of the last place his mouth had been, between her thighs. But this kiss tasted only of tobacco.
• • •
A T NIGHT , she came home to 11G. Shelling beans or peeling potatoes for supper, while her mother-in-law fussed over her roast or her chops. The radio masked the silence between them. And when Kaspar came home from the bank, he would kiss them both on the forehead, then go change into a sweater. She was never required to return his kiss, which was a relief, because she feared that she would be incapable of kissing without passion after her hour with Egon. At the table, she was also relieved that she was not required to contribute to the talk. Mother Schröder would yammer on. Kaspar would grunt with polite interest at appropriate moments. So it surprised her one evening when her husband turned his eyes on her and asked, “How was your day?”
She felt caught, as if the thoughts inside her head had just been turned inside out for all to see. As if Egon had suddenly taken a chair at the table.
“
My
day?”
A mildly wry smile. “Yes.
Yours
,” he assured her.
“It was fine,” she answered, and then waved away the question. “Uneventful.” For an instant, she was convinced that he
knew
about everything. That she had been fooling no one. But then he only nodded. “Good,” he said, and went on with supper. At bedtime, he gave her the same chaste kiss as always before settling his head onto the pillow. She turned and faced the wall, staring at her memory of Egon’s face.
There was no part of herself from which she forbade Egon. She was unlocked. Undefended. An open gate. In the aftermath she was shellacked in sweat, though the windowpanes were sticky with frost. She shoved the wet strings of hair from her eyes, and stared up into his face, which hung above her like the sun. She felt herself smile in simple reflex. “I want you to tell me something.”
“Tell you?” His face was arranged into an easy, sated expression, but some fragment of caution had entered his voice. “Tell you what?”
“Tell me something no one else knows.”
“There is nothing to tell,” he answered. “I have no secrets.”
“You have nothing
but
secrets,” she pointed out. “So tell me something.”
“My name is Weiss.”
This was not exactly what she had in mind. “What?”
“My name is Weiss,” he repeated, and rolled onto his back to pick up his cigarette pack, the paper crinkling as he rummaged about inside. “It’s the name that I was born to.”
“I see. So, your name is Weiss,” she said.
“Don’t sound disappointed, Sigrid. That’s an explosive bit of intelligence. Not many know it.”
A breath. “It’s a very sharp name,” she observed, trying to make the best of it. “It sounds like the swish of a saber blade.
Weiss
,” she said, demonstrating with a whoosh.
“A Jew’s name,” he pointed out blandly, and lit up.
“No. It is
your
name.”
“Precisely my point, Frau Schröder.”
She didn’t like it when he addressed her in this way. Didn’t like the scorn it veiled. Perhaps it was her punishment for squeezing a secret from him. So was it
her
retribution when she suddenly said, “Tell me about your wife.”
He breathed in the question slowly with his cigarette smoke, and then released his response with a frown. “You won’t enjoy this game, Sigrid. I promise you that. You will not.”
“It’s not a game. Only a question.”
No words, only smoke.
“You have nothing to say?” she inquired, drawing the blankets around her. “Or is it that you have no interest in me, beyond what I offer below the waist?”
“Above the waist as well,” he answered in a grimy voice. “You’ve got quite a set.”
It might have aroused her to have heard this a moment before. But now that she was angry, it sounded only crude. She frowned blackly to herself. “Yes. I must have made an irresistible target. Another unfulfilled hausfrau. One among many, no doubt. Stupid in my
• • •
A T NIGHT , she came home to 11G. Shelling beans or peeling potatoes for supper, while her mother-in-law fussed over her roast or her chops. The radio masked the silence between them. And when Kaspar came home from the bank, he would kiss them both on the forehead, then go change into a sweater. She was never required to return his kiss, which was a relief, because she feared that she would be incapable of kissing without passion after her hour with Egon. At the table, she was also relieved that she was not required to contribute to the talk. Mother Schröder would yammer on. Kaspar would grunt with polite interest at appropriate moments. So it surprised her one evening when her husband turned his eyes on her and asked, “How was your day?”
She felt caught, as if the thoughts inside her head had just been turned inside out for all to see. As if Egon had suddenly taken a chair at the table.
“
My
day?”
A mildly wry smile. “Yes.
Yours
,” he assured her.
“It was fine,” she answered, and then waved away the question. “Uneventful.” For an instant, she was convinced that he
knew
about everything. That she had been fooling no one. But then he only nodded. “Good,” he said, and went on with supper. At bedtime, he gave her the same chaste kiss as always before settling his head onto the pillow. She turned and faced the wall, staring at her memory of Egon’s face.
There was no part of herself from which she forbade Egon. She was unlocked. Undefended. An open gate. In the aftermath she was shellacked in sweat, though the windowpanes were sticky with frost. She shoved the wet strings of hair from her eyes, and stared up into his face, which hung above her like the sun. She felt herself smile in simple reflex. “I want you to tell me something.”
“Tell you?” His face was arranged into an easy, sated expression, but some fragment of caution had entered his voice. “Tell you what?”
“Tell me something no one else knows.”
“There is nothing to tell,” he answered. “I have no secrets.”
“You have nothing
but
secrets,” she pointed out. “So tell me something.”
“My name is Weiss.”
This was not exactly what she had in mind. “What?”
“My name is Weiss,” he repeated, and rolled onto his back to pick up his cigarette pack, the paper crinkling as he rummaged about inside. “It’s the name that I was born to.”
“I see. So, your name is Weiss,” she said.
“Don’t sound disappointed, Sigrid. That’s an explosive bit of intelligence. Not many know it.”
A breath. “It’s a very sharp name,” she observed, trying to make the best of it. “It sounds like the swish of a saber blade.
Weiss
,” she said, demonstrating with a whoosh.
“A Jew’s name,” he pointed out blandly, and lit up.
“No. It is
your
name.”
“Precisely my point, Frau Schröder.”
She didn’t like it when he addressed her in this way. Didn’t like the scorn it veiled. Perhaps it was her punishment for squeezing a secret from him. So was it
her
retribution when she suddenly said, “Tell me about your wife.”
He breathed in the question slowly with his cigarette smoke, and then released his response with a frown. “You won’t enjoy this game, Sigrid. I promise you that. You will not.”
“It’s not a game. Only a question.”
No words, only smoke.
“You have nothing to say?” she inquired, drawing the blankets around her. “Or is it that you have no interest in me, beyond what I offer below the waist?”
“Above the waist as well,” he answered in a grimy voice. “You’ve got quite a set.”
It might have aroused her to have heard this a moment before. But now that she was angry, it sounded only crude. She frowned blackly to herself. “Yes. I must have made an irresistible target. Another unfulfilled hausfrau. One among many, no doubt. Stupid in my
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