could hear my heart. Did light show under the lintel? Perhaps—but wait: a knock. Not a random knock, a quiet, rhythmic knock, like a secret, or a message. Dum-da-da-dum-dum . And again.
Should I open? Did he know I was there? Did he know who I was? Was the rhythm a sign, or a meaningless fact? Was it someone knocking on the wrong door, or something far darker?
In my flurry, I moved. The chair let out a furious, maiming shriek.
The knock again, louder this time. Again the same rhythm; again twice. An announcement. And then, a rattling of the handle.
What now? What now? So important, my authoritative teacherly voice told me, not to cower like a child; but I picked up my X-Acto knife and checked that the blade was extended.
“Who is it?” I scraped my chair now as loudly as I could, a reversal of strategy, and stomped, in what I hoped was a manly way, toward the intruder. “Who is it?”
The voice on the other side—a man’s—said something I couldn’t grasp. I came up so close to the door that I imagined I could hear him breathing on the other side. He emitted a cough, a smoker’s cough, into which I tried to read an entire personality.
“Who is it? Speak clearly please?” The schoolteacher at last triumphant.
And then I heard her name, pronounced not as I pronounced it, but as she herself did. See-rreh-na. As if by an Italian.
I put the X-Acto knife in my rear pocket—with a mental note to remove it before sitting down—and fiddled with the bolt and swung the door wide, almost angrily, to try to take the visitor by surprise.
Indeed, for an instant, he looked surprised, like a silent film actor miming surprise, eyebrows aloft and mouth involuntarily agape; and then he recomposed his features into a pleasant, almost ingratiating, smile and extended a hand. “And you must be Nora Eldridge?”
I hesitated.
“Not only my wife’s friend and colleague.” He put the emphasis heavily on the second syllable—col -league —which made him sound both foreign and important. “But also my son’s institutrice . How do you do?”
This was Reza’s father and Sirena’s husband. “You must be—”
“Skandar. Skandar Shahid. How do you do?” He extended a strong, square, hairy hand, even as he stepped forward and I backward into the studio. “Sirena is not here?”
“She left over an hour ago.”
He peered skeptically into the tidied gloom at her end of the room (so he’d been here before), and then back at my circle of eggy light. “And you have the elves’ workshop,” he said, smiling.
“I’m sorry?”
“You are—I just meant you’re like the shoemaker’s elves, hard at work in the night to make something perfect.” He smiled, but did not show his teeth: a gentleman. “And also, what you are making is very small.” Which meant he had also looked at my diorama, and possibly at my sketches too. Which meant that they’d leaned over my table together, or at the least that he’d perused my belongings, my work, in some idle, prurient way, while Sirena put on her coat, or boiled the kettle. Somehow it had never occurred to me that he could have been there.
“Yes,” I said. “It’s small. I concede that.”
“You can see that?” He laughed, and here a glimmer of tooth was visible. “I’m so glad.” He paused. Like his wife, he spoke with an accent, but unlike Sirena’s, his was clipped, tidy. “Shall I make some tea?” He stepped toward the sink, still with his coat buttoned up. His leather shoes, wet and ruined, left dark marks on the floor. I found his proprietary gesture quite surreal.
“Tea?”
“Would you prefer coffee? Sirena is always for coffee, and I, I am for tea.”
“But Sirena isn’t here—she’s gone home.” I must have sounded rude, because he stopped and turned to look at me as though I’d surprised him again.
Have I said that for all I found his behavior unreadable, Skandar Shahid also proved, superficially, to be pretty much my ideal man. He was the
Should I open? Did he know I was there? Did he know who I was? Was the rhythm a sign, or a meaningless fact? Was it someone knocking on the wrong door, or something far darker?
In my flurry, I moved. The chair let out a furious, maiming shriek.
The knock again, louder this time. Again the same rhythm; again twice. An announcement. And then, a rattling of the handle.
What now? What now? So important, my authoritative teacherly voice told me, not to cower like a child; but I picked up my X-Acto knife and checked that the blade was extended.
“Who is it?” I scraped my chair now as loudly as I could, a reversal of strategy, and stomped, in what I hoped was a manly way, toward the intruder. “Who is it?”
The voice on the other side—a man’s—said something I couldn’t grasp. I came up so close to the door that I imagined I could hear him breathing on the other side. He emitted a cough, a smoker’s cough, into which I tried to read an entire personality.
“Who is it? Speak clearly please?” The schoolteacher at last triumphant.
And then I heard her name, pronounced not as I pronounced it, but as she herself did. See-rreh-na. As if by an Italian.
I put the X-Acto knife in my rear pocket—with a mental note to remove it before sitting down—and fiddled with the bolt and swung the door wide, almost angrily, to try to take the visitor by surprise.
Indeed, for an instant, he looked surprised, like a silent film actor miming surprise, eyebrows aloft and mouth involuntarily agape; and then he recomposed his features into a pleasant, almost ingratiating, smile and extended a hand. “And you must be Nora Eldridge?”
I hesitated.
“Not only my wife’s friend and colleague.” He put the emphasis heavily on the second syllable—col -league —which made him sound both foreign and important. “But also my son’s institutrice . How do you do?”
This was Reza’s father and Sirena’s husband. “You must be—”
“Skandar. Skandar Shahid. How do you do?” He extended a strong, square, hairy hand, even as he stepped forward and I backward into the studio. “Sirena is not here?”
“She left over an hour ago.”
He peered skeptically into the tidied gloom at her end of the room (so he’d been here before), and then back at my circle of eggy light. “And you have the elves’ workshop,” he said, smiling.
“I’m sorry?”
“You are—I just meant you’re like the shoemaker’s elves, hard at work in the night to make something perfect.” He smiled, but did not show his teeth: a gentleman. “And also, what you are making is very small.” Which meant he had also looked at my diorama, and possibly at my sketches too. Which meant that they’d leaned over my table together, or at the least that he’d perused my belongings, my work, in some idle, prurient way, while Sirena put on her coat, or boiled the kettle. Somehow it had never occurred to me that he could have been there.
“Yes,” I said. “It’s small. I concede that.”
“You can see that?” He laughed, and here a glimmer of tooth was visible. “I’m so glad.” He paused. Like his wife, he spoke with an accent, but unlike Sirena’s, his was clipped, tidy. “Shall I make some tea?” He stepped toward the sink, still with his coat buttoned up. His leather shoes, wet and ruined, left dark marks on the floor. I found his proprietary gesture quite surreal.
“Tea?”
“Would you prefer coffee? Sirena is always for coffee, and I, I am for tea.”
“But Sirena isn’t here—she’s gone home.” I must have sounded rude, because he stopped and turned to look at me as though I’d surprised him again.
Have I said that for all I found his behavior unreadable, Skandar Shahid also proved, superficially, to be pretty much my ideal man. He was the
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