I stared down at the stubs, all fairly new, their paper only a little yellowed, they were everywhere, they covered the ground. It was extraordinary that people could stand in the middle of this torched landscape and throw a cigarette—perhaps still burning, who knew—to the ground. Maybe they thought the landscape so much destroyed there was nothing to preserve, it was true that there was nothing here, in fact it was inexplicable that someone would have stood here long enough to smoke a cigarette, inexplicable that anyone would be standing on this road at all. Even us, our reason for being here—it became more indefinite by the minute.
I looked up at Christopher’s parents. I remembered meeting them for the first time, I had not met Isabella and Mark until Christopher and I were ourselves engaged to be married, by which late point I had already heard a great deal about them from Christopher, almost none of it good. He had spoken about them very little and then he suddenly had a great many things to say about them and their marriage, whether because he was now proposing to get married himself—he was not young when we married, he had managed to postpone it for some time—or simply because that particular box, that repository, Christopher’s feelings toward his parents and Isabella in particular, once opened, was difficult to close, it had to spill its contents at least a little bit.
And so I was apprehensive, even more than might be usual—and it is rarely classified as an easy encounter, meeting your future in-laws—although I expected it would not be as bad as Christopher said, he had himself declared, You will probably love them, they are very charming, as if it were a betrayal I had already committed. But I did not love them, and I did not find them especially charming, and that strain had showed in my relationship with them ever since. I remembered sitting across the table from them—one of many interminable dinners, once I was introduced to them it became a regular occurrence, the monthly dinner with Isabella and Mark, without discussion and almost without my noticing, something I never could have foreseen at the outset of our relationship—and thinking how much I hoped that our marriage, Christopher’s and mine, would not be like that.
I say hoped. In fact I was blithely confident, it seemed impossible that we could be like Isabella and Mark, I could not conceive of a future that would produce such a dire result. In the end, I had been right, we had not ended up like Mark and Isabella, although not for the reasons I thought then. At the time, I was like any young person looking at an old person—even if I was not that young, and nor was Christopher—and like any person who cannot believe that they will grow old, much less die, I could not believe that our marriage could become like their marriage, much less fall apart completely.
And yet it had, after five years. Five years—a fraction of the length of Isabella and Mark’s marriage, which continued, which was continuing now. They stood with one foot of air between them and their marriage accrued further hours, greater length, minute by minute. It might have been a terrible marriage, built on betrayal—although what was really meant by the word terrible, there were betrayals that looked unforgivable from the outside and that were nonetheless forgiven, and there were forms of intimacy that looked nothing like the name—but it was nonetheless a marriage.
Whereas mine had ended—twice. It was not surprising that I would now look at Christopher’s parents and see their marriage anew. It seemed incredible that I had ever looked at it and seen anything to scorn, the word sounded too strong but it was nevertheless accurate, it was the truth. One of the problems of happiness—and I’d been very happy, when Christopher and I were first engaged—is that it makes you both smug and unimaginative. I now looked at Isabella and Mark’s marriage and saw that I understood nothing, about it or about marriage in general, they knew things that Christopher and I had not had, or had not taken, the time to find out.
Abruptly, Isabella turned and came back to the car. I think we are finished, she said. The driver nodded and Isabella climbed into the backseat. Her back was rigid and as she stared at the back of the driver’s headrest, I saw that her eyes were glassy with tears. She grimaced, as if she had no intention of letting the grief get the better of her, then straightened her shoulders and said, Mark? Are you coming? I would like to go, I don’t want to be here anymore.
Mark nodded to the driver, together they got into the car. The driver hurriedly put the key into the ignition and started the engine, we pulled away with a screech. Isabella’s back and head swayed with the motion but the grimace did not go away, nor did the tears. Where should I go, back to the hotel? the driver asked, and Mark nodded, Yes. Back to the hotel. When do you leave Greece? the driver said, and Mark replied, As soon as possible, as soon as we can pack our bags.
13.