Another betrayal is the kind we perpetrate ourselves. It is one thing to be lied to, but it is something else again to be the liar. But even then, most of us don’t look at it like that. We make up our own excuses, justifying the betrayal, clothing it in nobler raiment. It is easy to pretend that maintaining a lie is in the best interest of those we might hurt, supreme in the confidence that we will never get caught. Of all deceptions, that is the most common and the most foolish—and the one for which people have the least sympathy.
During the winter after my Christmas visit, Maddy sent me e-mails and told me Harry was often away for several days at a time. He was meeting with a publisher, giving a talk in Barcelona, back to Paris for a literary conference. I found this surprising because, before they went to Rome, it had been unthinkable for them to spend a night apart. But he was a success now, and I supposed such things came with the territory. Maddy wasn’t worried. At least not about their relationship. There was no hint of concern, except she and Johnny missed him, and when he returned from his trips, he was often irritable, locking himself away in his study for hours or disappearing on long rambles through the city and never asking her to join him.
In February, I called Claire again, missing Maddy, and looking for someone who shared my affection for her. I hadn’t seen or spoken to Claire in months, but thought if she were available, she would be willing to put up with me for a night as long as I could promise her a decent meal and agreeable conversation. It was good to hear her voice after so long, and we made a plan. But the next day, she called me back to change it.
“Walter,” she said. “I’m so sorry to do this to you, but I have to take a rain check on dinner tomorrow.”
“That’s quite all right,” I said. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, yes. Everything’s fine. I just found that I have to fly to Paris tomorrow for work. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” I said. “I understand completely.”
Only later did I register that Maddy had said Harry was making a quick trip to Paris as well. His second since December. In New York we think that flying to Paris is such an undertaking, but really, when one is living in Rome, it’s no more than a trip to Long Island. A direct flight is only two hours, after all. And the price these days is nothing. I remember marveling at my English friends who would jet off to Verbier or Gstaad for a weekend of skiing. For them it was practically next door.
I nearly called Claire back to tell her Harry would also be in Paris and she should look him up. But then I thought better of it. I was sure they both already had plans and the last thing they would want to do would be to race around Paris trying to have a quick drink together. There’s nothing more boring than an obligation drink, something quick, early in the evening, when the other person keeps looking at their watch because they have to dash off to something else.
W
hen Harry returns from that Paris trip it is late. He enters the apartment expecting, hoping that everyone will be asleep. A single light burns in the living room and he goes to turn it off. But the room is not empty. Maddy is sitting there, staring out into the black Roman night, the ghost of her face reflected in the window. A glass of red wine sits in front of her.
“I thought you’d be in bed,” he says.
“How was Paris?” She does not look at him. Her face is still turned toward the window, her voice neutral, contained.
“Fine. You know how it is. It’s less fun being there when it’s all about work. I never thought I’d get bored of Paris, you know?”
She doesn’t respond. He is standing in the middle of the room, not advancing toward her as he normally would, sensing danger like an animal.
Finally she looks at him. “Harry, what’s going on?”
“What do you mean?” He begins to walk boldly to her, the best offense, smiling, his hands outstretched.
She recoils from him, and his hand stops just short of her shoulder. “Don’t.”
“What’s the matter?”
Still seated, she whips her head around to look at him. He has never seen her so angry. Not a screaming, violent anger. Something worse. Something cold and hard and withering. Her eyes are two pieces of cobalt.
“Are you having an affair?”
“What? Of course not.” He tries to sound surprised, as though the very idea were ridiculous. “Why . . .”
“Don’t lie to me,” she shouts, standing suddenly, cutting him off. A single index finger, thrust out like a knife. “I am warning you. Never, ever lie to me.”
“Can you please explain to me just what the hell is going on?”
She glares at him. “Nina Murray e-mailed me. She said she saw you in Paris last night having dinner with a young girl.”
