Drowning Lessons by Peter Selgin Page A

had already dubbed “the green frog,” twisted up one hairpin turn after another, past Moho and Krassi, towns clustered around Byzantine churches with red-tiled domes like pigeons clustered around a hag with breadcrumbs. They drove through Tzermiado, where women wrapped in shawls ran from their shops, squawking, “Come! Look! Stop! Stay a while! Buy a tablecloth!” waving bottles of homemade wine and baskets of lemons and other fruit. “For your wife!” one woman shouted. “For your daughter!” shouted another. Karina looked at him as if to say,
there, you see?
    From Tzermiado they coasted down through a river valley, between wall-like rows of towering eucalyptus, along hillsides bristling with daisies and arthritic-looking olive trees. Every few kilometers they passed the same old farmer side-mounted on his burro, his mustache as big as his face. Sometimes they pulled over, and Karina took photographs while Andrew sketched. She peered over his shoulder, holding her breath, watching him crosshatch.
    â€œI love watching you draw,” she said. “It is like watching a bird build its nest.” And suddenly Andrew liked her all over again.
    They decided to spend two more days together. “But that is all,” said Karina. “No matter what. Even if I like you.”
    A moment later she said, “Since we are going to know each other for only two more days, and since we are not going to be lovers and will probably never see each other again, we can be totally honest, no?”
    â€œTotally honest,” said Andrew. Except for the part about themnot becoming lovers, he liked the plan. If good for nothing else, honesty could be diverting. As they rolled from town to town, Andrew did his best to answer her questions sincerely.
    â€œSo you are saying,” said Karina, “that there is no limit to how many women you would make love to, if you could?”
    â€œPhysically?”
    â€œEmotionally. No limits?”
    â€œThere are always limits.”
    â€œHave you never wanted to be faithful?”
    â€œI don’t define faithfulness in terms of monogamy.”
    â€œHow do you define it?”
    â€œAs how you feel about someone. If my love for a woman reduces my desire to make love to others, that’s wonderful. But the idea that one’s love for another is enhanced by suppressing or, worse, denying the desire to be with others, that’s just plain foolish.”
    â€œMany of my friends say this, too,” said Karina. “You would be happy in Brazil. Especially because you are a man.”
    Andrew told her of his uncontrollable lusts, of the attacks of desire that had driven him to distraction in his twenties and even later, into his thirties.
    â€œSo you have been unfaithful?” she said.
    â€œBy your definition, yes.”
    â€œAnd you did not feel guilty?”
    â€œI would have felt just as guilty harboring the desires, even if I didn’t act on them. What about you?”
    â€œNever.”
    â€œDon’t you think about sex?”
    â€œOf course. I think about it with Peter.”
    â€œThe Rose Giver.”
    â€œDo not make fun of him!”
    â€œI wasn’t making fun of him. I’m making fun of you. A guy hands you a dozen roses, and you fall in love. If I were to run out and pick a dozen poppies —” the hillside was still covered with them “— would you fall in love with me, then?”
    â€œIt’s not the same thing.”
    â€œTrue, a poppy’s not a rose.”
    â€œDo not be presumptuous. You are not my type.”
    â€œYou’re right. I’m not respectable. And I’m not Jewish.”
    Karina said nothing. She shifted in the passenger seat, offering him as much of her back as possible, while he considered what his “type” might be. Age: between thirty-five and “middle.” Lineage: Italian (though he could pass for Greek, he thought). Face: