The Heat of Betrayal Read Free

of whom, with their Italian tailoring and their black iPhones, were from North Africa. There were backpacker types, all grungy and twenty-something, looking spaced and eyeing the suits with zonked amusement. Just in front of me was a gaunt man in a dusty brown suit, his teeth blackened by cigarettes, holding a travel document from Mauritania in his right hand.
    â€˜What’s the capital of Mauritania?’ I asked Paul.
    Without a pause he replied:
    â€˜Nouakchott.’
    â€˜The things you know,’ I said.
    â€˜This line is insane. When I last came thirty-three years ago, there were no computer checks – the world wasn’t as paranoid as it is now.’
    â€˜Zen, zen, zen,’ I said, stroking my husband’s face.
    â€˜This is Casablanca airport, not some fucking Buddhist retreat.’
    I laughed. But he stood there, bouncing from foot to foot, an ongoing fugue of impatience and anxiety.
    â€˜Let’s go home,’ he suddenly said.
    â€˜You don’t mean that.’
    â€˜I do.’
    Silence. I felt myself tense.
    â€˜How will we go home?’ I asked.
    â€˜Get the next plane.’
    â€˜You’re not serious.’
    â€˜I think I am. This is all wrong.’
    â€˜Because of the long line?’
    â€˜Because my instinct tells me – go home.’
    â€˜Even though it was your “instinct” that told you we had to come here?’
    â€˜So you’re angry at me.’
    â€˜If you want to go home, we’ll go home.’
    â€˜You’d think me a loser if I did that.’
    â€˜I never think you a loser, my love.’
    â€˜But I know I am a liability.’
    Liabilities. That was the word which ricocheted around my head when I discovered, several weeks ago, the extent of his debts, despite his having promised me, months earlier, that he would curb his spending habits. There was a knock on our door one Friday evening around six. A man from a collection agency was standing on our front porch, asking to speak with Paul Leuen. I explained that my husband was at the gym. ‘Ah, so you are Mrs Leuen? Then you might be aware of the sixty-four hundred dollars that your husband owes to the Vintners Wine Society.’ I was speechless. When had he bought all that wine, and why hadn’t I seen it anywhere in our house? The collection agent was explaining that the Wine Society had sent close to ten letters demanding ‘a conversation’ about the unpaid sum which had accrued over two years. Now they had run out of patience. If the bill wasn’t settled forthwith, legal action would follow, and could involve a lien on our home.
    Instead of going inside and getting my cheque book (as I had done on several previous occasions) I simply said:
    â€˜My husband is at the Gold’s Gym on Manor Street, about five minutes from here by car. Ask for him at the reception desk – they know him. And—’
    â€˜But you could settle this matter straight away.’
    â€˜I could, but I won’t. You need to speak directly with my husband.’
    Repeating the address of the gym I excused myself and closed the door. As soon as the collector had driven off I went into our bedroom, packed a small weekend bag, and called my old college roommate, Ruth Richardson, in Brooklyn and asked if I could use her fold-out sofa for a few days. Then leaving Paul a note –
The wine debt must be paid off by the time I am back late Tuesday night
– I got into my car and drove the seven hours south-east to the city I had always promised myself I would one day call my own. I kept my cellphone off and spent the next four days trying not to bore Ruth with the cocktail of anger, guilt and sadness that was coursing through me. Ruth – a professor of English at Brooklyn College, divorced, no kids, disappointed in love, wickedly funny and hyper-cultural (‘High art is God’s apology for men,’ she’s often noted) – was, as always, a