‘That’s only fair. And I’d tell you if I knew. We’re in a … transitional state. By which I mean we’re physically apart, but still together. The process has not … we’re in flux. I’m not explaining this very well, am I?’
‘You mean you haven’t yet decided if you want to stay together.’
‘Oh, no. I’ve decided. She hasn’t.’
‘I see. At least I think I see. Do you mean that—?’
‘Freja, I hope you won’t mind, I realise you’ve been very open, and I’m not being coy. But my reason for being here, here in Venice, it’s more complicated than … it’s not entirely … what I mean is, I’d prefer to keep it to myself. Does that make sense?’
‘Of course. I apologise.’
‘No need. Please don’t.’
We listened to the violinist for a while as he performed elaborate trills and variations on the same repeating sequence of minor chords. He was a young man in scuffed shoes and an untucked shirt, with that rather unworldly air that musicians sometimes share with scientists and mathematicians. I wondered, perhaps Albie might have taken to the violin instead of the guitar. Perhaps we should have pushed him in that direction.
‘He’s very good,’ said Freja, ‘but I find this music far too sad,’ and I too felt saddened, and chastised. ‘It’s winter music,’ she added.
‘Of all the ones I’ve seen, I like this square the most,’ said Freja. ‘I’ve been trying to understand what makes it different and I think it’s the trees. In Venice I don’t miss the cars at all, but I do miss the colour green.’
‘I must go,’ I said, standing abruptly.
‘Oh. Oh, really?’
‘Yes, yes I have to, I’m behind schedule, I must … start walking.’
‘Perhaps I could walk with you.’
‘No, I really need to cover some ground. It’s hard to explain.’ My heart was racing suddenly; too much coffee perhaps, or fear. ‘The fact is, Freja, my son has gone missing. That makes it sound as if he’s been abducted; he hasn’t, he’s run away and I have a theory that he’s here in Venice and I have to find him. So …’
‘I see. That’s awful, I’m sorry, that must be a worry for you.’
‘It is. I apologise.’
‘Why do British people apologise for being in distress? It isn’t your fault.’
‘But it is! It is! That’s the whole bloody point!’ I was leafing through my wallet now, panic rising. ‘I’m sorry, I only have twenty euros.’
‘I’ll pay.’
‘No, I’d like to pay. Here, take it.’
‘Douglas, please sit down.’
‘No, no I must keep going—’
‘Two minutes will not make a difference.’
‘Here, take the twenty—’
‘Douglas, I’m leaving tomorrow morning.’
‘That’s fine, I don’t want any change, but I really must—’
‘Douglas, I said I’m leaving. Venice. I probably won’t see you again.’
‘Oh. I see. You are? I’m sorry, I …’ Perhaps I should have sat down at this point, but I continued to stand. ‘Well, it was very nice to meet you, Freja,’ I said and offered my hand.
‘And you,’ she said, taking it with little enthusiasm. ‘Good luck. I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for.’
But I was already running away.
We were different after the affair.
Not unhappy, but more formal, on our best behaviour. As Connie became quiet and withdrawn so I became overly attentive, like a waiter who constantly asks how you’re finding the food. How was your day? What would you like to do tonight, what shall we eat, what shall we watch? But pretending that nothing has changed is a change in itself. The fact remained that one of us had wronged, one of us had been wronged, and my determination to overlook this fact had turned me into a particularly unctuous and ingratiating parole officer.
There had been conditions for her return, a certain ‘laying down of the law’, but nothing too onerous or unreasonable. Of course, she would not see or speak to this ‘guy’ again. We would try to be more open and honest about our dissatisfactions and irritations. We would go out together more, talk more, be kinder to each other and, for my part, I would endeavour not to refer to the infidelity. It would not be forgotten — how could it be? But neither would it be wielded as a weapon or a negotiating tool, or a justification for infidelity on my part, a condition that I happily accepted.
More importantly we decided that we would commit wholeheartedly to the project of starting a family and, sure enough, within a few months of almost breaking up, I received a telephone call.
‘Have you had lunch yet?’ she asked, with affected casualness.
‘Not yet.’
‘Come and meet me in the park, by the Serpentine. We’ll have a picnic!’
