sources or the people he’d met or the way he’d carried out his investigation. Through lunch, she barely touched her food, hanging on to his words as he described his time in Argentina like a little girl listening to an adult reading her a heartbreaking story. Andrew thought she seemed on the brink of tears a couple of times.
When they’d finished lunch, she took Andrew’s hand in hers, thanked him for the exceptional job he’d done and told him he should write a book about it one day. As they were getting up to leave, she informed him she was delaying the publication of his story by a week to get him a front-page lead and two full pages within the paper. A headline and two inside pages in
The
New York Times—
it wasn’t the Pulitzer, but it would certainly win him recognition. And when Olivia asked if he had enough material to flesh out the story, her tone making it clear she didn’t doubt it in the slightest, Andrew assured her he would get to work straight away.
That’s what he’d do all week, he promised himself. He’d get to the office early, grab a sandwich at lunchtime and work late into the night, except maybe to have dinner with Simon.
Andrew stuck to his schedule—until Wednesday, when, as he left the office, he was overcome by a sense of déjà vu. At the corner of 40th, he thought he glimpsed the face of the stranger from Novecento at the rear window of an SUV parked in front of the building. He started running towards her. In his haste, the folder he was carrying slipped out of his hand, spewing the pages of his article all over the sidewalk. By the time he had gathered them up, the car had disappeared.
From then on Andrew started going to Novecento every evening after work in the hope of finding the woman who was haunting him. He waited in vain, returning home each night disappointed and exhausted.
On Saturday he found an envelope in his mailbox, addressed in familiar handwriting. He placed it on his desk and promised himself he wouldn’t open it until he had put the final touches on the article Olivia had been waiting for since the previous evening.
After he had sent it to her, he called Simon and told him he couldn’t make dinner because he was still working.
Then he went to sit on the window ledge in the living room, breathed in great gulps of the night air, and finally opened Valerie’s letter.
Andrew,
This Sunday without you was the first time since I was a teenager I spent wallowing in the pain of separation. I ran away at seventeen; you at nearly forty. How can I get used to not knowing how you’re doing? How can I emerge from the depths of your silence?
I’m scared of my memories—they take me back to the way you used to look at me when we were young, to the sound of your voice brightening my day when we met again as adults, to the reassuring beat of your heart when I put my hand on your chest and listened to you sleeping at night.
Losing you, I’ve lost a love, a lover, a friend and a brother. It’ll take me a long time to mourn them all.
I wished you dead for making me suffer so. But I want to be happy, and I know that I wouldn’t be if you were not alive. So may your life be happy.
I’ll sign off this short note by writing, for the first and the last time, “Your wife.” Or rather, the woman who was your wife, for one sad day.
6.
H e slept through most of Sunday. He had gone out the previous evening with the firm intention of getting monumentally drunk—he’d spent quite a few years honing that particular skill. Shutting himself away at home because he didn’t have the guts to go out would have been even more unbearable.
He had pushed open the door of Novecento later than usual, drunk more Fernet and Cokes than usual and tottered out of the bar in a worse state than usual. And to top it all, he’d sat at the bar by himself the whole time, and only talked to the bartender. Wandering around the deserted streets in a
When they’d finished lunch, she took Andrew’s hand in hers, thanked him for the exceptional job he’d done and told him he should write a book about it one day. As they were getting up to leave, she informed him she was delaying the publication of his story by a week to get him a front-page lead and two full pages within the paper. A headline and two inside pages in
The
New York Times—
it wasn’t the Pulitzer, but it would certainly win him recognition. And when Olivia asked if he had enough material to flesh out the story, her tone making it clear she didn’t doubt it in the slightest, Andrew assured her he would get to work straight away.
That’s what he’d do all week, he promised himself. He’d get to the office early, grab a sandwich at lunchtime and work late into the night, except maybe to have dinner with Simon.
Andrew stuck to his schedule—until Wednesday, when, as he left the office, he was overcome by a sense of déjà vu. At the corner of 40th, he thought he glimpsed the face of the stranger from Novecento at the rear window of an SUV parked in front of the building. He started running towards her. In his haste, the folder he was carrying slipped out of his hand, spewing the pages of his article all over the sidewalk. By the time he had gathered them up, the car had disappeared.
From then on Andrew started going to Novecento every evening after work in the hope of finding the woman who was haunting him. He waited in vain, returning home each night disappointed and exhausted.
On Saturday he found an envelope in his mailbox, addressed in familiar handwriting. He placed it on his desk and promised himself he wouldn’t open it until he had put the final touches on the article Olivia had been waiting for since the previous evening.
After he had sent it to her, he called Simon and told him he couldn’t make dinner because he was still working.
Then he went to sit on the window ledge in the living room, breathed in great gulps of the night air, and finally opened Valerie’s letter.
Andrew,
This Sunday without you was the first time since I was a teenager I spent wallowing in the pain of separation. I ran away at seventeen; you at nearly forty. How can I get used to not knowing how you’re doing? How can I emerge from the depths of your silence?
I’m scared of my memories—they take me back to the way you used to look at me when we were young, to the sound of your voice brightening my day when we met again as adults, to the reassuring beat of your heart when I put my hand on your chest and listened to you sleeping at night.
Losing you, I’ve lost a love, a lover, a friend and a brother. It’ll take me a long time to mourn them all.
I wished you dead for making me suffer so. But I want to be happy, and I know that I wouldn’t be if you were not alive. So may your life be happy.
I’ll sign off this short note by writing, for the first and the last time, “Your wife.” Or rather, the woman who was your wife, for one sad day.
6.
H e slept through most of Sunday. He had gone out the previous evening with the firm intention of getting monumentally drunk—he’d spent quite a few years honing that particular skill. Shutting himself away at home because he didn’t have the guts to go out would have been even more unbearable.
He had pushed open the door of Novecento later than usual, drunk more Fernet and Cokes than usual and tottered out of the bar in a worse state than usual. And to top it all, he’d sat at the bar by himself the whole time, and only talked to the bartender. Wandering around the deserted streets in a
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