WITHOUT CHILDREN

Genevieve was not an actress. He knew that, if little else. She was a master of disguise; not merely makeup, genuinely magnificent disguises. She was descending the stairs in heels.


"I he-ar you," his voice sang from the study.
She gracefully swooped in among the books and papers surrounding his laptop disguised as a Doctor of Philosophy.


"You're no Doctor of Philosophy!" he chortled, wagging an index finger. "All of the people some of the time, some of the people all of the time...." He had said this many times.


"You're so sweet darling, be a dear and hook me up in back."


She spun around, a full pirouette, and then collapsed before him like a prayerful Muslim so he could fasten the clasps she of all people could easily fasten herself. He wondered if she might not be an Appellate Jurist, but as she kissed his forehead her hint of cleavage reaffirmed his initial impression. Courts in his native America may have become more ideologically conservative, but there was still no touching the Brits when it came to appearances.


"Darling, you're staring!” she raised her eyebrows playfully. “Do you think it's too...low?"


"No." And of course it wasn't. If she were anything but a Doctor of Philosophy -- or an Appellate Jurist -- he would never have noticed. "On your way out, my dear?"


"Oh darling!" She was staring now at her watch. "Yes, and frightfully late I'm afraid. My dear darling," she gracefully assumed a classic arabesque croisee and vaulted over the sofa as nimbly as a Maine Coon, "don't wait up, I have my keys."


“Hurry, you mustn't be late!” What will she do next, he mused as she fled the room.


He understood, as no one else seemed to, that lateness wasn't merely discourteous or indicative of a lack of initiative. Time was everything. Einstein taught us that. All the other dimensions merely described where one was -- nothing to casually dismiss -- but time alone described how long one lived, which in no time at all was whether one lived. This had been a factor in his agreeing to move to London, where a dash over this or that side of the Prime Meridian, while only a day, seemed somehow a card up one's sleeve.


As the subtle implications of this phenomenon became increasingly clear, he began finding shortcuts for everything. Saving time became an obsession; far more important than saving money, space, electricity, or anything else he could think of. One might, for example, have millions socked away for some rainy day; but what would it come to if one were simply out of time? Rushing became another imperative. A minute here, ten minutes there, it all added up. Even worse than tardiness (he wore two watches and rose at four each morning) was becoming so absorbed in anything that time leapt by in blocks or chunks, if it didn't literally fly. That had to be avoided at all costs; so he stopped reading all but the dullest material, stopped tracking his investments, following current events, or interacting with anyone remotely interesting. He gave up all diversions but one; Genevieve and her disguises.


Only the day before she'd left in the spitting image of a Suicide Assistant. Now she was a Doctor of Philosophy -- or an Appellate Jurist, he couldn't be sure which; perhaps the previous day's activities had led her to be more reflective, or perhaps more decisive. In either case it was quite respectable. Her lack of formal education had always been a sore point.


Waiting for her to come home made time pass exceptionally slowly. As if time's winged chariot were grounded in the fog, she marveled coyly after he read her the poem. Intended or not, he knew there was no greater gift anyone could bestow and he was eternally grateful. Of course, there was no denying that he wondered from time to time where she went on what had become most days or nights into the wee hours, and why she always troubled to wear extraordinary disguises. He concluded however, on every such occasion that discretion was the greater part of valor and let the matter lie. The last thing he wanted was for her to stop.


By 4:10 a.m., he was at the stove laboriously counting out a second minute on three-minute eggs when her key turned the latch.


"Genevieve, is that you? I'm in the kitchen."


"Yes, darling." Then after she crossed the threshold: "Good morning, darling."


"Genevieve, may I speak with you a moment?" He scooped the first of his eggs off the boil with a teaspoon.


"I'm so tired, darling, I don't think I could possibly...Darling, oh darling, they're not cooked! Darling, they need at least five minutes."


"Three's enough for me! I haven't given them more than...."


"Darling, are you wearing the clothes you wore yesterday?" Her voice was sympathetic, not even slightly chastising but he looked sheepishly away. "I know it saves precious time, darling, but...Ahhh," she broke into a convincing yawn, particularly for a Doctor of Philosophy. "I'm so exhausted." She tapped her cheek as if it were necessary to keep from drifting off, then leaned backwards and comfortably grasped her ankles. "So good to stretch, we'll talk tomorrow."


So it began, like most of his glorious snail's paced days, when the doorbell rang at 9:09. He crossed through the dining room to save a few seconds in answering it.


"Are you the man of the house, Sir," the constable enquired.


He stole a glance at the watch on his right wrist. "Indeed I am."


"May I have a word, Sir?"


He beckoned an invitation to save time, and the uniformed man followed him to the front sitting room. "Sherry?"


"Never on the job, Sir, but thanks all the same."


"All right then, what can I do for you?"


