The Train to Warsaw by Gwen Edelman

you have resisted?
    In Paradise, he said to her, with the snake, as always. I thought you would be happy for me, he said. Happy that I was a sensation, that they loved my book, that Edward had sold the rights in eighteen countries. I thought you would be proud that they called me the new Kafka. But instead I find all you’re thinking about is that I had a few flirtations. It’s part of the game, darling. Don’t you know that? I wanted you to be a success, she had said quietly. I’m very happy for you. But why did you have to betray me over and over again? It meant nothing, he protested. Call it public relations. Ach, she said to him, stop it. All those years ago he had stood up and held out his arms to her. Don’t leave me darling, he said. What will I do without you? You should have thought of that at Frankfurt, she had said.
    The Way Down came out in November. The reviews were ecstatic. She began to see photos of him all over the press, his dark eyes looking out slyly at the reader. He was invited everywhere. He went to parties, he spoke, he gave book signings, he was interviewed on television. He was animated by excitement all the time. Sometimes she watched him on television, in his black shirt and corduroy suit, his thick dark hair brushed back, his eyes aglow. She studied his face and his hands and looked at his eyes. He was far away. You should be happy, he told her. Your lover is a famous writer. Now he was never at home. A famous author has responsibilities, he told her.
    He would disappear for days on book tours, and she didn’t know when he would be back. One night she saw him on a TV talk show. She watched him, his energy too much for the small director’s chair he sat in. She willed him to look at her but of course he couldn’t. So Mr. Kroll, said the host, what was it like during the war? Jascha was smoking and she saw the familiar stream of smoke rising up. A picnic, a funfair, he replied. The most fun I ever had. Come come, Mr. Kroll, the host reproved him. Let’s be serious. Could I be more serious? asked Jascha.
    In the office Edward had said to her, if you’re not happy with Kroll you can always come back to me.
    Standing on Krakowskie Przedmie s ´ cie, Jascha said: And you, what did you do in the end? You slept with that dreadful Rumanian writer. Only to pay you back, she said. My adventures didn’t mean anything, he said. Neither did mine, she replied. Except that I found out it went on for another six months, said Jascha. What’s good for the gander, she said, is good for the goose. Not at all, he cried. It’s not the same. You’re out of the Middle Ages, she said, if not earlier. You’re out of your mind, he said. He reached out for her. Don’t touch me, she said. He laughed. Come here, he ordered her. I’m going to take you to bed and spank you. I’m too old for that, she told him. Ho ho, not at all. He grabbed her. Come here, he said, and stop all this. What a crazy woman. It’s all nearly forty years ago.
    Now in the falling snow, he took her in his arms. And God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam, said Jascha, and He took one of his ribs. And with the rib that God had taken from the man, He plaited the hair of the woman and brought her unto the man. This one at last, bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh, this one shall be called woman for from man was this one taken. You see that, said Jascha, stroking her cold face, you cannot leave me. You are part of me. Lilka looked up at him in surprise, her cheeks red with cold. Why would I leave you? she asked him. Where would I go? You are my only home. And she pressed her cold lips against his.
    I’m going to write a book about you, he said. Where will you begin? she asked. I’ll begin at the beginning, he replied. Once upon a time . . . she said. Not once upon a time, he replied. That’s not the way to begin a story. It makes no sense. Where will