The Invisible Circus - Jennifer Egan [117]
“What are you thinking about?” she demanded, unable to bear the silence.
She’d spoken too loudly. Wolf flinched, but Phoebe rushed on before he could answer. “You’re thinking about Carla, aren’t you? If you are, just say it!”
Wolf began to speak, then stopped. Phoebe saw pain in his face and panicked, words overtaking thoughts. “Do you want to call her?” she cried. “Maybe you should do it, go call her right now! I don’t care.”
“I’d be doing that for me, not her,” Wolf said quietly. Phoebe saw she was making him angry.
An old feeling resurfaced: Carla seemed as fully present at the table as if she were seated between them, smoking her cigarette. Phoebe felt a wild urge to seize control, to comprehend. “Do you feel guilty?” she said. “Is that what it is?”
Wolf ran shaking hands through his hair. “I’m confused,” he said. “Okay? I’m just confused. It would help a lot if you’d calm down a second.” He looked far from calm himself. “Anyway, guilt is irrelevant,” he said. “You do what you do, that’s what counts.”
“You’re always saying that.”
Wolf stared at her. “Don’t push me, Phoebe. Jesus.”
He looked away. Phoebe imagined him wishing her gone, and it crossed her mind that perhaps she should make a scene the way women did in movies, holler some insult, flip the table into Wolf’s lap. But instead she thought of Carla, alone in the empty Munich apartment, left behind with nothing but the lovely diamond on her hand. Phoebe’s outrage dissolved into pity. “Well, I feel guilty,” she said.
“That’s ridiculous,” Wolf said.
When he looked at Phoebe, really looked at her, something behind Wolf’s eyes seemed to fall away almost by accident. Phoebe saw this now, and relaxed. As long as she saw that opening, there was nothing to fear.
“Please don’t,” Wolf said. “Please.”
“Okay.”
“Forget about this, okay?”
“Will you?”
“I will,” Wolf said. “I’m trying.”
They were themselves again. The relief was terrific. Phoebe finally dared leave the table for the bathroom. On her way back, Wolf caught her waist in his hands and pressed his ear to Phoebe’s stomach as if to hear the sea. Phoebe felt that loosening within her, like a knot being cut. Blood filled her cheeks.
Outside, siesta hour had fallen. The shutters were down. Phoebe could think of nothing but lying down with Wolf; the meal, the wine, even the conflict between them had quickened it. As the craving sharpened, it nagged, distracting her from everything but the beat of Wolf’s footsteps beside her. How long would it be before they were back in their room? Hours, Phoebe thought, hours and hours, and the knowledge nearly brought her to tears. She began torturing herself with memories of them together, yesterday, this morning, and a demented sort of clarity descended upon her. Nothing mattered but that, having it back. To hell with Carla and everything else.
At a cul-de-sac they stopped. Wolf shut his eyes, kissing Phoebe as if to pull something from within her, deeper than her mouth or throat—from her lungs, heart, stomach. Overhead Phoebe glimpsed tall houses with their green shutters closed. She and Wolf were trembling, even their mouths shook. She wished she were wearing a skirt like that other day. This was torture, like needing desperately to pee and being stranded; once she’d lost a pair of skis that way, left them lying in the snow, and when she came back from the bathroom, they were gone. Afterward she’d lied about it, said someone broke her lock while she was eating lunch. Her own desperation had shamed her. Now her hips were wedged against Wolf’s. When Phoebe kissed his neck, he leapt as if she’d shocked him. “Let’s get a room,” he said.
They’d passed a hotel before lunch. They made for this now, unsmiling, like two thieves who must reach a window before an alarm goes off.
Wolf made the arrangements and they sprang up the marble stairs to the room. It was