It had been in a little bistro near the hotel. The concierge had recommended it. Harry thought he had recognized a familiar face in a group of Americans on the far side of the restaurant but only now was he sure. Nina Murray and her husband, Burt. She was a plain woman. Their daughter had been in Johnny’s class. He barely knew them. She and Maddy had been better friends.
“That’s right,” he lies. “I had dinner with Michelle, the head of marketing at my French publisher.”
She looks at him evenly. “Just dinner? You aren’t sleeping with her?”
“No, I am not sleeping with her.” And then he sits opposite her. “I love you.”
“Do you?” she asks, softening, wanting to believe him. “I used to think so. But lately I haven’t been so sure.”
He takes her hands in his. “I’m sorry. I have been very selfish. Traveling so much. Working on my book. I didn’t think how hard it might be for you and Johnny.”
She sits back and sighs, withdrawing her hands. “I don’t know what to think.”
“It’s okay. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea coming to Rome. When we talked about it last year it did, you know? But the book isn’t coming along well. And now all this traveling is taking me away from you so much.”
“Maybe. It’s just that ever since Nina e-mailed me, I have been sitting here thinking about you having an affair and thinking how it all made so much sense. You’ve been gone so much, and when you’re home, you’ve been irritable. Isn’t that what men do at your age? Hit middle age, buy sports cars, screw twenty-year-old girls, leave their wives.”
“Not all of us.”
She looks as though she is about to cry. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe Rome wasn’t a good idea. I don’t know. Can we do anything about it? Can we go back to New York?”
“I’ll look into it in the morning. Come on. It’s late. Time for bed.”
He holds out his hand, and she accepts it, lifting herself to her feet. She is precious to him at this moment.
In bed, they make love. Silently, sweetly. Her kisses passionate. They know each other’s bodies well. When it is over, he washes in the sink. For the first night in months, they lie in each other’s arms, her head on his bare chest. He is asleep. She closes her eyes, but stays awake for a long time.
L
ife is a series of remembered impressions. A smell, a touch, a sunset, carved angels in a cathedral, the death of a parent. We cannot take in everything we see, so we make sense of what we can, using these fragments to make up a whole. Patterns emerge, sometimes randomly; sometimes they mislead. Sometimes they reveal the truth.
Around this time Maddy e-mailed me a video she had taken of Johnny and Harry skating in Rome. During the winter, an outdoor rink is set up in the shadow of Castel Sant’Angelo, burial place of emperors. Harry and Johnny are skating easily clockwise around the rink, free as birds. Every time they pass, they stop and wave, smiling at the camera. The sky is white behind them. Other faces occasionally fill the screen: children holding on to the edge, young girls, pure faces surmounted by woolen caps, snatches of Italian from their mouths as they pass by. In the center of the ice, a young man is showing off, spinning and twirling. A light snow is falling. Everyone looks so happy.
It took several weeks for Harry and Maddy to extricate themselves from Rome. Arrangements had to be made, but it was easier than they had thought. They agreed to pay their landlords the remainder of the rent. The prize committee was understanding and regretted that the Winslows had to leave but did not penalize them. They had had other families leave early. Artists—they shrugged—need to be where they can work best. The tenants in New York were unhappy, but a clause in the contract gave the Winslows the option to revoke the lease early with thirty days’ notice. Even Johnny’s old school was cooperative, permitting him to return so late in the year. If he needed extra help to catch up with the rest of the class, the Winslows would have to hire a tutor. Harry stopped traveling.
I had been surprised to hear they would be returning within the month. It seemed out of character, but I also knew how important home was to both of them. Maddy e-mailed to tell me they would be back sometime in March. I was, of course, overjoyed. I even offered to let them stay with me in my small apartment (I never needed anything more). That’s when she told me their tenants were leaving. She made no mention of what Nina Murray had told her.
Carelessness is the handmaiden to tragedy. Cataclysmic events often have their origins in the mundane. We turn left when we had meant to go right, and the world changes forever.
