Mary introduced herself, then Tim, then their daughter Alexis, then finally their son Max. Anna, in turn, introduced Bruno, Victor, and Charles. They had left Polly Jean with Ursula.
The Benzes brought gifts. Anna nudged the boys. Charles handed Mary a box of Lindt pralines and Victor gave her a bottle of cherry brandy. Mary thanked them but assured them it wasn’t necessary. Bruno replied, “It wouldn’t have been Swiss to come empty-handed.”
The party moved into the den, where Mary offered drinks. She spoke in a bona fide lilt as she poured beers for the men and sweet wine for Anna and herself. The children hugged the wall until Mary pointed out to Max that he and Charles were the same age and that perhaps Max would like to take Charles into his room and show him his trains. They raced away at the suggestion. “Alexis,” Mary continued, “why don’t you and Victor go upstairs as well.” Alexis was a year Victor’s senior. Neither wanted to play with the other. But Alexis had video games, and in a pinch those will always do, so the two children shrugged and lumbered up the stairs.
The adults sat down: Bruno and Anna on a loveseat, Tim in a straight-backed chair, and Mary on the floor at his feet. Anna offered her own seat but Mary pshawed, explaining she was comfortable where she was. For at least the third time since the invitation, Mary mentioned that the Benzes were their first guests since the move. “Zum Wohl!” Bruno said, leading the toast. And so the evening began.
Anna sipped her drink and examined the surroundings. The den was a homey room, which looked surprisingly lived-in despite the family’s short stay. Bookshelves lined the walls. They were filled with mysteries mostly, genre fiction, children’s books and encyclopedias, cookbooks and a few volumes of pop psychology. Framed family snapshots filled the gaps where there were no books, including what Anna deduced was last year’s Christmas portrait. The Gilberts were dressed in matching cranberry-colored sweaters. Four smiling faces in front of a fixed winter backdrop. The Benzes had never taken a family Christmas photo.
“HOW OFTEN APPEARANCES DECEIVE, Anna.” Anna didn’t need the Doktor to tell her this. When she first moved to Dietlikon Anna noticed that affixed to many windows were decals of big, black, featureless birds. Oh, this must be a custom, she thought. A trend in design. Just something people did in Switzerland, that’s what she assumed. It took months—maybe a year—before she realized that the stickers served the practical purpose of keeping actual flesh-and-feather birds from flying into the glass. She’d never lived anywhere where birds habitually smashed into windows.
She admitted this to Bruno when she realized her mistake. He laughed for ten minutes. It was the funniest thing he’d heard all week, he said. Anna was indignant, then embarrassed, then mortified. How small she felt, and stupid. She started to cry. “Oh, Anna,” Bruno said, though he didn’t quite stop laughing. “I love you very much, silly woman.” Then he leaned over and kissed her on the head, the cheek, the lips, the nose. “Very much, you very silly woman.” He’d never said anything exactly as endearing as that before. He was still laughing as he walked away. Wery much, you wery silly woman.
They weren’t real birds. And he wasn’t being mean at all. They were versions of birds. And Bruno was, in the moment, being the only kind of loving he knew how to be.
BRUNO AND TIM WERE locked into a conversation about the teams in the Swiss National League. Anna listened until Mary suggested she join her in the kitchen. They received automatic nods of departure from their husbands who otherwise didn’t disengage from their chat.
In the kitchen Mary motioned to a high side table flanked by a couple of bar stools with backrests. Anna recognized the set. It came straight from the IKEA warehouse floor. “Have a seat, Anna.” Anna sat. Mary busied herself opening doors: refrigerator, oven, pantry. Mary was at home in her kitchen, a good little hausfrau, happy as a rabbit. Mary hummed while she stirred, sautéed, and sampled. She was a pretty woman, but plain somehow, and doughy, a Canadian mother from the sticks. Her clothes were functional; she wore a sensible hairstyle and very little makeup. Aren’t athletes’ wives usually flashier? Don’t they typically have more style? Anna saw nothing immodest about her, her kitchen, her house, her family. Anna chalked this up to the Gilberts’ Manitoban pragmatism. Mary was four years younger than Anna. This they had discovered during a class break earlier that week.
The news rattled Anna’s vanity. Do I present as matronly as that? Later that particular afternoon in Archie’s apartment, bare-breasted and straddling him, Anna asked whether he thought she did, warning him first to think hard before he answered. He swore upon the bones of some Scottish hero Anna had never heard of that she did not. Anna felt a little bit better.