Loom: A Novel

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116 All su mmer at t h at beach she had read, and once in a while she had caught Uncle Farid looking at her. And because of his eyes on her, trying to break into, she thought, her secret self, she imagined herself full of wonderful possibilities. She was the Chosen One, the wondrous child who would blossom into her destiny. She wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t looked at her that way, as if she had already been forgiven for all her trespasses. He had returned her kiss, of that she was sure. She felt his lips giving in, pressing down on hers, his desire for more. Then it was over. He moved away abruptly while she stood trembling. She saw him as if through a thick fog, the sun streaming from the window behind his back and making him appear as if he were not standing only a few feet away from her but far away, an impossible distance. She heard him indistinctly as he said what they had done was wrong. That it should never happen again. He left her standing in the middle of the room she was sharing with Josephine, in the house they had rented for the summer. She locked the door and hid under the covers to relive the kiss, elated and terrified of what she had done, what he must now think of her. Had she not thrown herself at him, had she not, when he came into the room looking for Josephine , slowly walked up to him, her eyes locked on his, and raised herself to him? The next several days she pretended to be ill so she could stay in her room. Then her fever became real. In her hallucinations, she saw herself adopted by him and her aunt Emilie, who was not her real aunt in those dreams but a beautiful and glamorous stranger who bestowed love and knowledge. 117 And then they died. Her uncle and her mother. She was relieved that her aunt had been spared, for she had wished for her aunt’s death so that she might devote her entire life to him, and for this she was ashamed. With him gone, their kiss was buried forever away in a grave by the mountainside. Their death was convenient. That was her first thought, and because of this she had more to forgive herself for than a brief and forbidden infatuation . They died and she felt herself saved. The way she felt later, surviving the war even though she was right in the middle, not fighting but taking care of the fighters, cleaning, feeding them. And she had gotten away with it, the way she had gotten away with that kiss and her uncle died so she wouldn’t have to look in his eyes, and her mother followed him so she wouldn’t have to look in her eyes. But now perhaps it was time for payback. Perhaps. What was that American saying and why did she remember it now? The chickens have come home to roost. But hasn’t she paid enough? No one knew anything and of course it was crazy and it had been that one quick kiss, so innocent when you thought of all the kisses she has given and received since. But sometimes she thought there must have been more than one kiss, something awful she had suppressed, like those people who shut out bad memories and discovered them by accident one day while watering the garden. Her fantasies ran freely. She imagined herself molested as a child by that janitor in their building who always looked up her skirt when she climbed the stairs. But she knew none of it was true. Life was traumatizing enough without having to invent your horror stories. Your husband lay on the snow in a pool of blood. The violence became an everyday occurrence even without the bombs. It seethed inside you. You flared up at the least inconvenience. People killed each other over parking spots. And once in a while, she still thought of that kiss, which had meant the beginning of something, the loss of her innocence. How about him, her uncle? Did he make up his mind to die? Did he slam into that truck on purpose? The arrogance of this thought, she scolds herself. He was so much older. She has no sense of proportion. So you think a kiss one afternoon had turned him...