There was no doubt: she was crying. It triggered a reflex in him to reach out and comfort her. Except – he didn't. Why should he? She wasn't the one hurt, was she? He was. So why should she be the one crying?
And yet, she was.
Clear liquid trembled on the lower rims of her beautiful eyes – reflecting the candlelight. For a moment it clung to her painted lashes before sliding down her cheeks – leaving traces of gray.
Her make up had been impeccable when they left the house earlier that evening. But of course it would be, as tonight was a special night. It was the evening of the day she had been married to him for exactly two years.
It started off perfectly. Like always he'd had to wait for her to finish dressing. He had phoned to delay the arrival of the limousine that would take them down town. Already arriving half an hour later than planned, it stood idling for another quarter of an hour in front of their house.
When she at last came down the stairs, she was a goddess. Her silk dress was new. Its hue shifted from ultramarine to a deep night-blue with every step she took. It hugged her body, looking as snug as the very cocoons the silk had been made of. The top showed her pale cleavage; the skirt's hem shied away from her knees just enough to remind the world of her glorious legs.
He watched how the delicate bones in her instep shifted as she came down the stairs on heeled sandals. Her fingers clutched the leather purse he'd bought her in Milan last year. She'd done up her blond hair to display her neck and show off the diamond pendants that dangled from her earlobes. They matched the necklace on her chest.
He remembered shrugging when the set's price tag indicated it would cost him half of his year's bonus.
At the bottom of the stairs he embraced her. His lips nudged the soft spot where her throat met her shoulder. The subtle perfume clung to his nostrils. He could still smell it now, as he wondered why he embraced her. Was it a thank-you for a few unforgettable years? Or was it just an expression of his admiration for the way she had made herself look tonight?
With a smile she softly pushed his head away, not allowing him to smudge her hard-won perfection with a kiss. And when she told him they were late already, the sheer audacity of the remark made him chuckle. He smiled and opened the front door to lead her to the waiting limousine. Why call it a limo, he thought, when you pay the full price?
All the way down town he mused over the bizarre cocktail his mind had been mixing these last few days, adding the bitter to the sweet. He had known the sweetness for almost three years; the more recent bitterness added a new tang. Together they created a mixture of melancholy and nostalgia; you'd better sip it with caution.
As he looked out of the window of the cruising car, his hand touched the outline of the gift box in his pocket – such an ironic comment on their marriage it was. On the outside it suggested great and expensive things to be found within – and well, he couldn't deny they were costly indeed.
He'd known what secret the box concealed, and now she knew it too. But it surprised him that she would weep because of it. Not that she sobbed or cried, she just allowed the perfect tears to roll down her powdered cheeks.
One fell on the silk of her dress, making an even darker spot on the night blue fabric. The other one seemed more unruly – it kept dangling from her chin.
His eyes left hers, following the trail of spilled moisture. His gaze traveled down the cleavage of her tightly packed breasts. They became a blur as his eyes focused on the object lying before her on the table. The box, though only an inch in height, seemed an insurmountable wall.
Inside it he found her eyes again – upside down now and printed on shining paper. They were as bright and sparkling as the real ones. He saw her perfect nose pointing up to her carefully painted mouth. It didn't smile, he saw. It would have been impossible anyway. One might say it formed an O – a wide, very wide O. But the O did not frame the dark cave of her mouth, where her perfect teeth and maybe her tongue would have shown. No, her mouth closed around a hard and shining cock that was just a fraction too large to be his.
Carl.
Should I introduce my wife Mia to you at all? It's obvious she will be removed from my life very soon, so what's the use of telling you where we met, how deeply I fell in love with her and how exciting and satisfying my life with her has been? As you see I'm putting it all in the past tense. There won't be a new today with her, much less a tomorrow.
But well – I guess it would be rude to tease your curiosity and not deliver. Mia has been too important in my life anyway to be erased like that. She has been a part of me. Losing her is like an amputation, I guess – like the loss of an arm, a leg...a heart?
And yet, why bother? The content of my gift-box proved that our marriage had been a lie. Why cling to a lie? Why go on loving a fiction?
Enough of this lamentation, even though I think I am entitled to some. Let's try and compartmentalize the hurt. They say it was what made the Titanic unsinkable, remember? Well, that worked fine, ask Leonardo di Caprio.
Sorry, I should not succumb to my weakness for sarcasm, even if I prefer to call it irony. They say it is the pathetic armor of the wounded romantic.
So, what happened? A good question I can only answer partially for now. To stay with the big legendary ship – I only know the tip of the iceberg. I assume there is a lot of ice still under the surface that I don't know of. When a guy discovers he has been naïve, you can bet he will be the exact opposite for a very long time to come – too long a time, I'd say. It is what treason does – it ruins trust and it ruins it for a very long time, maybe forever. It also doesn't stop at trust. It gnaws at the very foundation of a guy's life, his confidence, his energy, his concentration, and his sleep.
And yes – treason it was.
I didn't find out in one of the classic ways. There was no coming home early and for god's sake no sniffing of crusted panties. There were no carelessly left condom wrappers either – the pictures suggest she never used them anyway. That of course might have led to another way of finding out – pregnancy or painful pissing. But no; and no telltale phone bills or credit card slips either. There was no change in her behavior. She did not work late often or go partying with the girls. She has been dressing well all her married life and her professional activities have always been way too varied to find incriminating patterns.
I never believed in a marriage where wife and husband share every minute of their free time together. I like to play golf, she hates it. She loves the opera and sure, I went to a few with her, but more often she goes with friends. She works out, I run. I trusted her, she trusted me. She was right, I was wrong.
So, what did happen? One doomed but bright Saturday morning I found a short note in my golf bag. I was looking for my driver, ready to tee-off at the eighth hole. Tacked to the note was a picture of Mia kissing a guy in an elevator. His hand was inside her jacket, rubbing her breast through the fabric of her blouse – or under it? Her eyes were closed. Her long pale fingers caressed his hair. Her lips were open in an inviting way – a very inviting way.
I was playing golf with Tom Mansfield and two strangers who had been added to our flight. Tom Mansfield is an ex-colleague I'd been playing with for over three years. I am convinced that I did see neither picture nor note in my bag before the eighth hole.
I never showed Tom the objects I found, but I am sure he noticed the distress they caused. He must have wondered why I suddenly started playing lousy. And I don't think he believed the lame excuse I offered after the ninth hole. Headaches don't usually come up this suddenly.
Finding my car, I sat in it for a while, thinking of nothing as I stared at the picture. Only then did I see what was written on the note. It was a very short message. To be precise it just said: "Call us," with a phone number.
I suppose more impulsively wired guys would at once have punched the number into their cell phone, seething with anger. Not me – I am the slow burning kind, meticulous to a fault. It might be because of my profession. I research paintings for big vending houses, collectors and museums to see whether they are true or false. There is no use following up on your first impression there. Too often a perfect Monet turns out to be a clever imitation – or a stunning Rembrandt proves to just be an inspired attempt of one of his apprentices. Not to imagine the horror of dismissing a perfectly real early Van Gogh. I usually deal with less famous masters, but you get the drift.
Before I can act I always need every detail, even in this case, when all I had was a picture and a phone number. I supposed the handwriting was a woman's, but not Mia's. The numbers and letters were very round; the l's had fat loops and the writing itself showed a distinct flourish. That and the use of purple ink convinced me the writer must be a woman. But hey – I am not a graphologist and my gut feeling might be nothing but prejudiced sexism.
