Monday
Sabine arrived at the hotel half an hour early, the taxi dumping her brusquely on the sidewalk as if it knew her purpose in being there. She felt like the world was passing judgment on her: the gray, rain-soaked streets and buildings, the thundery sky that threatened overhead, the hurrying pedestrians with their heads down, eyes lowered away from her. As she stood there in dark glasses, raincoat and a silk Chanel head scarf she could hardly be any less conspicuous; but perhaps it was her own sense of guilt that made her feel so scrutinised.
She had chosen the hotel well; a squalid, two star place located in the slightly less chic part of town. She was certain that she'd encounter no one she knew here, not miles away from their villas and their yachts and their clubs. She would see no one from her exclusive circle of privileged friends, no prying acquaintances who might ask a happily married -- and very wealthy -- woman what she was doing in 'this' part of town.
But Sabine was early; and besides, she was not yet sure whether she was going to go through with this at all.
She decided to wait in the cafe across the street. She ordered an espresso and a cognac to steady her nerves. In a manner that shocked even her, she knocked back the spirit and asked for another, wondering what the proprietor thought. An alcoholic housewife, probably, she mused.
Sabine took the risk of sitting at a street table, where she smoked a cigarette and sipped her coffee and watched the hotel as if waiting for someone to emerge. Even now she was debating whether or not to make her appointment, or to forget this absurd whim and take a cab back to her house in the hills -- back where she felt safe.
There was an old man sitting at the table next to hers; he was reading his newspaper, a cigar smouldering in the ashtray beside a small, half-finished glass of beer, a little dog curled up at his feet. Sabine felt uncomfortable, even though the man had barely acknowledged her when she had first sat down and was now preoccupied with his newspaper. She shifted in her chair awkwardly, noticed a small splash of dark mud on her stocking. Wetting a forefinger she removed the mud and instinctively straightened her dress. She smiled briefly, almost imperceptibly, at no one in particular; took a sip of coffee. Each action was artificial, self-conscious, each speaking of her horrible unease. But no one seemed to notice it except her.
She looked at her watch.
Soon now.
How many times had she resolved to go home whilst sitting here at this sidewalk cafe? Twenty? Thirty? Oh, how the consequences of discovery had played out inside her head; the shame, the humiliation, the aftermath. She was almost certain to lose it all: husband, children, house, fortune -- everything. Could she be that careless?
For no particular reason her attention was at that moment directed to the bill, which was clipped to a little china plate and fluttered lightly in the breeze. Perhaps it represented the finality of making her choice, for after she had paid it she would leave and take one of two courses: hotel or home.
Sabine took a twenty euro note from her purse and placed it on the little plate; then, casually -- confidently -- she checked her lipstick in her compact, took one last look around (no one particularly seemed to be paying her any attention), and left the cafe, her decision made.
She was quite sure she'd made the right one.
Boldly, Sabine walked across the street and straight into the hotel lobby, but stopped within a few feet of entering the building.
There, she'd done it. She breathed a mental sigh of relief. It had been like walking into a hotel for the very first time.
She gathered herself, took a deep breath, and walked over to the reception area. The concierge was a young man in his early twenties. He was sitting behind the desk watching an American sitcom on the little television secreted rather obtrusively beside the computer. Probably a college student on Spring break, Sabine guessed, earning a little bit of money for the next semester.
"I'm meeting a friend," Sabine said, rather abruptly. She could hear the edginess in her own voice, remonstrated herself silently for not being able to control it. "Room 217."
"Of course, Madame," the concierge replied. "The elevator is just behind reception, to your right."
Is that it? she thought. No glib comment, no raised eyebrow? She had invented a whole catalogue of excuses in the short time she had been standing in the lobby and needed none of them. And thankfully, too, for she knew that none would be particularly convincing.
"Thank you."
"Madame."
Sabine walked through to the elevator -- one of those beautiful, wrought-iron antiques of the 19th century -- and closeted herself inside the stiff and creaking carriage that would take her up to the second floor. It rocked and buckled as it lurched slowly upward (it was no quicker than taking the stairs), and while she traveled inside it she looked at her reflection in the long, thin mirror that was fixed to one of the paneled walls. She had not yet removed her sunglasses, and still did not, even as she checked her appearance in the glass. There was something safe about them, something she could hide behind, and she kept the scarf around her head too, not caring that it merely encouraged assumptions about her business here.
The elevator arrived on the second floor with a jolt that was like the accusing hand of a store detective on her shoulder. She was glad to get out of it, almost hurrying into the hallway to relieve the claustrophobia. Next to the ironwork cage of the elevator was the top of a worn staircase, and for a moment she considered taking flight, considered rushing out of this hotel and into the street where she could breathe again.
The corridor outside the elevator was musty and dim and sordid. It reeked of a hundred thousand affairs; clandestine meetings between businessmen and hookers, cheating husbands and secretaries, lonely housewives and...
Sabine suddenly felt sullied. What on earth was she doing here, when she had stayed at the Four Seasons and the Crillon and the Gritti Palace? Nevertheless, she made her way down the badly lit hallway following the ascending numbers on the doors until she reached 217. Without thinking twice, she knocked.
After a moment the door opened.
Lean, muscular, and dark, sullen eyes. Unshaven. The young man stood in the doorway dressed in T-shirt and jeans, barefoot.
"Hello."
Sabine did not reply. The voice in her head was telling her to run, to get out of there, but her feet were rooted to the spot.
"I didn't think you'd come," the young man added after a pause, gruffly.
"Of course I was going to come. This was my idea, after all."
