No reply. He cursed the smartphone and all technology for its failure to bring him an instant answer. Either she had forgotten to turn on her phone, or it was powerless somewhere, in need of a charge. Just like the time when they were dating and she stood him up without a word. She could have called and explained, he would have understood. Her secretiveness had nearly ruined everything, and now he felt a mixture of annoyance and anxiety that weighed like a rock in his belly. Nothing to be done but wait, take a shower, make breakfast, keep busy.
Rubbing the beginnings of a beard, Theo thought of Muybridge and his magnificent nineteenth-century gray whiskers. Of course, he had married later in life, and his bride, despite having been once married and divorced already, was much younger. She must have been reminded of that difference in ages every time she saw that snowy beard. Perhaps that’s why she strayed, looking for some vigor and excitement the older man could not provide. The same worries plagued Theo, though he and Kay were only a decade apart, but still. She should be more responsible, should know that he would worry, but he could hear her laughing it off when she came home. You’ll give yourself ulcers, she’d say. You fret too much. I just went out for croissants.
But she had not returned by the time he finished taking a shower and dressing for the day. She had not returned when the coffee had gurgled through the machine, nor after he had finished his cold cereal. He badgered his phone for an update every few minutes, but she could not be reached. Late morning seeped into the apartment in a funk. The kitchen clock ticked like a metronome. Dust in the sunlight swirled like a lazy tempest. Through the open window, he could smell the exhaust of traffic below from cars on the street, boats on the water. A startling horn broke the reverie. The coffee had gone cold and sour. On the table, his books and papers threatened to fly away of their own accord, and his pen looked like a bloodied knife. The whole apartment felt like a crime scene. He could do nothing but wait.
If anything made their first months together difficult, it was his impatience and her independence. They had fought about it when Kay first landed the part to join the cirque for the summer.
“I’ll be so busy with rehearsals and the show. You can stay in New York and work on your translation, and I’ll find a sublet with some of the others in the cast,” she had offered.
The suggestion poleaxed him, and the thought left him speechless. Kay sat next to him on the sofa, rested her head on his shoulder. “Of course, you could come up for the weekends. I’d miss you too much.”
“I can’t imagine being apart like that just when we are finally together.”
“Be practical. I was only trying to save a little money.”
Frantic at the thought of separation, he had juggled his schedule at the college in New York and used the advance from his publisher to find this place on Dalhousie, where he could work while she was off performing. The whole episode left him questioning how she prioritized their marriage and her career.
Shortly after noon, with still no word from Kay, he thought to call the stage manager at the warehouse rehearsal hall to see if they had any information on her whereabouts. The number, fortunately, was posted on a sticky note next to the fridge, but unfortunately no one answered his call. Too early for the performers or crew to arrive and prepare for that evening’s show. They would all be sleeping now, the upside-down world of theater people. He decided to go out and look for her, and, taking a page from his notebook, he scribbled a note saying to please call if she came home before he returned.
Bright June sunshine fell across his face as he stood outside their apartment considering the possibilities. She could be anywhere or nowhere at all. Injured and lying in a gutter or whisked off to a hospital. Or worse. He quickened his pace, following the familiar path between the apartment building and the warehouse, turning down rue Saint-Paul, past the cafés and antique shops, hurrying along the street till he reached the quayside farmers’ market where they often went to shop in her free hours. Old Town stretched out over his left shoulder, the hotel Frontenac loomed like a castle on a mountain. He had to cross several busy streets before coming at last to the warehouse where the company had kept the enormous sets and contraptions that went into making their outdoor show a few blocks away. Now, it was largely empty, save for the few giant props that had not made it into the final version of the show. The large sliding doors at the front of the building were chained shut, so he went around to the side entrance, only to find that door locked as well. He banged his fist against the metal door, the echo empty and melancholic.
From deep inside the bowels, a shout worked its way forward, alternating in French and English, urging patience, s’il vous pla?t. A deadbolt snapped, tumblers turned in a lock, and the door slowly swung open to reveal a rather sleepy-looking dwarf, who scowled in the sudden brightness. They considered each other for a moment in mutual suspicion. The little man rubbed the stubble on his chin.
“Go away,” he said. “Nous sommes fermés. Come back at four.” He began to close the door.
“Wait.” Theo raised his voice. “I’m looking for my wife. She’s with the show.”