protected me. You saved my life. Not just now but many times. You’ve been kind to me at your own peril. I don’t know why. You haven’t asked anything from me. You’ve made no demands. You haven’t been lustful toward me. What other man would do this?”
It was getting on morning, and I was as aroused as could be at that point and felt ambivalent about her innocence.
I sat up, too, trying to orient myself better. I wanted to explain, but I didn’t know how much I could say. “I’ve tried to protect you. I have. But a long time ago, I did something to you that I—”
“To me?”
“To you.” I couldn’t stand the look of wariness. “Not to you, Sophia, as you are now. But long before. In Africa. You don’t remember Africa.” This was a reckless turn. What was I expecting? That she would suddenly sprout a memory to match mine?
Her eyebrows came down in a particular way she’s always had. “I haven’t been to Africa,” she said slowly.
“But you have. A long time ago. And I—”
“I haven’t.”
There she sat, tiny under the giant dawning sky in that strange lunar landscape near Cappadocia with only me to look at. If my desire was to make her feel safe, this was not the way to go.
“No. I know. Of course. I was speaking in metaphor. I meant . . .”
Though I was looking for expiation, I wasn’t going to take it at her expense. “I didn’t mean anything.” I shrugged and looked east, where the sun was puncturing our private night. “It’s a strange memory I have.” My voice was so quiet it probably drifted away before it reached her. I don’t know.
She kept her eyes on me for a long time. There was uncertainty, but I could see the warmth, too. “You are a good man, and I do not understand you.”
“Someday I’ll try to explain,” I said.
We got down under the covers again together, both of us facing east. She pressed herself fiercely against me, so my body’s ungovernable parts were made known to her. She didn’t pull away but turned her head to look up at me again, sort of curiously.
I buried my face in her neck and felt for her ear with my mouth. I lifted up her skirts and put my hands on her bare hips. I opened her dress and kissed her breasts. I pulled her underclothes away and entered her with a pent-up passion that could only be imagined.
And imagined is all it was. That’s not a memory but a fantasy I’ve enshrined alongside my memories so that it’s almost become one. And I relive it in preference to the other version of events every time. My memory, as I’ve said, admits a few distortions. I try to cultivate it as a reliable record, and it’s rare when my emotions are strong enough to bend the facts. But here I bent the facts wide enough to push myself inside her and stay there forever.
But let the record show the truth: She looked at me and licked her lips with an unmistakable passion, and she said, “I am your brother’s wife.”
“You are my brother’s wife,” I said, and mournfully, miserably, rolled a few inches away from her.
No matter how brutal my brother was, he couldn’t take down the sanctity of marriage. Not the idea of it. He didn’t respect it, but he didn’t have the power to nullify it. I guess because we believed in it. We couldn’t help ourselves.
I watched her carefully, and she watched me. A kiss, a real one, and all that would inevitably follow would transform our errand of mercy into a tawdry betrayal. No matter how I loved her. No matter how much I wanted to.
No one will ever know but her and me, the lower part of my body was urging.
But the brain in my head took a longer view. No one would know but us, and my brother would be proven right in all his ugly suspicions, and we would always know we were wrong. When you live as long as I do, always is a crippling distance. I know she was thinking the same. In that moment my belief in our common mind was not a delusion.
ON THE LAST full day we rode slowly. A hot breeze covered us
It was getting on morning, and I was as aroused as could be at that point and felt ambivalent about her innocence.
I sat up, too, trying to orient myself better. I wanted to explain, but I didn’t know how much I could say. “I’ve tried to protect you. I have. But a long time ago, I did something to you that I—”
“To me?”
“To you.” I couldn’t stand the look of wariness. “Not to you, Sophia, as you are now. But long before. In Africa. You don’t remember Africa.” This was a reckless turn. What was I expecting? That she would suddenly sprout a memory to match mine?
Her eyebrows came down in a particular way she’s always had. “I haven’t been to Africa,” she said slowly.
“But you have. A long time ago. And I—”
“I haven’t.”
There she sat, tiny under the giant dawning sky in that strange lunar landscape near Cappadocia with only me to look at. If my desire was to make her feel safe, this was not the way to go.
“No. I know. Of course. I was speaking in metaphor. I meant . . .”
Though I was looking for expiation, I wasn’t going to take it at her expense. “I didn’t mean anything.” I shrugged and looked east, where the sun was puncturing our private night. “It’s a strange memory I have.” My voice was so quiet it probably drifted away before it reached her. I don’t know.
She kept her eyes on me for a long time. There was uncertainty, but I could see the warmth, too. “You are a good man, and I do not understand you.”
“Someday I’ll try to explain,” I said.
We got down under the covers again together, both of us facing east. She pressed herself fiercely against me, so my body’s ungovernable parts were made known to her. She didn’t pull away but turned her head to look up at me again, sort of curiously.
I buried my face in her neck and felt for her ear with my mouth. I lifted up her skirts and put my hands on her bare hips. I opened her dress and kissed her breasts. I pulled her underclothes away and entered her with a pent-up passion that could only be imagined.
And imagined is all it was. That’s not a memory but a fantasy I’ve enshrined alongside my memories so that it’s almost become one. And I relive it in preference to the other version of events every time. My memory, as I’ve said, admits a few distortions. I try to cultivate it as a reliable record, and it’s rare when my emotions are strong enough to bend the facts. But here I bent the facts wide enough to push myself inside her and stay there forever.
But let the record show the truth: She looked at me and licked her lips with an unmistakable passion, and she said, “I am your brother’s wife.”
“You are my brother’s wife,” I said, and mournfully, miserably, rolled a few inches away from her.
No matter how brutal my brother was, he couldn’t take down the sanctity of marriage. Not the idea of it. He didn’t respect it, but he didn’t have the power to nullify it. I guess because we believed in it. We couldn’t help ourselves.
I watched her carefully, and she watched me. A kiss, a real one, and all that would inevitably follow would transform our errand of mercy into a tawdry betrayal. No matter how I loved her. No matter how much I wanted to.
No one will ever know but her and me, the lower part of my body was urging.
But the brain in my head took a longer view. No one would know but us, and my brother would be proven right in all his ugly suspicions, and we would always know we were wrong. When you live as long as I do, always is a crippling distance. I know she was thinking the same. In that moment my belief in our common mind was not a delusion.
ON THE LAST full day we rode slowly. A hot breeze covered us
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