A Traitor to Memory

She brushed her hand along the bed, still unmade, that bore the impressions of their two bodies. The pillows still held the indentations of their heads, and the tangle of blankets and sheets together reflected the manner in which they slept: Katja's arms round her, Katja's warm hands cupping her breasts.

She'd pretended sleep when her partner had slid into bed. The room was dark—no light from a prison corridor ever cutting again through the black of a nighttime room in which Yasmin Edwards lay—so she knew that Katja couldn't tell if her eyes were open or closed. She'd breathed, “Yas?” but Yasmin hadn't answered. And when the covers shifted as she lifted them, as she slipped into the bed like a sail boat docking so sleek and sure where it always docked, Yasmin made the sleep sounds of a woman only half roused from her dreams by the interruption, and she noted that Katja froze for an instant, as if waiting to see how far into consciousness Yasmin would be able to come.

That moment of immobility had said something to Yasmin, but its full meaning was not entirely clear. So Yasmin turned to Katja as she drew the covers up to her shoulders. She said, “Hey, baby,” in a sleepy murmur, and eased her leg over Katja's hip. “Where you been?”

“In the morning,” Katja whispered. “There's too much to tell.”

“Too much? Why?”

“Shhh, now. Sleep.”

“Been wanting you here,” Yasmin murmured, and she tested Katja in spite of herself, knowing that she was testing her but not knowing what she'd do with the results. She lifted her mouth for her lover's kiss. She slid her fingers to graze the soft hair of her bush. Katja returned the kiss as always and after a moment gently pushed Yasmin onto her back. She whispered deep in her throat, “Crazy lipstick girl,” to which Yasmin replied, “Crazy for you,” and heard Katja's breathy laugh.

What was to tell from making love in the darkness? What was to tell from mouths and fingers and lingering contact with sweet soft flesh? What could anyone learn from riding the current till it flowed so fast that it no longer made a difference who was guiding the ship to the port just so long as it reached its destination? What the hell was there ever to be gained in the field of knowledge from that?

I should've switched on the light, Yasmin thought. I could tell for certain if I'd seen her face.

She told herself simultaneously that she had no doubts and that doubts were natural. She told herself that there was in life no single sure thing. But still she felt the hard knot of not knowing tighten inside her like a screw being turned by an unseen hand. Although she wanted to ignore it, she couldn't ignore it any more than she could have ignored a tumour that was threatening her life.

But she shook off these thoughts. The day ahead intruded. She rose from the edge of the bed and began to make it, telling herself that if the worst was true, there would be other opportunities to know it.

She joined Katja in the kitchen, where the air was sweet with the smell of the little Dutch pancakes that Daniel loved. Katja had made enough for all three of them, and they were mounded like snow-dashed cobblestones in a metal baking dish that stood keeping warm on the hob. She was adding to their breakfast something decidedly English: Several rashers of bacon were sizzling on the grill.

“Ah, here you are,” Katja said with a smile. “Coffee's ready. Tea for Daniel. And where is our boy? Does he shower? This is new, yes? Is there a girl in his life?”

“Don't know,” Yasmin said. “If there is, he hasn't said.”

“That will happen soon, Daniel and girls. Sooner than you think. Children now grow up so very fast. Have you talked to him yet? Life talk. You know.”

Yasmin poured herself a mug of coffee. “Facts of life?” she asked. “Daniel? You talking 'bout how babies get made?”

“It would be useful information if he yet knows nothing of the matter. Or would he have been told already? In the past, I mean.”

Carefully, Katja didn't say “when he was in care,” and Yasmin knew the German woman would avoid voicing those words and invoking the memories attached to them. Katja's way had always been to move forward, making no reference to the past. “How do you think I abide inside these walls?” she'd once said to Yasmin. “By making plans. I consider the future and not the past.” And Yasmin, she'd gone on, would be wise if she followed that example. “Know what you're going to do when you're out of here,” she'd insisted. “Know exactly who you will be. Then make it happen. You can do that. But start making that person now, in here, while you have the chance to concentrate on her.”

And you? Yasmin thought in the kitchen as she watched her lover begin to scoop the pancakes onto their plates. What of you, Katja? What were your plans when you were inside and who was the person you wanted to be?

Katja had never said exactly, Yasmin realised now, just, “There will be time when I am free.”

Time for who? Yasmin wondered. Time for what?

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