substance of the question only appeared to her when she stopped to blow her nose. She thought of the wands the doctors had put inside her, the optimism that her body could make something of itself. The doctors were certain that life could be inserted, removed, that pieces could be implanted in other people’s bodies, in other people’s lives, and that this future was something everyone could live with. But she had heard the weeping woman in the room next to hers at the fertility clinic, absorbing the bad news of another wasted round of carefully placed embryos. Ana was suspicious.
She had consented to the treatments, but had she ever really felt the need, the urgency? She couldn’t remember. James had felt it. He was rushing to the Petri dish; he was desperate to keep existing. Maybe that’s the difference between us, she thought.
At four o’clock, Rick Saliman appeared in her doorway.
Sitting himself down without invitation, he said: “Croissants. Café au lait. St. Laurent Boulevard. Bagels.” Ana nodded. She had long ago realized that speaking as little as possible around Rick Saliman was the best strategy. He would simply pile on top of her words anyway. “Have you ever been to Saint Joseph’s Oratory? People throw down their crutches and crawl to the top of the dome on their knees.” Rick was enormous. He crossed his legs in the little chair. Ana felt as if a dinosaur had entered her office.
“I’ve never been there,” said Ana.
“To Montreal?”
“No, the Oratory.”
“Me neither,” he said. “We need bodies in Montreal. They’re struggling since the restructuring.”
“Bodies?”
“Your body, Ana. Would you consider it? They’re desperate for a first-class researcher. A transfer? Not permanent, just six months or so. Unless you wanted it to be permanent.”
“I don’t—”
“It’s a given that you’re beyond capable. But you’re also mobile. With James working on his book, no kids – it’s an opportunity.”
Opportunity was another word for chance. Ana felt that she had a very close relationship to chance these days. Futures kept raining down on her like cold hard pellets, scattering this way and that. She was not sure which way to look anymore. She liked the idea of making a decision one way or another. She liked the idea of croissants and a city without her childhood in it.
“Can you outline in more detail—” she began.
“—the proposal. Of course,” said Rick. “I’ll e-mail it this afternoon.”
He stood up, broadening as he did.
“I can’t say this officially, of course, but I believe this is the fastest way to equity partnership for you,” he said. “I think you could expect that within a year, pending review.”
Ana nodded. This was what she had wanted. It looked duller up close.
“You’ve been away,” said Rick at the door.
“I’ve been sick,” Ana said it quickly.
“Nothing serious, I hope?” The inquiry was a rough, ill-fitting effort, a delicate glass object in a big hand.
“Just a cold,” said Ana. But his point had been made. The afternoon cleaning Sarah’s house; the illness. These were to be the last absences. She was being as measured and monitored as a parolee. She needed to be in the chair.
At five-thirty, as the room darkened, Ana turned on her desk lamp and watched the man in the tower opposite hers reach around to turn off his computer. He buttoned his coat and flipped up the collar. Then, with his hand on the door and his back to Ana, he froze for a moment, as if steeling himself. He stood like that for long enough that Ana felt embarrassment, and looked away, checking her e-mail for the first time in an hour.
Subject: You should know
She clicked.
I’m writing you this because I think you deserve to know. Your husband is not a good man. Ask him about the girl in the black coat. Your being made a fool of. I think you deserve to know but Im sorry to tell it to you like this.
Signed,
A Friend
Ana’s practical sense took over even as her emotions drained out of her body. She checked the return address – a 1234 Google account. Garbage. Then she read it again, annoyed by the spelling and grammar. For all the appearance of intrigue, it wasn’t much of a mystery, really, she thought, as she fumbled for her coat, her fingers sticking on the buttons, her breath short.
Where did Ruth sit? she wondered. She came out of her office. Most desks still had people at the helm, bent and clicking keyboards, murmuring into headsets. A few were in the