Read Online An Imperfect Lens by Anne Richardson Roiphe - Free Book Online Page B

house, whose kite kept falling—not so accidentally, he had thought—into their courtyard. He expected Este to complain, she was too young, she was not in love. His reasons for this expectation were based solely on experience. Nothing ever went as one wished, graciously, simply, well. He sighed and prepared himself for the worst as his wife and daughter came down to dinner. However, Este smiled a small, sweet smile and shyly asked his opinion. What was this?
    What he didn’t know was that Phoebe and Este had long planned this match. It would be a way of altering their friendship into a sisterhood. Phoebe had sung the praises of her brother. Este had been thinking about him long before her body changed, long before she understood what she was thinking and that certain images that intruded on her thoughts had best be kept from her mother, and some even from her friend. “I am ready, Papa,” she said, “whenever you wish.”
    “Six months at least,” said her mother. “I need to prepare. She’s still so young, perhaps we could wait a year?”
    “Eight months,” said Dr. Malina. “I will talk to the rabbi.”
    That night, as she prepared for bed, Este became sad. It was surprising to be sad at such a moment. But there it was. She felt sorry for herself. Her story, her life’s story, the only one she would ever have, was reaching its climax. The plot was coming to a narrative peak. She would marry Albert and abandon childish games and turn to her husband for advice rather than to her mother or father, and she would do as her husband wished and serve the food he liked and do her best to please him, as was her obligation, and all this was fine, just as it should be. He did not seem to be a reader of poetry, but Phoebe said he had a poet’s soul, thinking deep thoughts and feeling everything with a full heart. Phoebe had said that Albert was the kindest boy in the world. Perhaps Albert had a poet’s soul that had not yet found a way to express itself. Perhaps he had an imagination that she would discover as they became closer. But perhaps not. It did make her sad, wasn’t it too soon for her to be married? Did it need to be right now? A deep anxiety touched her, one that was only evaded by sleep—dull, dreamless sleep.
    Through her open window the voice of the muezzin echoed. This call to prayer was not for her. The moon hung misshapen above the harbor, the ships docked there rocked gently back and forth, the tides moved as tides move, small black insects flew about Este’s sheets, a lost dog howled down the street, and at the club over by the lake, men still played their card games, still called for servants to bring them whiskey and tobacco for their pipes. As the dawn approached, the German scientist, Dr. Koch, sat at his desk, going over again his day’s notes. Down by the docks the sewage leaked into the gutters and someone cried out in pain as a stomach spasm returned, and then was silent and in the silence a life ended. A man vomited near a palm tree, and a blind man walked barefoot in the bile, leaving footsteps in the dust. The heat hung in the air.
    Where the great library of Alexandria had once stood, where the Temple of Apollo had once received worshipers, homes and businesses, courtyards and stables now rested, inside tiled entrances, up stone staircases, rugs lay across marble floors, maids swept, the smells of food rose toward the sky. The fires set by the Muslims so long ago no longer mattered. The burned books no longer mattered. Even last year’s long night of riots that came after the British shelled the city had left little trace behind. Este woke in the morning restored. Her mood had shifted. All she had needed was a good night’s sleep.
    WHICH IS WHY Este Malina was on the edge of being engaged when Louis Thuillier met her at dinner at the French consul’s home. She had not liked the French scientist particularly, and he had found her foolish. Which was fortunate because there could never