Alvar was approaching two years old. The dachshund had been a gift to Marion from Marelena and her children. They’d been tactful enough to wait several months after Max had died before presenting Marion with a white wire cage, a yellow ribbon round it. But even so, the notion of a replacement could not be avoided. Her children had been raised never to talk about the obvious, never to mention the thing in the room that gave off a stench. Marion had taught them either to move or bear it, but never to let on. Pointing things out was too unpleasant.
The reality was that within days it became clear that Alvar was going to be a much better companion than Max ever was. Apart from in the arenas of passing on human sperm and earning money to keep a family, Alvar won over Max in all spheres. He had a much better sense of humour, he didn’t snore or fart in his sleep, he was always happy to see her and he came when she called. Marion named the dog after Alvar Aalto, her favourite architect. She saw in Alvar the same restraint of design (the mark of genius, surely), tasteful simplicity, an appreciation for natural materials and textures. No one else could quite see how a dog bore the same characteristics as a Master Builder, but they let it go.
Agnes brought the tea. The weight of Alvar was a comfort in Marion’s lap. ‘Wrong set. The proper one, I said.’ Marion took the biscuit. ‘And bring another biscuit, Agnes.’ Who brings a dog a single biscuit?
Marion had been twenty-six – principal of her own firm but lonely – and there was Max at a dinner organised by business associates. Her friend took her by the elbow to a corner of the dimly lit lounge and said: this is Max Agostino, Italian and rich. And Max had ducked his head down as if embarrassed and shaken her hand. The friend (who was it?) then wandered off, as is the thing to do with such set-ups, and Max said something accommodating. Something like, ‘Now you know everything about me, let’s talk about you.’ And Marion had smiled. It hadn’t been everything about him. She, the friend – whoever it was – had left out that he was tall, that the neatly trimmed hairs along his temple, light grey, were the same colour as his eyes. He was well composed, Marion had noted, in his dark grey-suit and silver cufflinks. She teased him about it – that he wore office-wear to parties – and then noted with alarm that she was flirting. She looked at her glass, wondering how much she’d drunk, and Max, noticing it was empty, offered to refresh it.
When she asked, he explained the way he made his money, but the financial world was a puff of smoke to Marion and she enjoyed the fact that Max’s work was inaccessible, uncatchable. She made room for this bit of mystery in their relationship and it did the job of keeping him, at least some parts of him, strange to her. When they made love the strangeness was there, that he was someone she couldn’t quite get all of.
There were the little surprises. That he wasn’t circumcised, that he lowed when he came, that he didn’t mind crying in others and frequently did so himself, over simple things like a sad part of a movie or a baby being born. Otherwise Max was predictable, steady. And he loved her.
After a small wedding, they discussed where they wanted to live. Katterijn was Marion’s preferred neighbourhood but houses in the area were seldom advertised. In a moment of luck, while talking to an estate agent about another home they had viewed in Bantry Bay, the agent mentioned one in Katterijn that was about to go on the market. The news turned Marion nervous and right until they drove up to the house she carried a secret wish that, although the particulars clearly stated No. 12, the house up for sale was really No. 10. No. 10 Katterijn Avenue was a house she’d designed. Not just any design, her first.
In the time it took the agent to retrieve the keys and open up No. 12 Marion composed herself. The disappointment nestled in her belly, but she marched through the house as if she already owned it. She folded her arms at the entrance of each room, her eyes taking it all in.
‘Honey, what do you think?’ Max kept asking, but Marion ignored him, dismayed that he knew no better than to discuss impressions in the presence of the agent.
Outside she walked a few metres to the left and then to the right of the wooden trellised gate.
‘What about that house?’ she asked, taunting herself really.
‘No. 10? Oh, it’s not for sale.’
Marion nodded, she knew that No. 10 had already changed hands. The first owners, the Norwegians, had made a private sale to a corporate consultancy firm looking for somewhere to house their travelling staff and entertain their top clients.
‘Well?’ Max asked, his patience thinning.