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surprise was an affront, a slap on the cheek. How could he not understand? How could he not see it coming? Did she pretend so well? Feign her happiness with him, her love? For she must have feigned it. If she truly loved Piotr, she would not be in love with William now. Would she?
    Marie, of course, did not think so. “You are not the first woman, darling, to discover you can love two men at the same time.” But Anna could not believe it.
    Now, with Piotr at the other end of the receiver, Anna did not know how to find words sharp enough, words that would make him hear, that would make him understand.
    â€œPlease. Try to forgive me,” she said. “I didn’t think it would happen, and I can’t explain it. It’s all my fault. I’m sorry.”
    William was in the other room when she made the call. They were still unsure of their territories, still learning to judge what could be demanded and what should be left unsaid. He paced the living room floor. He could hear her speak, but he could not understand what she was saying. Her voice, he would tell her later, seemed to him all consonants, sharp, whistling, a shiver.
    Piotr must have understood finally, for he told her to suit herself. “I haven’t really known you, have I?” he asked, and then she heard a muted curse and a slam of the receiver.
    She wept the whole evening. She let William rock her to sleep, give her a tall glass with gin and tonic. She drank hastily. Sleep was an escape, long, deep, incoherent, filled with the images of the world disconnected, hands, knees, the warmth of someone’s skin. Wetness. The pillow was wet when she woke up, in the middle of the night, alert.
    She slipped out of the bedroom, quietly not to wake William up. In the credenza drawer there was an old packet of cigarettes she had spotted a few days before, a leftover from an old, discarded habit. The window in the living room had a stained glass panel, and she sat in the wicker armchair, legs curled up, staring at the grey patterns of squares and circles. The taste of smoke surprised her; she had not smoked since that day, thirteen years ago when she met Piotr on Partisans’ Hill. It hit her lungs with a force she had forgotten. Her brain swirled. She inhaled the smoke deeply and let it out. Another long drag, the glowing tip sparkling and fading in the dark. She sat like that for a long time. Cars passed, the lights made patterns on the ceiling, flashes of light, one chasing another. She did not move. In the morning William found her with her head resting on her arm. Asleep.
    On December 12, 1981, they gave their first party to celebrate their coming together. Marie brought Anna a bouquet of red roses and hugged her for a long time before she let her go. “Just take care of yourself,” she whispered in her ear. William’s friends came with good wishes and curious glances. “Long time, no see,” she heard voices in the hall as William greeted them, “You lucky man. How do you do it?” Her extended handwas squeezed and shaken as William introduced her to his colleagues, former students, their wives and girlfriends.
    She was asked how she liked Montreal, if she had already been to
Place des Arts
, to the Laurentians. “William is a great guy,” she was told in conspicuous whispers. She was nodding her head, smiling, recounting all the trips they had already taken. No one asked her about Poland any more; she was no longer a visitor, and it was now tactless to mention what she had left behind.
    By degrees the living room became too warm, too smoky, and she found herself drifting off, unable to fend off the thoughts of her mother who must, by then, have learned about her and Piotr. In her big, dark Wroclaw apartment, among the mismatched pieces of furniture and threadbare carpets her mother and father were getting ready for Christmas. There would be tears at Christmas Eve supper, and an empty plate at the table