Visions of Isabelle by William Bayer

mirror. She found it remarkable that she was so intensely desired, and searched her face for some clue as to why this was so.
    It seemed to her, though she thought it was probably an illusion, that her cheeks were more filled out, her flesh had acquired a mellower glow, and her lips had taken on a more sensual curve. Certainly her body felt good–she had always adored physical exercise and that winter, between skating and the making of such ardent love, every muscle had become limber and lithe.
    There came a time, however, not six weeks after the affair had begun, when she began to suspect Archivir of deceit. One day after one of their magnificent feasts (Corsican blackbird pâté; lake trout with walnut sauce followed by pudding diplomat), he told her he had been neglecting his work. This in itself was perfectly understandable–she had wondered for some time how he managed to get by with the Consul. So she spent the afternoon taking a long walk by herself with the understanding that he would spend the same time catching up on the papers piled on his desk.
    The bitter cold had lifted from Geneva, and it was a pleasure to walk about without fear of an icy wind swooping down and blowing her off her feet. She wandered far down the Quai Gustave Ador and then out the Jetée des Eaux Vives to the lighthouse that marked the limits of the channel of the left bank. Looking back toward the Pierres du Niton, she observed people in bright clothing strolling on the Promenade du Lac. The ice had begun to break up, and pieces of the skating rink, polished and deeply grooved chunks, were floating away from the quais. Feeling nostalgic for those afternoons when they had skated like dervishes among envious boys and girls who'd hoped to find a winter lover but had spent the season skating alone, she was seized with a yearning to revisit the café where Archivir had first announced to her his philosophy of life.
    Slowly, dreamily she made her way toward the place. Workmen were already dismantling the glass screens, preparing for spring. Suddenly she saw Archivir sitting with a young woman, a girl with thick black curls whom she knew she'd seen before.
    Her first thought was of pleasure–Archivir had finished work early, and now they could spend the rest of the afternoon in bliss. She was about to join his table, having dismissed the dark-haired girl as either a client or one of his business friends, when she observed a certain animation in the way they spoke, and an intensity on his part that she imagined he reserved for her. She stopped, and her heart began to pound. Thinking it better to keep an open mind, she decided it would be amusing as well as wise to watch this pair from a concealed place.
    She bought a newspaper, then slipped into a seat at a table behind a pillar. Here, with the paper held high enough to hide her face, she observed Archivir and the dark lady with a cunning she did not know she possessed. She could not hear their voices above the babble of the café, except for an occasional squeal of laughter from the girl. But as she scrutinized them she felt a mounting horror. Archivir was fondling the girl's hand, running his fingers up and down hers in a way that brought back the memory of that first afternoon when their fingers had played together upon the borders of the Koran. Yes, he was stroking her fingers the same expert way he stroked with his tongue. At first she could not believe what was perfectly clear. Rapidly she began to fabricate excuses. The girl was an ex-lover; Archivir was merely being kind. Then she remembered where she had seen the girl before–the first time she'd come to his office, the girl who had walked out while she was waiting in a chair. She wanted to tear herself away, to walk away someplace and cry, but she was fascinated and could not leave the café, could not stop watching their flirtations despite how cruelly she felt hurt.
    When they left she followed them, keeping the