"Well, Sir, it's...it's about your Mrs." There was a long pause. "Have you noticed anything odd or unusual, anything...out of the ordinary?"


"Odd or unusual; or out of the ordinary," he repeated. "No, I'm afraid I can't say I have."


"Her appearance, Sir. I particularly mean...her appearance."


"My wife's appearance? What about my wife's appearance?"


"It seems Sir, she's always going about wearing disguises."


"Oh that. Yes, well, there's nothing unusual about that."


"I'm sorry, Sir?"


"She's been doing that regularly now for...?" He shrugged.


"I see. Do you know why, Sir? Why she does it?"


It was obvious he was embarrassed over not knowing, and the constable didn't press him. "That'll be all, Sir. Thank you."


Minutes seemed like years, as he imagined they must in prison or a stockade, as he waited for her to awaken; his delight in this seeming eternity tinged, if only slightly, by embarrassment and undeniable growing curiosity. It was shortly after two p.m. when he heard her again on the staircase, in more conservative heels this time, disguised as a Superintendent of Public Schools. He decided to confront her directly, no beating about the bush.


"Genevieve, you're not a Superintendent of Public Schools."


Of course not, darling. Nor a Chancellor of the Exchequer."


"Genevieve, a constable called upon me this morning to discuss your going about wearing all these...bloody disguises."


"I hope you offered him a glass of sherry, darling?"


"I did; which he most appropriately refused."


"Not on the job, of course, darling."


"Right. I was unable to tell him why you wear disguises."


"You do say the most remarkable things, darling. I should think that whatever I might wear should be none of his business."


"Well, I quite agree. But I was embarrassed all the same. You see, he knew I knew he knew I didn't know; awfully awkward."


"But if you did know, darling, assuming there was something for you to know that you don't know," she began scratching her left upper triceps with all five nails of her left hand after wrapping her left arm around her neck like an undersized python, "the question is, would you have told him?"


He seemed surprised. "I should think not," he decided.


"Then darling, it's quite all right, but you might simply have told him whatever you would have said had you known."


"Then the blazes with him, I should still like to know."


"And I should love to tell you, darling, were it anything more than a vain striving to find the most appropriate attire for a host of occasions. I could relate any number of examples though I fear it would take far longer than you should care to spare."


This gave him pause. "You might just...attempt a summary, perhaps just the beginning, and...we might see how it goes?"


"Well, darling, I'm sure it all began when I was quite a little girl and continued as I grew up rather gradually." She offered her right arm. "I slept oddly on my shoulder, darling, and need a good stretch." As he took her arm, she began turning cartwheels like the hands of a clock in the early cinema as a metaphor for the passage of time, " There are, I'm afraid, all those differences between little boys and girls, and later men and women, which do explain so many things."


"Yes, but I should think we might be able to jump ahead...,"


"Oh darling, that's much better!" she suddenly straightened up. "Darling, I'd love to chat all afternoon, but I'm afraid I did promise Nathalie...you do remember Nathalie, darling?"


"Yes, quite all right my dear." His syntax was decidedly British, but the sound was still ineluctably American. "Do give my regards to Nathalie. I know you must be running along."


He felt himself sliding into that myriad of possibilities from which extrication and the concomitant readjustment to the slothful creep of the hourglass could take months. He was glad to see her go. Not more than ten minutes later (only two of which was he able to mindfully linger over) the doorbell rang again. Simply ignoring it wasn't an alternative he believed a gentleman could contemplate.


"Afternoon Sir, most sorry to disturb your reverie." The man flashed credentials bearing the highest clearance within Britain's reconfigured civilian security operations.


Genevieve had rushed off to meet Nathalie disguised as a Superintendent of Public Schools. Or was it, as he now suspected, as a Livestock Auctioneer? In either case, he decided, it was certainly none of anyone's business. Genevieve was surely right about that.


"May I come in, Sir? I can assure you this won't take long."


"Yes, yes, of course. Glass of sherry?"


"Never on the job, Sir, but thanks all the same."


The man removed his Wellingtons and followed him to the front sitting room.


"All right then, what can I do for you?"


"You spoke earlier with a constable, Sir, who formed a very distinct impression that you had no idea why your wife went about wearing one or another of her rather impressive disguises. I've come to confirm, Sir, whether that is indeed a fact."


He cleared his throat. "I should like to know, without being impertinent, what business my wife's attire might be of yours, the constable's, or anyone other than my wife and myself?"


"I'm very sorry, Sir, but this is an official enquiry."


"An official enquiry…? Over my wife's attire?"


"You'll admit, Sir, she's a dab hand at disguise. I daresay you'd be hard pressed to find such virtuosity among the criminal classes. I mean nothing suggestive, Sir, but I imagine you've noticed she's also quite a contortionist. Those two things together...well, Sir, seems to me an awful lot of vigorous training must have gone into all of it and...Sir, that's my job. Terrorism! Counter-terrorism, to be more precise. Nothing less than that, Sir."


