“That’s the Dutch. Never open about emotions.”
“I thought you said she’s Indonesian.”
“Yes, but raised here, and more Dutch than anything else by now. They seemed to be having quite a good time when he was last here.” I told her about the knocking.
“Well, good for them,” said Esma. “We must follow their example.” She took my hand and led me to my bedroom. From her little bag, Esma produced a U-shaped object, purple and about three inches long. It was latex, and heavier than I expected when I touched it. I raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Have I disappointed you yet?” Esma asked, with a hooded look.
I had never had complaints about my sex life with Ellen. It might have been a little lackluster, but for a couple in their fifties we seemed to be doing far better than many friends who made allusions to fornication as an activity of the past like recreational drugs and singles tennis. After we separated, it had not taken much cruising on the Internet to figure out there was a lot I had not experienced. Some of it had no appeal; in other cases, I was curious about what so many people found fulfilling. But my explorations had advanced by several orders of magnitude after meeting Esma.
We lived Saturday in reverse. After we had amused ourselves at length, Esma fell into a drowse. She mumbled a bit and then disappeared into sleep mid-sentence. I had gotten up at 4:30 a.m. in order to collect her and napped myself, but I was awake again by 11 a.m. and crept down with my laptop to the living room, where I worked for a couple of hours, until Esma peeked cutely around the entrance. I brewed her coffee, then we made love on the sofa, despite my concern about spotting the furniture.
Afterward, I ran out to my fish place for food and bought a couple bottles of white wine on the way back. As we lay upstairs again later that night, Esma asked about the investigation. I told her that we had gotten some lab reports back from our trip to Bosnia.
“Any issues?” she asked.
I waved that off with an ambiguous gesture that did not connote any real worry.
“And what comes next?”
I answered that we were still awaiting what might be the big break in the case, the production of records.
“That could only be from the US Army.”
“I really shouldn’t say, Esma.”
“And why is that?”
“Because it’s confidential. The Court is a very formal place. Everything is secret. There are always rules.”
“And if you followed them strictly, we would not be lying here.”
She was right about that, even though I was perturbed to hear her acknowledge this only now, when it was convenient. On the other hand, the legal principles involved in the document request were not secret. I explained the concepts, without saying explicitly we had acted upon them.
“And the US is rebuffing NATO?”
“NATO doesn’t report to me. But that’s certainly my impression.”
“And no one can force the Americans to comply. Is that the point?”
“We could sue in the International Court of Justice. But the Bosnians probably wouldn’t support that. And even if they did, it would take another four to five years to get the records.”
“No other options?”
“None that I can think of.”
She propped herself up on her elbow and smiled disarmingly.
“The press can be very effective in this kind of situation, you know.”
“Badu and Akemi would have a fit. Leaking is not their style. I had to move heaven and earth to get them to do this in the first place.”
“You don’t need permission to leak, Bill. You need deniability.”
As US Attorney, I had been rigid with my staff about leaking. The Federal Rules of Criminal Procedure forbade any disclosure of grand jury matters, and I had no use for the idea that prosecutors should enforce the law by breaking it, no matter how effective it might be. I had to assume that the ICC’s Rules of Conduct for prosecutors were the same, although the truth was that I’d never bothered to look. I promised her that I’d undertake the research, but only so we could change the subject.
Around 3 a.m., I had come for the fourth time that day—as to Esma, there was no way to keep track, because she peaked so often—and she had padded down the stairs afterward to use the john. I was lolling ecstatically, amazed with myself, thinking without conclusions about Merriwell’s declaration that he might well do it all again, when I suddenly froze. I thought I had heard the front door slam. Nara was not due back until late on Sunday, at least sixteen hours from now, and I told myself that the sound must have come from the rear apartment. But I was still listening intently when I heard the distinct clack of high heels on the wooden floor of the living room. I searched my closet desperately for my robe and was still wrestling it on as I rushed down.
Just below me, a remarkable confrontation was occurring outside the bathroom door. Esma, who wore not a stitch, had used her hands as cover-ups, one sloshed across her breasts, the other over the female triangle. Nara and she were staring at one another, startled but also somehow unflinching. When I was still a few stairs away, Esma let her arms fall, in an act of what seemed both pride and defiance.
I dashed between them and, stupid as it was, made introductions. Esma smiled a bit at Narawanda, who was in a silk dress and hosiery and heels, but said not a word. I grabbed a bath towel out of the john and offered it to Esma, but she ignored me and turned to head slowly up the stairs, looking very good while she was at it.
“I didn’t realize you were having a guest,” Nara finally managed.
“I didn’t either when you left. She arrived unexpectedly this morning. I would have said something had I known.”
“Of course.”
“I was sure you said you wouldn’t be back until late tomorrow.” I looked at my watch. “Or today, I guess.”
“I did. My plans changed unexpectedly.”
“I should have called you. I’m sorry.”
“Nonsense. You live here. It is I who should be apologizing to you. I said I would be away.”
We looked at each other haplessly for a second, and then Nara picked up her small red suitcase, which had been behind her, and started up her side of the stairs.
Esma, still naked, was propped against the pillows in my bed, smiling subtly, when I arrived. She seemed quite pleased with herself.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“What did you say to her?”
Esma shook her head slowly. “Not a word. Neither of us spoke. We each knew who the other was. There was no need for introductions.”
Given my qualms about the proprieties, I had certainly not told Nara that I was seeing Esma, but I took it that Esma meant that the circumstances had led each to rather quickly appreciate the other’s position: the lover, the landlady.
“She had a fight with her husband?” Esma asked.
“She didn’t say that.”
“A woman arrives home at 3 a.m.? A woman who you’ve told me likes to be asleep by ten. She left London precipitously. Bill, really. I am constantly flabbergasted by how little you understand about my half of the species.” She smiled. “Come lay down. Let’s nap awhile and then make the bedposts knock before I must go.”
18.
Deal—May 15–28
Five days later, early Friday morning, I was reading the New York Times on my tablet while I stood in the kitchen, drinking coffee. As the lead news bloomed on-screen, I endured one of those instants when your vision throbs and your heart seems to cramp as you realize that the life you know and value has changed against your will.
An article on the lower left side of the page was headlined:
Army Blocking International Court and NATO in Roma Massacre Investigation