It happens in late February. It is only a matter of days before they were to leave Rome. Maddy has rushed out to the
macelleria
near their apartment to purchase chops for dinner. It is almost five, and the shop is about to close. Harry is out for one of his walks. He will not be back for hours. In her hurry, she has taken his credit card, which he had left on the front hall table. When she tries to pay with it, the cashier tells her it has been declined. He is apologetic. He tries again, but the response is the same. Embarrassed, she leaves the shop empty-handed even though the butcher insists she could come back and pay tomorrow. She has been a good customer, after all. These things happen.
But not to her. Every quarter, the trustees at her bank deposit money into her account. And she is good with money, never spending too much, keeping track of her withdrawals, always knowing to the penny what is available. For years she and Harry had lived off her income, with his officer’s salary supplementing where it could. When his book became a success, he was able to pay for more things on his own, but they had always maintained separate accounts. He had been very proud of finally being financially independent. But she knows money flows through his fingers like water. He is generous, yet irresponsible to a fault. That is one of the reasons they kept their accounts separate.
She returns home, an agonizing suspicion gripping her. In a drawer in his office, jammed in the back, she finds unopened bills from his credit card company. She opens the most recent one and is shocked to see the balance. There are hotels in Paris, restaurants, and airfare. She had assumed the publisher had paid for all his trips. Then she spots the name of a famous shop on the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. The date is from his first trip to Paris. It is for several thousand dollars. She knows that whatever was purchased had not been for her. Then she opens another envelope from the credit card company. It contains a notice requesting immediate payment; failure to comply will result in suspension or termination of privileges.
Maddy closes her eyes. She can’t think, can barely breathe. She places her hand on the table to keep herself upright. The truth rushes in on her. With a scream she rips the envelopes in half and then heaves Harry’s desk over with a loud crash. Papers flying everywhere. The laptop smashing on the floor.
“Bastard!” she yells. “Bastard!”
The noise brings Johnny and the maid running. “Mommy, are you okay?” asks Johnny. The child peers nervously from behind the door.
“Signora, stai bene?”
“Sì, bene, bene,”
Maddy answers, struggling to regain her composure.
“Johnny, darling, Mommy’s fine.”
“What happened to Daddy’s desk?”
She kneels down and hugs her son, to reassure herself as much as him. “It’s nothing, darling. You know how you feel when you get angry, and sometimes you just want to hit something? Sometimes mommies get angry like that too.”
“You’re crying.”
“I know. I know. It’s okay, sweetheart.”
She knows what she has to do. To the maid she says:
“Angela, per favore, impacchettare vai valigia di Johnny. Siamo in partenza
stasera
.
”
We are leaving tonight.
“E la sua medicina
.
”
And his medicine.
“Per quanto tempo?”
“Non lo so.”
I don’t know.
The maid says nothing. She can read the signs. She has been married, has brothers, uncles. Roman men don’t even try to be discreet. Taking Johnny with her, she goes to pack.
Maddy hurries to her room and pulls a suitcase from under the bed. She throws in a few important things—jewelry, underwear, warm sweaters—and removes their passports from her bureau. Her cell phone. American dollars. She can’t stop to think. If she did, she might not have the courage.
“Where are we going, Mommy?” asks Johnny.
“We’re going home, darling. To New York,” she answers. She hadn’t known the answer herself until just that moment, but it seems the only possible response.
“What about Daddy? Isn’t he coming too?”
“He’ll come later. We need to go now.”
The old woman says nothing but picks up Maddy’s bag and carries it down the stairs to the street.
“Stronzo,”
she mutters under her breath. Asshole.
Maddy takes Johnny’s bag and her purse, giving the apartment a last look before closing the door. There is nothing she wants to remember. She does not leave a note. Maybe she will send one later. Harry should be able to figure out for himself what happened. Or not. Right now she doesn’t really care.
On the street she runs to a cash machine and withdraws the daily limit. She hands five hundred euros to Angela. “I will send more later.
Io
manderò
più
tardi
.” Then she gives her a hug. “
Mi dispiace molto
. Thank you for everything.
Mille grazie
.”