“Don’t worry, I’ll fix that.”
“It’s beautiful. Thank you. I didn’t know you knew how to knit.”
I adjusted it, tugging to see if it hung properly over his broad shoulders.
“It does,” I said, and laughed in relief. “It fits! Does it feel right?”
“Yeah. It’s great.” He pulled it off then got dressed again, white T-shirt, blue flannel shirt, the sweater last of all. “Didn’t I used to have a sweater like this, once?”
“You did,” I said. “Come on, I’m hungry.”
We walked arm in arm to the Persian restaurant, where we ate chicken simmered in pomegranates and crushed walnuts, and drank wine the color of oxblood. Later, on the way back to the flat, we ambled past closed shops, pausing to look at a display of icons, a gallery showing the work of a young German artist I had read about.
“Are you thinking of showing here?” Philip asked. “I don’t mean this gallery, but here, in Berlin?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it much.” In truth I hadn’t thought about it at all, until that very moment. “But yes, I guess I might. If Anna could arrange it.”
Anna owned the gallery back in Cambridge. Philip said nothing more, and we turned and walked home.
But back in the flat, he started looking around. He went into my studio and glanced at the canvas on the easel, already primed, with a few blocked-in shapes—a barren tree, scaffolding; an abandoned fountain.
“These are different,” he said. He glanced around the rest of the studio and I could tell, he was relieved not to see anything else. The other paintings, the ones I’d done of him, hadn’t arrived yet. He didn’t ask after them, and I didn’t tell him I’d had them shipped from the island.
We went back to bed. Afterward, he slept heavily. I switched on the small bedside lamp, turning it so it wouldn’t awaken him, and watched him sleep. I didn’t sketch him. I watched the slow rise of his chest, the beard coming in where he hadn’t shaved, grayer now than it had been; the thick black lashes that skirted his closed eyes. His mouth. I knew he was going to leave me. This time, he wouldn’t come back.
If he had wakened then and seen me, would anything have changed? If he had ever seen me watching him like this . . . would he have changed? Would I?
I watched him for a long time, thinking. At last I curled up beside him and fell asleep.
Next morning, we had breakfast, then wandered around the city like tourists. Philip hadn’t been back in some years, and it all amazed him. The bleak emptiness of the Alexanderplatz, where a dozen teenagers sat around the empty fountain, each with a neon-shaded Mohawk and a ratty mongrel at the end of a leash; the construction cranes everywhere, the crowds of Japanese and Americans at the Brandenburg Gate; the disconcertingly elegant graffiti on bridges spanning the Spree, as though the city, half-awake, had scrawled its dreams upon the brickwork.
“You seem happy here,” he said. He reached to stroke my hair, and smiled.
“I am happy here,” I said. “It’s not ideal, but . . . ”
“It’s a good place for you, maybe. I’ll come back.” He was quiet for a minute. “I’m going to be gone for a while. Damascus—I’ll be there for two months. Then Deborah’s going to meet me, and we’re going to travel for a while. She found a place for us to stay, a villa in Montevarchi. It’s something we’ve talked about for a while.”
We were scuffing through the leaves along a path near the Grunewald, the vast and ancient forest to the city’s west. I went there often, alone. There were wild animals, boar and foxes; there were lakes, and hollow caves beneath the earth that no one was aware of. So many of Berlin’s old trees had been destroyed in the bombings, and more died when the Wall fell and waves of new construction and congestion followed.
Yet new trees had grown, and some old ones flourished. These woods seemed an irruption of a deep, rampant
“It’s beautiful. Thank you. I didn’t know you knew how to knit.”
I adjusted it, tugging to see if it hung properly over his broad shoulders.
“It does,” I said, and laughed in relief. “It fits! Does it feel right?”
“Yeah. It’s great.” He pulled it off then got dressed again, white T-shirt, blue flannel shirt, the sweater last of all. “Didn’t I used to have a sweater like this, once?”
“You did,” I said. “Come on, I’m hungry.”
We walked arm in arm to the Persian restaurant, where we ate chicken simmered in pomegranates and crushed walnuts, and drank wine the color of oxblood. Later, on the way back to the flat, we ambled past closed shops, pausing to look at a display of icons, a gallery showing the work of a young German artist I had read about.
“Are you thinking of showing here?” Philip asked. “I don’t mean this gallery, but here, in Berlin?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it much.” In truth I hadn’t thought about it at all, until that very moment. “But yes, I guess I might. If Anna could arrange it.”
Anna owned the gallery back in Cambridge. Philip said nothing more, and we turned and walked home.
But back in the flat, he started looking around. He went into my studio and glanced at the canvas on the easel, already primed, with a few blocked-in shapes—a barren tree, scaffolding; an abandoned fountain.
“These are different,” he said. He glanced around the rest of the studio and I could tell, he was relieved not to see anything else. The other paintings, the ones I’d done of him, hadn’t arrived yet. He didn’t ask after them, and I didn’t tell him I’d had them shipped from the island.
We went back to bed. Afterward, he slept heavily. I switched on the small bedside lamp, turning it so it wouldn’t awaken him, and watched him sleep. I didn’t sketch him. I watched the slow rise of his chest, the beard coming in where he hadn’t shaved, grayer now than it had been; the thick black lashes that skirted his closed eyes. His mouth. I knew he was going to leave me. This time, he wouldn’t come back.
If he had wakened then and seen me, would anything have changed? If he had ever seen me watching him like this . . . would he have changed? Would I?
I watched him for a long time, thinking. At last I curled up beside him and fell asleep.
Next morning, we had breakfast, then wandered around the city like tourists. Philip hadn’t been back in some years, and it all amazed him. The bleak emptiness of the Alexanderplatz, where a dozen teenagers sat around the empty fountain, each with a neon-shaded Mohawk and a ratty mongrel at the end of a leash; the construction cranes everywhere, the crowds of Japanese and Americans at the Brandenburg Gate; the disconcertingly elegant graffiti on bridges spanning the Spree, as though the city, half-awake, had scrawled its dreams upon the brickwork.
“You seem happy here,” he said. He reached to stroke my hair, and smiled.
“I am happy here,” I said. “It’s not ideal, but . . . ”
“It’s a good place for you, maybe. I’ll come back.” He was quiet for a minute. “I’m going to be gone for a while. Damascus—I’ll be there for two months. Then Deborah’s going to meet me, and we’re going to travel for a while. She found a place for us to stay, a villa in Montevarchi. It’s something we’ve talked about for a while.”
We were scuffing through the leaves along a path near the Grunewald, the vast and ancient forest to the city’s west. I went there often, alone. There were wild animals, boar and foxes; there were lakes, and hollow caves beneath the earth that no one was aware of. So many of Berlin’s old trees had been destroyed in the bombings, and more died when the Wall fell and waves of new construction and congestion followed.
Yet new trees had grown, and some old ones flourished. These woods seemed an irruption of a deep, rampant
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