He kissed her on the forehead and went downstairs.
Margaret pulled her wrinkled clothes on. Her stockings bagged at the knees. She saw a bathroom off the bedroom and went in to splash water on her face. Things I wouldn't do without wine? Things so shocking I have blocked them out entirely!
She rubbed toothpaste across her teeth with her finger. She looked in the medicine cabinet for aspirin but found only bottle after bottle of Xanax. She considered taking one, then rummaged in her bag, thinking there might be an old aspirin floating around in there. She found a lipstick. Maybe later for that. It seemed hopelessly inadequate now. She found a fuzzy peppermint Life Saver, which she ate. A pen. Dr. Lipi's card. A piece of paper on which was written, "I can't stay here. I need some peace and quiet and isolation—"
She stopped reading, horrified. Oh God. What had she done? What had she failed to do?
"Martin!" she said when she found him in the kitchen. "The phone! I must call Edward! I forgot to tell him that I left him!"
Martin looked puzzled.
"I left my husband and he doesn't know!" she cried. "He must be so worried. Oh, poor Edward. How could I have been so inconsiderate. I left him a note to tell him I'd left him, and then I left him, but I forgot to leave the note—"
"Please, please. Do not worry. I have called Edward. Do you think I would not let him know what has happened here?"
Well, yes, Margaret thought, actually I did think you would not let him know what has happened here.
"I told him you were here with me," Martin said. He patted her back gently. His beautiful green-and-white shirt was back. Margaret looked at it in alarm.
"You told him?"
"He was so very much relieved." Martin smiled in a satisfied way. "Here. Sit down. Drink this coffee. He is happy. I am happy. All are happy."
Yeah? Well, happiness ain't all it's cracked up to be, then, she thought. "Happy," she said, full of scorn.
Martin looked at her in confusion. He stood silent for a moment. Then he smiled, as if he understood something.
"Marguerite, did you think that we, that I, what is the word..."
Margaret, staring into her coffee cup, felt a familiar burning shame. Fuck, she thought. The word you are looking for is fuck. Baiser in French, is it not? And yes, I thought. But now I see that I was mistaken, as I so often am, and that I have suffered the humiliation and guilt of adultery without even getting to commit adultery. It's an outrage. I've made a complete fool of myself.
"How could you?" she said.
"But I didn't..."
"That's what I mean."
Martin came toward her, put his hands on her head, and stroked it. His beautiful clothes rustled. His light brown hair fell over his face. His long eyelashes covered his downcast eyes.
"Marguerite, you are as young as my daughter."
"Yeah, yeah."
"You looked so pale, lying there, so innocent and pale, and then you passed out—"
"Christ, I passed out? Did I fucking throw up, too?"
"No, no."
"Good."
"Yes, good."
"I remember kissing you," Margaret said.
"Ah."
"I like you."
"Oui? Still?"
"Oui. Still."
"You are very fine guide, Marguerite." He smiled slightly, hesitantly. "Mar-gar-et."
"Oh, yeah," Margaret said, burying her face in her hands. "A fine guide." Which way to the Vltava?
MARGARET STOOD on the corner in her wrinkled silk skirt and blouse and the wrath of humiliation and misapprehension.
Where to, Virgil?
I don't know. Where do you want to go?
Gee, I don't know. I thought you knew. You're the guide.
Who said I was the guide, why aren't you the guide, why do I always have to be the guide?
It was the first truly hot day, the June sun bright and ferocious on the yellow taxis. Margaret marched forward, looking in shoe stores. Where to, where to, where to? Home was enemy territory, occupied by a stranger who thought everything was all right. Everything was not all right. It enraged her to think that even for one mistaken moment Edward thought that everything was all right. She refused to let everything be all right. It wouldn't be right if everything were all right. After all she'd done, imagine everything being all right. Only Edward could think everything was all right. What did she have to do, send him a telegram? "EVERYTHING NOT ALL RIGHT STOP WIFE WANTS DENTIST STOP TRIED TO SEDUCE BELGIAN BUT TOO DRUNK STOP LESBIAN STOP."
And she'd already left a note. At least, she'd meant to leave a note. What more did a person have to do?