inside and the history teacher gradually begins to disappear from sight.
Or I could go on with last Saturday: the third parallel narrative. You got up from the table outside the café. You still hadn’t had your coffee. I raced to take the elevator down and followed you on your walk through town. That’s already a lot less suspenseful—at least for you. After all, you were there too. At most, it might be interesting to your readers. What does a writer do during the weekend? What does he do on a normal Saturday (and Sunday)—a day when his wife is not at home?
But like I said: you know that better than I do.
—
Landzaat threw all his body language into the fray to make clear that something had really changed in his attitude toward Laura. That he was not here to accost her again.
“Laura,” he said quickly when we came close enough for him to see the expression on her face. “Laura, please! Let me…let me explain first. Let me say what I have to say.”
He spread his arms, his palms facing forward.
Look, I’ve come unarmed,
that expression says in some cultures. Here, with us, it was meant above all to express innocence and helplessness: he would make no attempt to touch her, let alone embrace her.
Laura snorted, it sounded like a sob. I glanced over at her, but saw that she was not crying. The look in her eyes was cold, perhaps even colder than the polar wind that blew fine-powder snow across the paving stones in front of the house.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
First she pointed at the house, then made a broader sweep with her arms, a gesture meant to take in the entire whitened landscape that surrounded us. Our landscape. The history teacher hadn’t looked at me even once.
“I’m here…I’m here to say goodbye, Laura,” Mr. Landzaat said. “I’m here to say that it’s over for me too, now. That’s what I wanted to come and say to you. I won’t bother you anymore.”
I looked at his face. He hadn’t been waiting for us in his car all this time, it seemed, he had been outside, standing by the gate. His cheeks, shaven for a change, were grayish. Under his eyes, or perhaps I should say under the dark-blue bags under his eyes, I could see a few burst blood vessels, purple and red. He tried to smile, but the cold probably clanged against his teeth—those long teeth that appeared for a moment between his lips, which were already a dark blue as well—because he closed his mouth right away.
“I…” He pointed to the cream-colored Volkswagen Beetle—“I’m leaving again right away. I’m on my way to Paris. To see friends.”
“Oh, really?” Laura said. The history teacher was hugging his upper body now with both arms, and rubbing those arms with his black-mittened hands. “I’ll only stay for a minute,” he said, and as he said that he glanced at the front door of the house. “I thought…maybe I could come inside to warm up. I just want to explain. So that we can part as normal…as grown-up individuals. If that’s okay with you, Laura.”
Now, for the first time, he looked at me. I couldn’t see my own eyes, but I knew the look that was in them.
You came here of your own free will,
I looked.
Now you’d better blow out of here right away, of your own free will.
For your own good.
I looked then, for good measure—but the history teacher had already taken his eyes off me.
“Laura?” he said quietly. “Laura?”
Laura stamped her boots in the snow.
“For just a minute, then,” she said at last.
And so we went inside. Landzaat took off his coat and mittens and warmed himself by the stove. In front of the stove was our bed—our unmade bed. His shoes were almost touching the mattress.
I won’t bother you anymore,
he’d told Laura—but here he was anyway. Our history teacher was inside. Inside of something that had at first been only for us.
“There’s almost nothing left in the house,” Laura called from the kitchen. “We just went to do some shopping, but
Or I could go on with last Saturday: the third parallel narrative. You got up from the table outside the café. You still hadn’t had your coffee. I raced to take the elevator down and followed you on your walk through town. That’s already a lot less suspenseful—at least for you. After all, you were there too. At most, it might be interesting to your readers. What does a writer do during the weekend? What does he do on a normal Saturday (and Sunday)—a day when his wife is not at home?
But like I said: you know that better than I do.
—
Landzaat threw all his body language into the fray to make clear that something had really changed in his attitude toward Laura. That he was not here to accost her again.
“Laura,” he said quickly when we came close enough for him to see the expression on her face. “Laura, please! Let me…let me explain first. Let me say what I have to say.”
He spread his arms, his palms facing forward.
Look, I’ve come unarmed,
that expression says in some cultures. Here, with us, it was meant above all to express innocence and helplessness: he would make no attempt to touch her, let alone embrace her.
Laura snorted, it sounded like a sob. I glanced over at her, but saw that she was not crying. The look in her eyes was cold, perhaps even colder than the polar wind that blew fine-powder snow across the paving stones in front of the house.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
First she pointed at the house, then made a broader sweep with her arms, a gesture meant to take in the entire whitened landscape that surrounded us. Our landscape. The history teacher hadn’t looked at me even once.
“I’m here…I’m here to say goodbye, Laura,” Mr. Landzaat said. “I’m here to say that it’s over for me too, now. That’s what I wanted to come and say to you. I won’t bother you anymore.”
I looked at his face. He hadn’t been waiting for us in his car all this time, it seemed, he had been outside, standing by the gate. His cheeks, shaven for a change, were grayish. Under his eyes, or perhaps I should say under the dark-blue bags under his eyes, I could see a few burst blood vessels, purple and red. He tried to smile, but the cold probably clanged against his teeth—those long teeth that appeared for a moment between his lips, which were already a dark blue as well—because he closed his mouth right away.
“I…” He pointed to the cream-colored Volkswagen Beetle—“I’m leaving again right away. I’m on my way to Paris. To see friends.”
“Oh, really?” Laura said. The history teacher was hugging his upper body now with both arms, and rubbing those arms with his black-mittened hands. “I’ll only stay for a minute,” he said, and as he said that he glanced at the front door of the house. “I thought…maybe I could come inside to warm up. I just want to explain. So that we can part as normal…as grown-up individuals. If that’s okay with you, Laura.”
Now, for the first time, he looked at me. I couldn’t see my own eyes, but I knew the look that was in them.
You came here of your own free will,
I looked.
Now you’d better blow out of here right away, of your own free will.
For your own good.
I looked then, for good measure—but the history teacher had already taken his eyes off me.
“Laura?” he said quietly. “Laura?”
Laura stamped her boots in the snow.
“For just a minute, then,” she said at last.
And so we went inside. Landzaat took off his coat and mittens and warmed himself by the stove. In front of the stove was our bed—our unmade bed. His shoes were almost touching the mattress.
I won’t bother you anymore,
he’d told Laura—but here he was anyway. Our history teacher was inside. Inside of something that had at first been only for us.
“There’s almost nothing left in the house,” Laura called from the kitchen. “We just went to do some shopping, but
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