Sinai Bedu. She had listened wide-eyed to his tales of that trip. “Can we do something like that together?” she had asked. “But I’ve already done it,” he had said, laughing. And it was true. He had already done it. He had already done a lot of things. His memories were more vivid to her than her own. She had no memories. She had had no time to acquire a past, and in her worst moments, locked up in some bathroom, it had seemed to her that his past was devouring the present.
She pulled herself away from the deserts and mountains and turned to the living room. Her eyes fell on the pile of fresh shirts on the couch. She crossed over and picked them up carefully and walked automatically to the wardrobe in the corridor. She pulled open the left-hand door, and sure enough, there were the shelves of clean ironed shirts. She put away the ones she was carrying. The whites with the whites and the coloreds with the coloreds, noting as she did so how many were unfamiliar to her. Then, on an impulse, she pulled open the right-hand door. Suits and jackets hung quietly in place. At the end of the row was a fur-lined overcoat they’d bought at Harrods. “Your fur,” she used to call it. “Who’s sitting warm inside his fur?” And he’d always grin and pull the collar up around his neck. She put out her hand and stroked it, then started to pull it out. Behind it, something hung shrouded in a white sheet. She left the coat and, taking hold of the other hanger, removed the shroud. She found herself looking at her wedding dress. It hung from her hand, a dream creation in white and gray lace,embroidered lovingly with tiny seed pearls. Her hand shaking, she hung it back in the cupboard and hung the sheet over it. She knelt down to adjust the sheet around the train and her fingers hit a smooth object. She pulled it out. A white cardboard box. She knew what it was. Hesitantly she opened the lid, and sprang up and back with a scream. Her veil and small, pearl-embroidered Juliet’s cap nestled in tissue paper. They were covered with black moths. Trembling and with cold hands, she put the lid back on the box and carried it to the kitchen. She put it in the sink, searched for the matches, and set fire to it. She stood and watched it burn; then she cleared up the ashes and washed the sink and her hands. Her stomach turned again, and again she rushed to the bathroom. Always bathrooms. She flushed the toilet and rinsed out her mouth, then slowly made her way to the bedroom. She pulled herself up onto the large four-poster bed and lay there, careful to keep her sandaled feet off the fine pink linen sheets. She lay still as the world pitched and tilted and, weakened now, she felt the tears creep sideways from her eyes onto the bed. This too was familiar. Lying there dizzy, weeping, sick. Recurring illnesses that they said were hysterical. “What’s wrong with you?” they asked. “Why don’t you settle?” She didn’t know, she always said. She didn’t know. She lay on the bed and sobbed herself to sleep, carefully keeping her feet over the edge.
The instant she woke she saw the velvet-papered walls and the white lace curtains. She did not have an instant’s doubt about where she was. She knew. What she did not know was when she was. What happened? she asked, lying on the bed.
Where is he? What did I dream? She lifted herself up on one elbow and saw her reflection in the dressing-table mirror. She did not see a round-faced girl with long, straight black hair. Instead she saw, with recognition, relief, and sorrow, the woman with the curly hair and the pearl necklace. She lowered herself gently off the bed, straightened the linen, and left the room.
She went to the living room and headed for the right-hand side of the large bookcase. She scanned the literature shelves and picked out five books on seventeenth-century poetry. Then, carrying the books, she picked up her handbag. She walked through the flat and out of the door. She
She pulled herself away from the deserts and mountains and turned to the living room. Her eyes fell on the pile of fresh shirts on the couch. She crossed over and picked them up carefully and walked automatically to the wardrobe in the corridor. She pulled open the left-hand door, and sure enough, there were the shelves of clean ironed shirts. She put away the ones she was carrying. The whites with the whites and the coloreds with the coloreds, noting as she did so how many were unfamiliar to her. Then, on an impulse, she pulled open the right-hand door. Suits and jackets hung quietly in place. At the end of the row was a fur-lined overcoat they’d bought at Harrods. “Your fur,” she used to call it. “Who’s sitting warm inside his fur?” And he’d always grin and pull the collar up around his neck. She put out her hand and stroked it, then started to pull it out. Behind it, something hung shrouded in a white sheet. She left the coat and, taking hold of the other hanger, removed the shroud. She found herself looking at her wedding dress. It hung from her hand, a dream creation in white and gray lace,embroidered lovingly with tiny seed pearls. Her hand shaking, she hung it back in the cupboard and hung the sheet over it. She knelt down to adjust the sheet around the train and her fingers hit a smooth object. She pulled it out. A white cardboard box. She knew what it was. Hesitantly she opened the lid, and sprang up and back with a scream. Her veil and small, pearl-embroidered Juliet’s cap nestled in tissue paper. They were covered with black moths. Trembling and with cold hands, she put the lid back on the box and carried it to the kitchen. She put it in the sink, searched for the matches, and set fire to it. She stood and watched it burn; then she cleared up the ashes and washed the sink and her hands. Her stomach turned again, and again she rushed to the bathroom. Always bathrooms. She flushed the toilet and rinsed out her mouth, then slowly made her way to the bedroom. She pulled herself up onto the large four-poster bed and lay there, careful to keep her sandaled feet off the fine pink linen sheets. She lay still as the world pitched and tilted and, weakened now, she felt the tears creep sideways from her eyes onto the bed. This too was familiar. Lying there dizzy, weeping, sick. Recurring illnesses that they said were hysterical. “What’s wrong with you?” they asked. “Why don’t you settle?” She didn’t know, she always said. She didn’t know. She lay on the bed and sobbed herself to sleep, carefully keeping her feet over the edge.
The instant she woke she saw the velvet-papered walls and the white lace curtains. She did not have an instant’s doubt about where she was. She knew. What she did not know was when she was. What happened? she asked, lying on the bed.
Where is he? What did I dream? She lifted herself up on one elbow and saw her reflection in the dressing-table mirror. She did not see a round-faced girl with long, straight black hair. Instead she saw, with recognition, relief, and sorrow, the woman with the curly hair and the pearl necklace. She lowered herself gently off the bed, straightened the linen, and left the room.
She went to the living room and headed for the right-hand side of the large bookcase. She scanned the literature shelves and picked out five books on seventeenth-century poetry. Then, carrying the books, she picked up her handbag. She walked through the flat and out of the door. She
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