She had no recourse but the comfort of her tears. She hid them in the best way she knew how to hide them: she cried them only at night, only when she walked, only when no one could question them. But there were so many tears.
And so many daily chastenings. Goddammit, Anna. You’re wasting this much grief on a three-month affair? She tried to be rational. She tried to focus on her family. She tried to feel guilt. All she felt was inescapable woe.
But no real grief is ever a waste. And every grief is real. And this was bigger than Anna was ready to admit. It extended beyond the immediacy of her shattered heart. But she wouldn’t know that for a very long time.
By mid-April Anna had a plan. It was selfish and irrevocable. But it seems so strangely sane and sensible, she thought. Bruno had a pistol. A World War II–era Luger. Semiautomatic. Light enough for a lady’s hands. Toggle-lock action. An iron-sighted Nazi sidearm. I will walk into the woods one night and not walk out again. Twice Anna worked up courage. Twice she went into the woods. Twice that courage failed her and she returned from the forest unharmed. Both times her hands shook so hard she couldn’t even grip the gun. The irony was evident: I’m too terrified of the trigger pull to die.
But she missed a period before she had the backbone to try again (and after the second attempt she knew she wouldn’t). Bruno had wanted another child. Anna hadn’t. But the guilt of the affair and the stress of the breakup were gaining on her. The baby could absolve her. The baby could be her consolation prize. Her only consolation.
FIFTEEN MINUTES INTO THEIR walk, Karl and Anna reached a Waldhütte, one of the hundreds of free-use cabins dotted throughout the Swiss woods. This Waldhütte was more rudimentary than most. It was a small three-walled hut in which there were two benches and a fire pit that looked as if it had been used as recently as that morning. The Waldhütte’s interior walls were littered top to bottom with graffiti. As fussy as they were about cleanliness and order, the Swiss seemed to Anna to be rather lax about graffiti. It was everywhere. Anna pointed to an enigmatic scribbling on the stacked-log wall of varnished wood. “What does this say?” she asked. She wasn’t invested in the answer, but there was safety in small talk, and Anna sought it. Karl moved closer, put his hand in the small of her back and whispered, It says I want to kiss you, Anna.
Before Anna could say one way or the other, Karl had turned her to face him so that she was pressed between his body and the wall. He kissed her. His tongue tasted of Weizenbier, the heady wheat brew he’d been drinking all day long.
Anna protested. “No, Karl. No.” Karl breathed Yes in Anna’s ear. The yes was enough. Anna’s passive self gave in. I’m going to let him fuck me. It was like handing an open wallet to a thief.
Anna thought a half dozen thoughts at once: I should stop this. I should feel ashamed. I should feel infringed upon. I should feel bad about Bruno. I should feel bad that I don’t feel bad. What time is it? Where are my sons? It’s raining and I’m in the woods. It’s Daniela’s birthday and I am letting this man fuck me. Karl kissed Anna again. When Anna kissed Karl back, these thoughts flew away like little birds.
It was a quick, hard fuck. Karl peeled off her tights and panties. Anna kicked away her right shoe and wiggled her leg and foot free from the nylon. She hooked her calf around Karl’s ass and hitched him toward her. He’d already loosened his belt and was shoving down his jeans and briefs. His cock was stiff and wet. That was enough to make Anna wet, too. Yes, that’s it, put it in. She spoke so quietly her voice was audible only to the air around her lips.