregnant, she resigned from her job because of this, and her current management agreed, favorably considering her request for unpaid leave. In reality, she was just an extra at work anyway.

"Hello, this is Elizabeth. I'm calling with an invitation. Come over the day after tomorrow."

I replied that I would be very happy to, but we can't, that in this situation we had to be home in case something happened, and that it wasn't a good idea for Anna to spend her evenings this way.

Of course, Elizabeth understood the gravity of the situation, but she nevertheless stated that a few streets away wasn't so far away, and a pregnant woman could also find a pleasant evening at her place. Still, I thanked her.

"Go ahead, I'll be fine," I heard after hanging up the phone.

Anna stood nearby, leaning against the bathroom door.

Finding

a chair beneath the bust of some obscure writer, I headed toward the terrace. In the living room, discussions were rife about municipal development projects, with Elizabeth leading the charge, aided by her partner, who was fawning over the mayor, whose rounded cheeks were turning increasingly rosy from the overabundance of compliments. However, I found nothing interesting in this discussion.

"Interested?" I heard a male voice, his finger discreetly pointing at the woman on the terrace. "Be careful, he's a tough nut to crack."

Turning, I saw a tall, broad-shouldered man with a Kirk Douglas chin, gazing intently at Martha. In his eyes, I read nostalgia mixed with desire and a strange anger that I could faintly, yet still sense. Suddenly, I realized that this woman, seemingly a teenager, had a past I knew nothing about, but which was starting to attract attention. This past, precisely because of its unfamiliarity, suddenly seemed worthy of further attention, a fact reinforced by the man's gaze, which took on a slight sneer.

"No. I'm just trying to be polite," I replied calmly, looking at the stranger, who didn't react, merely nodding his head as if he'd acknowledged what he'd heard.

Of course, I could have responded completely differently, criticized my supposed intentions implied in the word "interested," but out of unspoken male solidarity, I discreetly yet firmly acknowledged the warning with a look.

The man walked away.

*

"Let's meet at 5 p.m. Where we always are," Anna announced, and I, surprised, replied that I still had a lot of work and wasn't sure if I'd make it by then, especially since "where we always are" was outside the city limits and Friday afternoon traffic was quite bothersome. Nevertheless, faced with a fait accompli, I gave my word that I would come.

"Good," she replied, "I have something important to tell you

. Ann, can't you tell me over dinner or now? It would be simpler and less complicated that way, wouldn't you think?"

She didn't answer, which informed me that this was indeed an important matter. The last time she told me to go there was when her mother died, and she, unsure what to do with her last request, decided to discuss it with me there. She claimed it was a magical place for her, that it soothed and moved her at the same time, and that this place had always been important to her.

It was in this clearing that I kissed her for the first time... It was a warm September in 1995, when we were both twenty-six years old...

I parked in the parking lot just off the road and, taking off my jacket, followed the forest road toward a small stream that ran through the forest. It was a rare occasion for a simple drainage ditch to take on the shape and vigor of a mountain stream, adorning the forest like a stream flowing somewhere in the Rockies or Montana. I loved this place, and Anna later grew to love it too; from then on, it was our shared place.

She was waiting for me, sitting on a blanket spread out on the lush, yet still sparse, grass, a wicker basket beside her.

"Sit down," she whispered softly.

I detected emotion and suppressed joy in her voice. And though I detected nothing resembling fear or apprehension, I began to feel apprehensive nonetheless.

She told me to close my eyes and hold out my right hand. To ensure I wouldn't mix up the sides and to make this moment sublime, she added, "This is the one I extend in greeting and the one I always touch her hair with." Only then did I realize I always touched Anna's hair only with my right hand.

I did as she asked.

*

It was obvious the stranger was already somewhat bored with solitude, yet I wasn't in a hurry to return to the terrace, not seeing any greater necessity. Calmly approaching the railing a few steps away, I placed a chair with the seat facing the garden, reaching for a cigarette from the table next to the bust. At that moment, I realized I hadn't inhaled nicotine in eight months, which is quite a feat for me – I'd quit and started smoking many times, and my breaks never lasted more than a few weeks. I also realized that associating with this woman wouldn't lead me anywhere good, since I was automatically reaching for tobacco, which until now had manifested itself as an impending problem or a precursor to stressful times.

Instead of sitting down, the woman propped her bent leg on a chair, pulling up her black stocking slightly. She looked not like a street urchin with a half-smoked cigarette in her mouth, but like a lady who had momentarily forgotten she was in public view and not in a ladies' room. She looked seductive, and I couldn't help but stare at her firm thigh. There was so much grace in this posture, so much unconcealed joy in revealing the fullness of her own body, which, by the way, she had no intention of being ashamed of. She was actually enjoying the situation, sensing, in a way known only to herself, that she was, in that moment, the object of fascination for the observer.

After a moment, however, she removed her leg, hastily grabbed her purse, and headed for the exit, leaving me alone with the chair and the cheap banister. I didn't feel like being stuck there, so I followed her.

She knew I had – at the exit of the estate, she paused for a moment, her gaze darting around, and then announced,

"Follow me – it's not far."

Paralyzed, I reached for my keys, heading for my own car while watching her get into hers. We set off eastward—she was racing down the deserted road at a speed bordering on reasonable, but at that moment, it didn't particularly bother me. I drove just as fast to stay in sight of her, which was not so much a sign of stupidity as a momentary forgetfulness of what I'd left behind when I set off after her.

After twenty minutes, we arrived at a nearby motel, which I should have expected. In the lobby, where the television was blaring, the elderly receptionist dozed open-mouthed, but at the sound of the doorbell, he awoke and, without a word, rose from his chair, handing over a key marked number five. He mumbled that he could pay in the morning.

*

"He was a little nervous, maybe even scared, but he did as I asked – he sat down and, closing his eyes, held out his right hand, on which I placed small, woolen booties, one pink, the other blue. When he opened his eyes again and looked at them, he hugged me tightly and quietly told me that he already loved this child. And then I burst into tears."

*

Around 1 a.m., I got up, covered her naked body with the sheets, and went to the shower. For a full half hour, cold water poured over me in a stream, but I didn't feel it at all. I only knew that there was a small mirror next to the shower, which I definitely wouldn't look into because I never wanted to see myself again. I got out.

I drove those few miles for an eternity... I cheaply wanted to turn back time, to force myself not to answer the day before yesterday's call, to disobey Elizabeth, to find the impending threat in the man's eyes, not to get in the car, not to take a cold shower... not to remember...

I arrived.

Anna was lying quietly in bed, reading a book. Without saying a word, I lay down next to her, and she touched my head, as she always did before bed. Then she put down her book, turned off the bedside lamp, and snuggled up to me, placing her hand on my stomach.

We lay like that for a moment, then she brought her lips to my eyes, brushed them with the warmth of her touch, and whispered softly, "I love you."

It hurt.

*

I told her about it twelve years later. All this time, ascetically, daily, and laboriously, I tried to live and work, not wanting to think about the incident with Martha, who had left town immediately after becoming pregnant with the local doctor. But every time Anna placed her hand on my face, when she told me she loved me, when she remembered our son who died in childbirth, I didn't have the courage to live normally and remain silent. It was like a prison, a trap and a punishment for what had happened back then.

Riddled with guilt, one winter evening I chickened out and told her the whole truth about the incident, feeling a strange sense of relief I never should have felt.

"I know," she replied, looking sadly into my eyes. "I've known that for twelve years."

It stung again.