often.
The photograph had been taken in their room in Krakow, Po•land. It was the oldest hotel in that singular town of high looming shadows and medieval spires. Above the front entrance of their hotel was written, "May this house stand until an ant drinks the oceans and a tortoise circles the world."
Ettrich had been in London on business and wasn't planning on seeing Isabelle that trip. But she called a day before he was to return to America and said in her deep resonant voice, "I've discovered a town. You must come. Please. It will haunt you for the rest of your life. It's Venice without the water. There's an amazing restaurant called Peasant's Food where you sit at hand-carved wooden tables and drink hot peppery borscht. It will be our city. We don't have a city together yet, Vincent. Please, please come."
It was the beginning of the end of his marriage. He could look back and say right there—that moment. He changed plans imme•diately and bought a ticket to Krakow. He had never been to Poland before. But that's what his life with Isabelle had become: He dropped everything and flew nine hundred miles to an unknown city deep in Central Europe on her excited say-so.
In this photograph, the two of them are standing in front of the full-length bathroom mirror. Ettrich holds the camera out from his body to take the picture. His other arm is wrapped around Isabelle. Both her thin hands are on his. Eyes closed, her head is turned up toward him. She is smiling beatifically—as if she were in the middle of orgasm. You can see her perfectly, but the camera flash obscures him. Ettrich is only a dark suit and the white of his lower jaw. But he loved that aspect of the picture—it was as if her radiance was the only thing allowed to show through the flash. He didn't know exactly why, but as he was leaving the house to go to the airport, he slipped the photo into the breast pocket of his sport jacket.
Because it was Friday night, the start of the weekend, Ettrich had expected the airport to be mobbed. It was notably empty. What's more, the few travelers there seemed in no hurry. People ambled about, no one ran, no one shouted orders or desperate last-minute instructions. Those who were flying moved toward their departure gates with the leisurely pace of window shoppers. It was nice to see for a change but also vaguely disconcerting.
As usual, Ettrich had arrived much too early. This man liked punctuality, liked to check in early for a flight, a hotel, for anything. He liked to be at a restaurant first, liked to be waiting for whomever he had a date with. This habit pleased certain people but exasperated others because if they arrived late they could see in his eyes that he was clearly not happy. Nevertheless Ettrich thought it was a proper and courteous sign of respect: a small gesture that said he cared. Isabelle was just like him in that regard—it was a game between them to see who would be the first to arrive. On their first formal date in Vienna, she had already been waiting inside the Café Diglas ten minutes when he arrived ten minutes early. He was already in love with her by then. It had never happened so fast to him. She wore a black cashmere sweater. She wore several thin gold neck•laces. Her white hands on the gray marble table were still.
At the airport he stood under one of the big digital boards that listed scheduled arrivals and departures. Djibouti. Buenos Aires. Dublin. Isabelle would arrive within the hour carrying their child in her belly. Dublin. He'd gone there with Kitty on their honeymoon. They stayed at the Shelbourne Hotel and had tea there every after•noon at four. He thought he would never again be so happy in his life. Staring at the board, its flickering yellow numbers and exotic names, he wondered for the hundredth time what was happening to him and why? Dublin. Kitty. Isabelle. Death.
Pregnancy...
With all this whizzing in his head, it took a moment to realize he was staring at her
The photograph had been taken in their room in Krakow, Po•land. It was the oldest hotel in that singular town of high looming shadows and medieval spires. Above the front entrance of their hotel was written, "May this house stand until an ant drinks the oceans and a tortoise circles the world."
Ettrich had been in London on business and wasn't planning on seeing Isabelle that trip. But she called a day before he was to return to America and said in her deep resonant voice, "I've discovered a town. You must come. Please. It will haunt you for the rest of your life. It's Venice without the water. There's an amazing restaurant called Peasant's Food where you sit at hand-carved wooden tables and drink hot peppery borscht. It will be our city. We don't have a city together yet, Vincent. Please, please come."
It was the beginning of the end of his marriage. He could look back and say right there—that moment. He changed plans imme•diately and bought a ticket to Krakow. He had never been to Poland before. But that's what his life with Isabelle had become: He dropped everything and flew nine hundred miles to an unknown city deep in Central Europe on her excited say-so.
In this photograph, the two of them are standing in front of the full-length bathroom mirror. Ettrich holds the camera out from his body to take the picture. His other arm is wrapped around Isabelle. Both her thin hands are on his. Eyes closed, her head is turned up toward him. She is smiling beatifically—as if she were in the middle of orgasm. You can see her perfectly, but the camera flash obscures him. Ettrich is only a dark suit and the white of his lower jaw. But he loved that aspect of the picture—it was as if her radiance was the only thing allowed to show through the flash. He didn't know exactly why, but as he was leaving the house to go to the airport, he slipped the photo into the breast pocket of his sport jacket.
Because it was Friday night, the start of the weekend, Ettrich had expected the airport to be mobbed. It was notably empty. What's more, the few travelers there seemed in no hurry. People ambled about, no one ran, no one shouted orders or desperate last-minute instructions. Those who were flying moved toward their departure gates with the leisurely pace of window shoppers. It was nice to see for a change but also vaguely disconcerting.
As usual, Ettrich had arrived much too early. This man liked punctuality, liked to check in early for a flight, a hotel, for anything. He liked to be at a restaurant first, liked to be waiting for whomever he had a date with. This habit pleased certain people but exasperated others because if they arrived late they could see in his eyes that he was clearly not happy. Nevertheless Ettrich thought it was a proper and courteous sign of respect: a small gesture that said he cared. Isabelle was just like him in that regard—it was a game between them to see who would be the first to arrive. On their first formal date in Vienna, she had already been waiting inside the Café Diglas ten minutes when he arrived ten minutes early. He was already in love with her by then. It had never happened so fast to him. She wore a black cashmere sweater. She wore several thin gold neck•laces. Her white hands on the gray marble table were still.
At the airport he stood under one of the big digital boards that listed scheduled arrivals and departures. Djibouti. Buenos Aires. Dublin. Isabelle would arrive within the hour carrying their child in her belly. Dublin. He'd gone there with Kitty on their honeymoon. They stayed at the Shelbourne Hotel and had tea there every after•noon at four. He thought he would never again be so happy in his life. Staring at the board, its flickering yellow numbers and exotic names, he wondered for the hundredth time what was happening to him and why? Dublin. Kitty. Isabelle. Death.
Pregnancy...
With all this whizzing in his head, it took a moment to realize he was staring at her
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