Vinod straightened up and directed his gaze at the Actor. “My love for Karen,” he said, “has been the most fulfilling part of my life. And, yes, I’ve loved others, been with others. Not too many, but still. Karen and I are friends, but we’re just too different.”
“How do you mean?” The Actor was now playing the part of a dogged television interviewer. He would soon reveal a greater truth for the benefit of all.
“I’ve had ambition, but unlike hers I could not fulfill mine. But my disappointments have remained my own. My grief is private, and that’s how I’ve always liked it.” Ed sighed in affirmation. “The older I get, the more I delight in people who orbit parallel to me but remain always out of reach. My friends, the writers I admire, and, especially, my one love.” He lifted his glass to Karen, then set it down without drinking, as if to illustrate the point of what he had just said.
The first five pages of Vinod’s novel ran through Karen’s mind. She still did not know what to make of it, but she knew she would only read five pages a day so as to ration it. His pronouncement came as a gift, the kindest offered to her in years. There was only one way in which she knew how to pay it back. “Excuse me,” she said and left the table.
The diners glared at the Actor. It reminded him of the rare occasion during which he played the bad guy and not the dark and unknowable young man fighting his own history. But this did not trouble him. Being hated was something he could work with. “Comp lit,” he said to Masha. “And thanks for giving me a hand earlier.” His gaze skimmed Masha’s figure. “My water cut out,” he announced to the others. “Not to worry though! The mistress of the house is on top of it.” Now he was speaking in the landowner’s cadences, occupying his space.
Senderovsky began coughing into his fist. “I’m sorry,” he said, his eyes watering. “I don’t have it. The virus. It’s acid reflux.” He continued to cough, loudly enough so that the Actor moved away from him and once more toward Masha. The Actor thought brashly of reaching out and touching her hand, which sat like a pale dumpling on her lap. He felt one leg reaching out toward hers under the table. She felt its proximity and did not know what to do. Inna, help me, she thought in Russian. Inna, I’ve lost my strength.
“Maybe I’m old-fashioned,” the Actor said, “but I think people should have affairs.”
“Apropos of what?” Dee said. So, he had caught her attention, finally.
“Sorry,” he said. “Apropos of nothing. The country life is getting to me already. I’m just”—he smiled—“rambling.” Senderovsky continued to cough as punctually and rhythmically as the guitar strums of the Caetano Veloso he had forgotten to put on the radio. Whenever he looked at the Actor and his wife, he couldn’t think of the many roles he had played onstage and onscreen, while Senderovsky himself had played only one, the clown. Though it had been a most lucrative venture for a while, and he was once even offered tenure at an important university in the city （which he had foolishly rejected to pursue TV work）。
“Maybe you should go to bed,” Masha said to her husband. Ed and Dee were both wondering if the emaciated man was running a fever and tried to reconstruct their interactions with him. His cough certainly sounded dry, a telltale sign. Vinod got up to bring him a glass of water.
“I can’t lie down,” Senderovsky said. “It’ll make the reflux worse. I need to stay erect.” Dee remembered some of his word choices during their class, which she would gleefully dissect afterward at a sawdust-floor bar with her fellow students. Someone had even made a document of “Sasha Sayings” which was stapled to the cork bulletin board of the graduate student lounge and, for all she knew, remained there still, swinging crookedly off a thumbtack.
“Damn, I ate a lot,” Ed said to Dee, rubbing his belly, trying to remind her of his cooking. “We have to go on more walks or I’ll get all tubby.” He weighed, at present, one hundred and twenty-seven pounds.
“？‘Your body dysmorphia brings all the girls to the yard,’？” Dee sang, a tune from Ed and Senderovsky’s early thirties both had forgotten. She wasn’t as drunk as yesterday, but was tipsy enough to register as a comfort the strengthening wind beating against the screens. “Hey, do you have that Japanese reality show you were talking about?” she asked Ed.
“Yes, I’ve downloaded most of it,” Ed said. He reached for his jigger of gin and drank it in one go. “We could stop by my bungalow if you’d like and watch it.” He paused for a second, propriety getting the best of him. “Everyone’s welcome,” he said.