Past Perfect by Susan Isaacs

behind his neck. He wasn’t sure whether I was making an observation or had begun a discussion —though from his longing glance down to his book, it was clear what his preference was. “Then the next week I’ll say something like, ‘Oh, I saw that Iraq book on Oliver’s desk and he said it was good.’ And the week after that, I’ll tell you, ‘Adam, I’m going online to buy that book on Iraq. Do you want me to get you anything?’“
    “Uh-huh.” He was not one for casual conversation. Okay, that wasn’t fair. Adam didn’t make conversation just to fill a silence. In his family, it was considered not the least hostile to sit through an entire dinner saying only, “Please pass the potatoes,” and “Thank you.”
    “You know, we can call Nicky tomorrow night,” I went on. “Remember, they said after ten days we could call? Or I can do it from the office late afternoon and conference you, because at about four-thirty, the lines won’t be as busy. Do you have any preference?”
    “Four-thirty,” he said, and added, knowing my fondness for complete sentences, “is good.” I could see how much he wanted to get back to his book. After all, we’d had a genuine conversation during dinner. For him, more talk would not only be distracting, but draining.
    My parents went through their entire marriage talking, and that’s what I’d always thought being married would be like. When my mother wandered into the kitchen, where my father was peeling apples, one of them would invariably blurt out, “Oh, you know what I forgot to tell you … ?” as if the last time they had spoken had been weeks before, not moments. On the other hand, soon after Adam and I started living together, I discovered the comfort of being in a room with another person who didn’t mind if I kept my thoughts to myself.
    “I’m just going to flake out in here,” I said, grabbing a white afghan with white roses crocheted into it that I’d bought for fourteen dollars at a yard sale not far from my parents’ house in East Hampton. It was one of my treasures. “Feel free to read.” I stretched out on the couch to do some more three East Germans thinking, but fell into one of those states where your body remains but your mind checks out and goes someplace where you can’t follow it.
    When my mind returned, it reported that the guy who was being sent to Cincinnati was named Manfred Gottesman. A major guy: he’d been third in command of the Stasi, the East German secret police, and had been passing us a few names of people spying against us or against West Germany. He’d also reported on the agendas of meetings between the head of Stasi and the then leader of the East German government, Erich Honecker.
    I remembered Lisa showing me his “before” picture. Stylewise, Manfred looked like a casting director’s vision of a communist apparatchik: hair darkened and flattened by some oily commie pomade, shirt collar so ill-fitting it looked like it was compressing his trachea.
    “You should see what I did with him,” Lisa had said. “I mean, seriously check him out. Can you see he has cuteness potential?” After a few seconds, I did. A box of a face, with roughly chiseled nose, cheeks, and chin. Gottesman looked like a movie actor who might never be a star, but who would still get lots of interesting roles. A manly man, intelligent-looking too. “And guess what?” she’d continued. “He’s Jewish, so now you can feel free to fall in love with him. Oh, I forgot you didn’t marry one. Anyway, his parents came from … wherever, someplace in Germany. They were communists. They must’ve been big communists because somebody helped them escape from Nazi Germany and into Russia. He grew up in Moscow and he’s fluent, almost no accent, in Russian, German, and English. You have no idea what a pleasure it is, because he can fit in anywhere and has a really, really good body. He looks great in a suit or jeans. Not your usual East German