An unaccountable feeling came over me after I got off the phone. What caught me off guard was how his confession struck me so matter-of-factly, despite my having laid down to bed all those times bunching up our double pillows under my face  (I couldn't lose the habit of changing his bedlinen too), with the one hope to see me through to the next morning that he's sure to come back. Waking to the bustle of our kids meant each new day had a purpose,  but nights tended to stretch long, like nightmare shadows keeping watch over me till dawn.
I could have at least asked him why. And why now, after four months. He needed four months to miss the kids? Spontaneity was never my forte, I always think up my clever questions and witty ripostes after. And it was an uncanny coincidence, his reservations to the Pompadour for Friday, when I have all day booked, with an appointment to the hairdresser and the government office too.
The following day at the office, I studied myself, checking my face in the bathroom mirror for signs. Of hope. But no, my features were the usual display of mild interest and moderate joy, my smile showing no teeth. No, I wouldn't go as far as that.
We decorated the tree on our lunchbreak. Colleagues took pains to avoid talking about the holidays. For a while they would ask if there was anything I needed help with. Thank you, but no. Yes she's younger than me, no not a fling, perhaps a midlife crisis, yes I can manage, no I don't need help. Soon enough it's old hat. Especially when you're forty: having a marriage crisis is practically a requirement. As I hung up colored baubles among the pine needles, as soft silver garlands playfully tickled my hand, it came to me that this will be our first Christmas apart. The girls never considered this, not for a moment. But I was sure while silently listening to his confession, as he told me he'd be moving back by Christmas.
I really don't know. It's not like I believe in wiping the slate clean. Not for a lack of forgiveness, on my part. Forgiveness is easy, it's what comes after that's difficult.
Starting over. That new reality.
Already I had committed myself to somebody, once. Fully and finally. I let him into my dreams, my body, my womb, I'd stoked his fire and burnished his power. I'd given over control, trusted myself to him, revealed all my weaknesses, going through all the ordeal of vulnerability. Let him into my bathroom, to witness through fragrant rosemist my forms of utter beauty and fearfulness. I'd allowed him to watch me unveil myself in the evenings, place my mask on the side of the sink, lay my costumes down on the chair beside the shower. He saw what I'd discard into the launry hamper, he'd await my emergence from the bathwater haze. As he nuzzled up in the bedroom, I let him put roots down inside me,  gave him a home, a rocking warm cradle, a safe space for him to be born again every night.
The fact he had been with me and inside me is indelible, yet he noticed nothing of this, aside from his own power. How could we start all over with a man who had nurtured himself on the smell of another woman for many long months? That other woman. The new one. He left me and our daughters for her.
Late at night, I sat at my computer while the million starry lights of the valley reflected off the windowpane. I searched her on Facebook. Angéla Fodor. There must be twenty profiles with that name. I browsed through the hits. What could she look like? All I knew was her age, and where she works… There's always a well-intentioned friend that knows these closely guarded secrets. I add a search term, her workplace, but it brings up no hits. When I check under "work associates", it reads "updating". I fantasized stalking her to the workplace, or even going up to introduce myself.  Then I shut the laptop. It was a clumsy move, and I scratched my wrist on the Advent wreath's fresh green needles. I took the fresh wound between my lips and stared. This year's wreath turned out pretty, modestly ceremonial with its silver glittered candles.
It was exhausting to lose myself in the sparkling lights of the square outside the window. The windowpane distorted the image. If I could manage to make a fresh start, would it change my face? Those four months, and the year before had all been too long, when we had lived our lives apart.  I'd spent grueling everydays waiting for the weekends and holidays, while he worked late nights, then came and went in or apartment like some dearly departed ghost, in perpetually youthful form, balancing on the brink of existence as he flitted from room to room.
