As I continued observing her, I could see that although she was not pretty—her features were too heavy to be described in such conventional terms, they were very expressive, which was generally not considered appealing in a woman’s face (hence the mania for treatments like Botox, for face creams that promised to freeze the features into youthful immobility; it was more than the mere pursuit of youth, it arose out of a universal aversion to a woman’s propensity to be excessive, to be too much)—she was alluring, undoubtedly so.
She had the kind of body that intrigued men. They looked at it and wondered what it would be like to touch, how its contours would feel beneath their hands, what was its weight and heft. I noted that, with her heavy brow and long black hair—plaited in a simple braid that hung halfway down her back—she was my physical opposite. It was more than a question of coloring, she had a supremely practical body, one whose purpose was clear. The purposes of my own body were sometimes too opaque, there had been many moments when its discrete parts—legs, arms, torso—made no sense even to me, as they lay there on the bed.
But this woman’s body made sense. I watched her through the glass as she moved back and forth across the lobby, she was wearing a hotel uniform and was shod in sensible shoes, it was the kind of job that kept you on your feet all day long. Although she walked quickly, it was as if her body were leaden, she was a woman firmly tethered to the ground. Perhaps such carnality was in the end irresistible. Christopher would have perceived her allure at once, he was a sophisticated man, whose marriage was suspended, also a man with no scruples and a tourist in this place, everything around him would have appeared essentially disposable.
And she would have been susceptible to Christopher’s charm—he was handsome and wealthy, alone and unencumbered, evidently idle (only an idle man could stay in this hotel and village for so long, most visitors stayed for a few days, a weekend, most people came for a holiday). I sat on the terrace, the sun beating down on my face. The images came easily, I knew the ways of one half of the coupling, and it took very little imagination to see the rest. I could remember—with a dispassionate eye, it had happened a long time ago—Christopher’s way of approaching a woman, of entering her consciousness, he was very good at impressing himself upon a person.
I ordered a drink. It was hot, sweat pooled in the crevice of my collarbone. He grasped her wrist, pressing first his thumb and then his forefinger against her skin. She looked up, not at him, but to see if anyone was watching. The lobby was empty, there was nothing to worry about. The waiter brought my drink. Would I be needing anything else? No, I was fine. Let me adjust the umbrella, the sun is very hot. Before I could stop him he had dragged the heavy stand several feet, the base made a loud scraping sound against the stone floor.
The waiter gripped the edge of the umbrella and tilted it over my face. It was better, there was shade, it was true that the sun was too bright, and I thanked him. He led her by the hand, she walked behind him but urged him to move quickly, the shame if they were caught. The waiter did not move away. There’s nothing to worry about, he said. In that moment, she chose to believe him. She followed him up to his room. They were still on the hotel premises, there was nowhere else to go, she would have died rather than bring him back to her house, with her mother and father sleeping in the room next door and her brother and sisters, all of them living in the same house.
I’m fine, I said. Thank you again. He opened the door, he stepped aside and let her enter first. The waiter’s silhouette blocked out the sun. There is nothing else I can get for you? he said, almost wistfully. Inside the room it was cool, the windows had been left open and the door to the balcony was ajar, she tensed—suppose one of the maids was in the room, it was unlikely at this hour but possible—he dropped the room key onto the table, he checked his phone for messages, he was relaxed in a way that seemed miraculous to her, she could not imagine being so at ease in this luxurious room.
No, thank you, really I am fine. At last he moved away. She thought he would offer her a drink—wasn’t that what was supposed to happen? She didn’t know, she had never been in this situation before, he could have called for room service, a bottle of champagne like the ones she had seen sent up to so many rooms, so many couples—but he put down his phone and then he turned and seized her by the shoulder without preamble, so that she was at once affronted and excited. Had it been this way? Almost certainly. I closed my eyes. It was a long time ago but I remembered it well enough, it would not have been very different, with this woman or another.