Quiver

“Once.”

“Me too, for about five minutes.”

“What happened?”

“She left me for a black marketeer. And you?”

“He left me for our design consultant. We were in business together.”

“She must have been ruthless, your design consultant.”

“He. And no, he wasn’t, but they were in love. And sometimes in the face of such a simple truth you have to step aside.”

“He left you for another man?”

“It happens. It was a long time ago.”

“No children?”

“No. But I did put my eggs on ice. They’re frozen, suspended, in case I decide to have them later.”

“So it’s not too late.”

“No, not when you plan ahead.”

“Some things you can’t plan for, like emotions. To control them would be like trying to control rain or thunder.”

He tells her about being involved in the rebellion against Gorbachev and how one of the three martyrs was a personal friend of his. He is passionate about political history. He has a comprehensive overview of Europe, and his understanding of the two world wars and the psychological ramifications of the resulting migration enthrall her. She tries out her homespun theories about nationalism and its relationship to territory and economy. He counteracts and challenges her at every point, quoting from Kant, Spinoza, Marx. The titillation of ideas—this is what she finds most sexually stimulating. Collectively their discourse takes shape, sprouting branches and strange fruit. By the end of the meal she feels as if her intellect has been revived with an electricity that has left her feeling alive and capable of anything.

They stand outside her small terrace. Mischa doesn’t know whether to touch her or not. He’s frightened of overstepping cultural expectations he may be unaware of. He extends his hand. “It has been a beautiful and most stimulating evening.”

His sudden formality makes her nervous. She takes his hand and shakes it, wanting him so badly she physically aches, wondering whether she should just pull him toward her and kiss him. It’s mathematical, really: the rate of one’s fear of rejection is inversely proportionate to the level of desire one feels. The thought etches itself across the recesses of her mind, while her body screams touch him, touch him. If only she had Zoe’s confidence.

“Do you…?”

“What?”

“Never mind. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Of course.” With a formal little bow he turns away, and with trembling knees, overwhelmed by a desire to cry, she desperately fumbles with her keys at the front door.

Once inside she bursts into loud sobs, shocking the cat who flees under the couch. She can’t believe she could be so foolish, and convinces herself that he didn’t find her attractive enough.

Too old, she keeps repeating to herself. Resign yourself to a nun-like existence for the rest of your life. Playing back the picture of him over and over, she throws herself onto the bed and eventually falls into a deep sleep, thankful to feel the effects of the Valium she’d taken swim through her body and pull her down into a dreamless sleep.

Nothing about her appearance the next day indicated any emotional change. She had pulled her hair back into a severe knot, as if to punish herself for the emotional laxity of the night before. She had made up her mind that utter immersion in her work was the only cure for any ridiculous romantic notions she might have indulged in. She was sure that she would never see Mischa again, that his interest in her was merely that of a lonely migrant searching for an intellectual companion, and nothing to do with desire or the potential of a love affair.

The only thing that was difficult to negotiate was a route around the flower stall. This morning she’d walked an extra block to the office and had used the back entrance. The low hum of the computers and the constant sound of the phones and fax machines

obliterated the possibility of debating internally on what could have been a great love affair, or at least one night of bliss. She adjusted the silk scarf around her neck and walked briskly up to her desk. Already there were four faxes from Tokyo and a couple of messages from her various clients.

She booted up her screen and checked out the overnight figures for the Nikkei. An inner voice kept saying gold, gold. Several snippets of information were being pieced together in her brain. Other bankers credited her with intuition, a natural hunch about what to buy and when to sell, but there was nothing magical or mysterious about Deidre’s ability to second-guess the marketplace. It was the fastidious collection of information and the knack of fitting it all together in a lateral jigsaw that made her an exceptional banker. Why she hadn’t been promoted was something her colleagues didn’t like to speculate on, knowing that it was only her gender that kept her out of the inner sanctum. She was on a hundred and fifty thousand a year, but what she made the bank was over fifty times that amount.

She looked up gold. Stocks were down on all the major markets, but the idea kept gnawing at her. There was a remark she’d overheard, that article about new mining technology in New Scientist, a fall in the Hang Seng, a mine in Western Australia that had been using the techniques for a least a year. Finally, that Gutnick tip she’d had from one of her clients. Coles-Myer needed to invest a hundred thousand; she could start with them. If she bought now while the prices were low she could come out on top, perhaps sooner than people suspected.

Fifteen minutes later she was standing in the office of Edward Short, her immediate superior and CEO of the investment branch of the bank. A balding man in his late fifties, Edward had recently left his wife of twenty-five years to marry his secretary, fifteen years his junior. He hated Deidre. He found her manner inherently arrogant, but the fact that she never bothered to socialize with the other bankers also made it difficult for him to muster up enthusiasm for her. Sometimes he was convinced that she was passing some covert moral judgment on his behavior. She also strongly reminded him of his mother. But in the past ten years she had introduced fifteen major clients to the bank, and her investment record was such that the clients refused to deal with anyone else.

Deidre assumed that Edward was awkward with her because he was uncomfortable with all intellectual equals, especially if they were female. She trusted him nevertheless.