It was only on day three I felt a pang of excitement, a festive mood upon me even as I awoke. I sprinkled cinnammon on my coffee and breathed in deep the odor of clove-studded oranges.  When we got in with the kids that afternoon, my heart leapt as I felt the urge to tell them their daddy will be moving back for Christmas, but prudence held me back, and I knew this was too soon, that the two of us must first get our facts straight, and I wasn't about to expose my kids to more  disappointment. In five minutes I was my sober, disciplined self again, my heart full of cool resolve.
During dinner I managed to convince myself that I would be too busy on Friday, that all my appointments must be kept, and I'm in no position to cancel. Anything that could wait four months will have to hang on a couple of days more. So I decided to message him that dinner until 8 is the best I can do, Nelli can only watch the girls for so long.
That night I couldn't sleep. I'd left the blinds up, afraid to sleep in total darkness, so there's narrow strips of light seeping in from the street. I was also feeling too warm, though if I kicked the blanket off my feet would go cold. I didn't want to think about the bathroom cabinet, but felt a growing compulsion to go and open it, to smell his aftershave. I battled my feelings. I'd resisted for weeks, so I might as well not give in now. I should have trashed it as soon as it turned up, while I was housecleaning a few weeks ago. I ought to go out and wrap it well in paper towels, to make sure none of it leaks.
I didn't turn the lights on, just lit the hall using my phone. The bathroom door was halfway open. I opened the cabinet's glass door carefully, the kids would wake up at the slightest noise. As soon as I held it, I noticed the discount sticker. It brought up the moment I picked it off the shelf, and took it to the checkout at Müller's.
I sat on the side of the bathtub.
Does he buy his own now? Or is it his girlfriend...
I twisted the silver cap off, inhaling deeply. Strange, the odd moments that cedar-scented loneliness can pick to overwhelm us.  It lurks in the heart all along, and at certain devious moments a powerful throb will spurt it up, and there it goes splashing along the veins, into the ribs and down to your feet, somehow stopping over at the temples. After the temples it will flood the iris and come raining down the eyelashes, splattering a nightgown, slippers, hardwood floor.
That night, everything smelled of santal and cedar, like a whole cedar grove had been undulating on the ceiling all day long. It wasn't just me, either. A strong grip picked me up by the pelvis and laid me on the desk. Tilting my head back gently, a voice whispered a sweet invocation in my ear.  The palm of that hand split me like I was ripened fruit. I smothered my lips in my hand.
Then morning came. Fridays, my goddaughter Nelli picks up the girls from daycare at three, and they'll be cooking pancakes and watching cartoons at her place before they're brought home at eight. The hairdresser dried my red locks into a wave, brushing stray hairs off my dress and applying hair spray, before telling me I have a killer look.
Instead of proper lunch, I grabbed a sandwich at the pastry shop and asked for an espresso to go, before rushing home to get  changed.
The last time we met was a month ago, when he took the girls out to the movies. How many new wrinkles did a month bring to my eyes?
I picked out the green dress, it highlighted my skinny waist, a curve of neck, a hint of cleavage. Then I remembered the black knee-high boots, I hadn't worn them all year, must be stashed in a storage box somewhere. An awkward feeling overcame me as I zippered up. Isn't this going too far?  It's been so long since I dressed up that anything felt too much, and the mirror wouldn't give the full picture. Not even the wall-to-wall. A little more powder, silver glitter on the eyelids, a touch of gloss to the lips. Time to go.  From the door I backtracked to the nightstand. As I opened the lid to the box, it started playing Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. My wedding ring looked alien around my finger.
There's an automated number dispenser in the government office lobby, the red-on-black display shows the next number in line: 204. I press the icon for filing an application. I receive the number 205. Sneaking a peek into the inner office I see about ten clerks sitting at identical desks. A few clients litter the waiting area, and a mother reads her child a story in the corner. I got out of my jacket , then I noticed a water cooler. My hand trembled as I held my plastic cup under the tap, filling it to less than half. The display bleeped, I checked my number, sipped my water and placed the cup on top of the cooler. I sauntered into the inner office, looking for desk number eight.
