Bosnia had been my first visit to a majority-Muslim country, and I had been impressed by how easygoing the version of Islam practiced around Tuzla had felt. The call to prayer had keened out from the minarets five times a day, but most of the women eschewed hijab, for example, and there was alcohol on every restaurant menu. Religion was a private matter, it seemed.
“That is the Islam I grew up with,” Narawanda said. “Modernist. My mother covered her head in the mosque, and went every week, when I was little, but she always reminded me of the verse in the Qur’an that says Allah Himself planned for many faiths.’”
I had made my observations about Islam in Bosnia without any thought that Narawanda herself was Muslim. She could see I was a little nonplussed, but waved off my apologies.
“I am more of a lapsed Muslim these days. I have not gone to mosque or done the fasts since Lewis and I married.”
“Was that what you two agreed?”
“No, no. Just as it has happened. Actually, at that point, Lewis and I said that if we were ever to have children, we would teach them that tradition.”
“And that’s changed?” I asked.
She reflected on my question for several strides.
“I really don’t know,” she said. “Right now, Lewis and I are not so close to having children. We do not even live in the same place.”
Given her odd manner, I wasn’t sure if she was miffed or just being matter-of-fact, but I could feel my lungs giving out. I waved her on without me, promising to do better if we ran again another time.
15.
Leiden—April 24–26
I spoke to Esma every night—remarkably explicit conversations in which I nearly gasped at some of the things she said before I slid into lascivious giggles. She was due to head back to New York from London the following week, and we agreed that she’d first detour to Holland to meet me for the weekend. I remained concerned about being seen together. Although Esma had relieved herself of any formal role in the case, as an ardent advocate for the alleged victims, she remained an interested party. Esma thought I was being ridiculous, but we agreed on Leiden, about fifteen minutes from The Hague, and I booked a lovely-looking boutique hotel along one of the canals.
I arrived there on the Intercity train about 3:30 Friday afternoon, walking along on a fine day and absorbing the charm of Leiden, a bit of Bruges without the gingerbread. Its network of canals and iron bridges was surrounded by the usual centuries-old brick buildings with steep tile roofs. The center of the city was crowded with young people, students at the university who’d already gotten started on the weekend. After another few minutes, I recognized the green striped awning of the hotel, which I’d seen on the Internet.
At the tiny reception desk, I handed my passport to the bespectacled middle-aged proprietor. He would keep the document for an hour or two, as they routinely do on the Continent in order to fill out forms required by the EU. He had finished work with Esma’s British passport already and handed it to me, with its eccentric images of a crown, lion, and unicorn embossed in gold on its crimson cover. Holding tangible evidence of Esma’s presence, I felt a lurid thrill below my belt.
In our room, I found her asleep, with the canvas curtains drawn and her eyes hidden beneath a sleep mask. There was enough light, though, to see her. She had kicked away half the covers, revealing those well-turned legs up to her thigh, the rest of her body draped discreetly, as in an old painting. Her face was at the edge of the bed, while one bare arm hung down. In the grip of a dream, her mouth moved over uncertain words and her body twitched slightly.
I undressed quietly, then took hold of the duvet and drew it away slowly from her torso, an inch-by-inch striptease of a sort, relishing everything. The sight had a predictable effect on me and I eventually took my hardened dick and nuzzled it against her cheeks and mouth, slowly pushing away the mask. Deep in sleep, she waved her hand vaguely at first and then finally, without ever opening her eyes, took gentle hold of me, guiding me into her mouth.
I woke Saturday morning, my hand webbed in hers, looking down at that odd collection of rings I’d noticed in Tuzla, which were all on the middle finger of her left hand. I was still staring when she roused herself.
“Is one of those a wedding ring?” I asked, about a plain gold band.
“That?” She laughed and sat up. “Don’t worry about that. That is my problem, not yours.”
“What does that mean, Esma?”
She tossed around her storm of dark hair and finally went off to the bathroom. When she returned, she said, “Are you concerned you have rivals, Bill?”
“Every man who sees you, Esma, is my rival.”
The remark delighted her. She padded to the bed sinuously. Diving down on it, she whispered, “I am with you. Let me show you.”
Afterward, we sat outside in our robes. Our room was tiny but stuffed with antiques, much to Esma’s liking, with a small terrace outside where the potted plants were already in bloom. I pulled two white iron chairs together and took her hand as we looked out over the rooftops and the adjoining canals. She felt distant for a second.
“Enjoy this part, Bill. Make it last. Don’t worry about what comes next.”
“What makes you think I’m worried?”
She reared back to look at me in mild reproof. I wasn’t sure if I was being scolded for doubting her Gypsy voodoo or just for being dishonest.
“That is your nature.” She was right about that. “And I am not very good at the next part anyway.”
“You mean life?”
“This too is life, and very much the best of it.” She snuck her hand under my robe. “Don’t fall in love with me, Bill.”
Given my character, which Esma had correctly assayed, I was already reflecting on what I felt. Certainly I was gripped by addictive lust, and great tenderness and gratitude born of its satisfaction. But between us there was a connection, too, I knew that. From our first instants together, I had felt that Esma, with her passionate nature and galloping intellect, fit a yearning space inside me. But love? I wasn’t even sure anymore what I thought about that word. Yet whatever this was, my ardor was more revitalizing than anything I’d felt in decades.
“And why do you say that?” I asked. “Because you are unavailable?” I was thinking about the wedding ring.
“No,” she said. “But I fear I shall disappoint you, Bill.”
“Because?”
“Because I always manage to do that in the end.” She was back to being the essential Esma, humorless and intense.
I tried to joke. “Should I leave now?” I asked.
As I hoped, the remark leavened her mood. She reverted to her sensual gaze and her thin dominating smile. She loosened the belt on her robe and threw it open as we sat there in the daylight in the view of many rooftops.
“If you like,” she answered.
On Saturday night, Esma and I had our first cross moments. Ellen wanted my approval on the plans for the rehearsal dinner before Pete’s wedding, which required three brief conversations between 11 p.m. and midnight. We’d had a call on the same subject the weekend before, while Esma and I were ensconced at the Blue Lamp.
“This is very strange with your ex-wife. You speak to her more than your children.”
I explained that Ellen didn’t have time for these projects during the week, when she was working. But Esma’s dark face was closed off by a look of open skepticism, expressed primarily through a fleshy pout. I thought of replaying the remarks she’d made to me yesterday about being jealous, but I already knew Esma would never make her emotions slave to logic or consistency.
“And you stayed with her when you went back home,” said Esma. “That is strange, too. Is there ex-sex now and then?”
I laughed out loud. “Esma. You’ve heard these conversations. There is nothing but family business. My ex is no one to worry about.”
“Some men can never leave their marriages behind. I have known too many.”
“Well, you’re reacting to what happened with them. Ellen and I are merely planning our son’s wedding, and I consider it a blessing that we can enjoy this together.”