She was happy to see me. She felt guilty about having left without saying good-bye. She had brought me a foie gras. Could I have been more content? I poured her a glass of her Sancerre, although it wasn’t properly cold. I debated offering to put in ice cubes, but decided not to.
There she was: Sirena in my kitchen. She’d never been there before. She said nice things about my apartment. She admired the art. She threw her puffy coat on the sofa and sat at the kitchen table as if we were settling in for a long tête-à-tête. I, like the yellow fat around the foie gras as I scooped it out of the jar, was positively deliquescent.
“How was it to be home?”
“Home? Oh, Nora. I only wish it were home, the way Cambridge is home for you—this beautiful apartment, which smells of you and speaks of you, the place you know so well and that knows you. But what I always forget and then rediscover when I return is that I don’t belong in Paris, not really—I’m a foreigner there, too. For whom is Paris home, really, except the concierges gossiping in their corners?”
“But you must’ve been pleased—”
“Yes, I know what you mean. Reza so loves his little friends. And Skandar his big ones. It was a relief, in some ways—not to feel so responsible for them.”
“But for you?”
“I have history there, and friends, and colleagues; and home is where my boys are, of course. But do you know this idea of the imaginary homeland? Once you set out from shore on your little boat, once you embark, you’ll never truly be at home again. What you’ve left behind exists only in your memory, and your ideal place becomes some strange imaginary concoction of all you’ve left behind at every stop.”
“So you didn’t have a good time?”
“I did, and I didn’t. I missed you, and the studio, my work—I wasn’t like you, you see—no creation for me, just a great many meals in restaurants and the busyness of holidays.” I didn’t entirely know whether to trust her: she was seeming false, to me, as if onstage.
“When did you get back?”
“A day or two ago. Skandar had to be in New York by last night—another conference. Meetings. You know how he is.” A rueful smile. I thought of how often she was on her own—but with Reza. Not like me. Not truly alone.
“But I want to hear about you,” she said. “A new year, a new beginning. What have you been up to while we’ve been gone?”
“It’s been pretty quiet, really. Getting on with things.”
“Christmas?”
“With my father and my aunt.”
“Not the troublesome brother?”
“Matt? He doesn’t come at this time of year. When you have your own family, you’re absolved, aren’t you?”
“Absolved? Not where I come from. My mother came to stay with us, and my oldest sister. It was very noisy at our house. Reza was profoundly spoiled.”
“That sounds like what Christmas should be.”
“Yes, I suppose. But you see, everyone has a part to play. In this theater, I’m a daughter and a sister and a mother—never an artist. I could be, I don’t know, Luc Tuymans, and it would mean nothing to them. They allow no room for anything but my duty.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You? But you’re so free! I envy you that. How many times I thought of the studio and of you in it, working. Or of you thinking, calmly, here in your lovely apartment—it’s not exactly how I imagined it, but not so far off. While I was making beds and stews and presents and silly conversation …”
“The grass is always greener …” I thrilled to think she’d thought of me—had thought enviously of me. “I was worried about Reza.”
“He’s done so well. You’ve seen his eye, yes? The scar will be quite discreet … You were so good to him, and to me, that awful evening.”
“You were worrying about the emotional stuff.”
“Emotional stuff. Ah, yes. Boys throwing rocks. But children are resilient. It’s good we went away—he’s had a chance to forget. He had some nightmares, but couldn’t tell me what they were about. I don’t know if they were related. Who can say? Shauna McPhee tells me the boy was expelled.”
“Straight away.”
“So: now a new year, a new beginning. I’ve vowed not to complain. I’m too good at it, and need to practice other skills. I’ve also vowed to work very hard—it’s no time at all from now until May. The months will