A smiling girl with a ponytail sat at the desk, her plastic nametag marked Angéla.
'How can I help you?' she said inquisitively, looking me quickly over, cleavage and all, before settling for my eyes.
'I need a new address card. I can't find it, I must have lost it somewhere.' I reached into my bag for my documents.
'Are you registered with us? Is this your first time here?' asked the girl with the black ponytail, smiling as I tucked my hair behind my ears.
'I'm registered.'
'Would you tell me your name, please.'
'Veronika Kovács.'
I saw her start to type, then her fingers hovered to a stop over the capital 'K'. A silver snowflake winked on her red nail polish.
'Mrs. Kelemen,' I added emphatically.
Angéla failed to look at me, she just kept on typing. Her keystrokes slowed, as if her fingertips had stuck to the keyboard. Her firm chin trembled.
She was nothing like I imagined her to be.
'Address?' her voice quivered.
'Seventh district, 53 Sármány street.'
The girl stared blankly at the screen. At first the red spots appeared on her neck, then spread to her chest, scarlet blotches of despair covering her snow-white skin. Angéla. I matched this picture with what scant information I'd hoarded so far. She's thirty-two, a government office clerk, straight black hair, freckled white skin, silver glitter on her dark red nail polish, small breasts, athletic body. She illed in the form, typing intermittently. I focused like a madwoman, right hand on the desk, wedding band glaring like a scream.
Suddenly, Angéla leapt to her feet.
'One moment,' she blurted, then darted past two more desks, to disappear behind the door marked Staff Only.
A woman peeked out from behind the partition. The clerk eyed me a moment, then withdrew to her own desk. I looked around the room, circumspect as a soap opera hero, but everyone else was busy at their tasks.
I sat motionless, lips drawn, rhythmically swinging my black boots under the desk. Pain took its familiar course along my body, wandering slowly from one organ to the next.
A few minutes passed before a tall blonde woman stepped out the white doorway and came directly to my desk.
'My colleague isn't feeling well, I'll take the task over,' she said, adjusting the screen. 'You can pick up and pay for your new address card at desk two. Is there anything else you might need?'
'No thank you.' I stood and walked back to desk two, keeping an eye on the Staff Only door, which remained closed.
Out in the car, I slipped my new address card beside the old one and leaned back in my seat. I felt tired. My phone bleeped, a new message from Nelli. She sent a picture, the girls filling their pancakes, t-shirts smudged with chocolate. You'd be so proud of me, Nelli, I thought to myself, for taking your advice: "When you have an important date coming up, ignore the guy, and dress like you're meeting a rival woman instead."
I spent twenty minutes sitting in the car outside Angéla's workplace, wondering if she knew my husband was about to move back home. Or will she be briefed the night before? I pictured her standing there among the suitcases, with nothing to say. She won't even have strength to cry, only fall down over the bed and tremble, her eyes wide open till morning comes.
 
Back home, I tucked myself under a blanket, green dress, stockings and all, wedding band on my finger. I'd taken to the habit of keeping my emotions under relentless control. Now I let loose. All the bitterness of these past four months rumbled over me like an avalanche. Before it could totally bury me, I reached for my phone and texted, "Can't make it to our dinner tonight, so sorry!"
Laying back, I catch myself planning Christmas decorations. I'll spray silver frost on the windows, and draw stenciled snowflakes and angels. Red bows can go on the banisters, and little reindeer and elves along the shelves. Silver glitter can go on the Christmas tree too, all the branches shining bright in all the colored lights. This Advent will be different. I readied my heart for rebirth. There is space yet for light and forgiveness in there, even with emptiness rattling my soul right now. Reaching for the phone again, I type him up a new message: "Come over for lunch Sunday if you like, the girls would love that. I'll make mushroom stew. We can light up the Advent candles together.
 
translated by Dani Dányi
 

 

Kapcsolódók

The Olive Tree

Tale of a Deal

Jaguar Power

Cassiopeia

The Wish

The Trail

Blind Faith

Fiddler's Valley

The Split

Tarot