He stole a glance at one watch then the other, something he'd never done before. The whole point of wearing a watch on each wrist was to be able to see the time on whichever arm might be most readily observed. "I see." He did see, and it troubled him. "I say, couldn't it be little more than a vain striving to find the most appropriate attire for a variety of occasions?"


"Awful lot of occasions here, Sir."


"Quite." He nodded resignedly. Time and tide wait for no man and he was leery of further absorption. "If I may respond in all candor, your constable was quite right in his impression, indeed I have no idea why my wife wears her disguises. Will that do?"


"Is it something she's always done, since you've known her?"


"I'm afraid that is the case."


"The contortionist skills, Sir? She had them when you met?"


Yes I...always found them most...amusing."


"I quite understand, Sir. That will be all, Sir. Thank you!"


Leaving as it were, a set of footprints in the sands of time, rather than merely lollygagging about for as long as one might, had never really occurred to him. Quality rather than quantity had seemed so implausibly beyond reach that he had instinctively concentrated on the latter. That his Genevieve, in her secret heart of hearts, might be up to a great deal more was enthralling. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that he'd been a fool.


"My dearest darling!" he embraced her as she came through the door at 3:22 a.m. "I must know everything! Ev-ery-thing!"


"Darling, what are you doing up? It's only three-twen...!"


"I haven't slept! I must know everything! Ev-ery-thing!!!"


"Everything about what, darling? What are you...?"


"About you, my dear! About you and your wondrous disguises!"


"But darling, I told you last night...."


"No, no, my darling, I've been an utter and absolute fool! They're wonderful! Magnificently wonderful! You...are wonderful!"


"My goodness, darling?" She gazed into his animated eyes. "I have to sit down. Did anything...happen while I was gone?"


"A man from Whitehall came to enquire about you and your wonderful disguises."


"What did you tell him, darling?" She began twirling off toward the front sitting room as he raced after her.


"Ultimately, that I had no idea whatever why you wore them."


"Hadn't we agreed you would say...," she sat perfectly erect on the divan and set her right foot comfortably behind her neck.


"And your wonderfully delightful contortions, my dear!"


"Contortions? Hadn't we agreed, darling, you would say my attire was none of anyone's business? Hadn't we agreed upon that?"


"Indeed we had, my dear, but you see, I didn't understand!"


"Understand what, darling?"


"Come, my dear, that's what I'm asking you now! These disguises and your contortions, these two things together, an awful lot of vigorous training must have gone into all of it."


"Vigorous training...? Darling, are you quite all right?"


"Dab hand at disguise! One up on the criminal classes! Awful lot of occasions for striving to find the appropriate attire."


"Criminal classes?" She removed her leg from behind her head. "Is that what he said? One up on the criminal classes? Up?"


"Look, my dear, he was merely trying to say...,"


"Is it criminal to wear the very best clothes, the very best makeup? Criminal to fuss over one's clothes and makeup as if all occasions were unique and special?" She stood up. "Darling, how could it be a crime simply to enjoy one's fitness and health?"


"Look at it from his perspective my dear, from the outside."


"You're not outside, darling." She began turning her head slowly to the left until it completed a full revolution, then began turning it back and did the same maneuver to the right.


"But that's the ticket! I began thinking I am, or must be."


"But why in heaven's name would you think that, darling?"


"Because you're so bloody unique and special, and I'm...so painfully plain and ordinary."


"Oh darling, you mustn't say such awful things."


"But look at your head! Spinning like a bloody gyroscope!"


"It's very relaxing darling, you should try giving it a go."


"Please, my dear, do tell me why you wear your disguises? And where and why you learned your contortions?"


"Listen carefully, darling. One wears a disguise so others won't know who one is. You always know just who I am, regardless of what I may be wearing -- and so obviously does everyone else; apparently including Whitehall."


"While that may be so, my dear, it is a question of degree."


"Darling, are you fearful that what you call disguises and I call dressing up may be something wondrous that you're missing?"


"Well, that is part of it, my dear. You might say, perhaps on the one hand, that a horrible and dreadful fear and loathing have overtaken my soul over that very prospect."


"I'm sorry, darling. I only wish for your sake then that my…."


"But my dear...?"


"My dear darling, I am truly sorry!" She looked into his eyes. "Merely...dressing up."


“My dear, I must take a firm hand. These are perilous times, as you may know far better than I. Terrorism! Counter-terrorism, to be more precise. Nothing less than that!


“Terrorism?” It was as if he'd suggested she wasn't human. “Whitehall? Blowing up the Underground or whatever they do? Those horrible people and the towers! All these ridiculous wars the Americans are always starting!” She began to sob.


He rushed to comfort her but she pushed him away.


“I don't know anything about politics,” she managed to say. “Or religion…?”


“There, there, my dear, please….”


“I would never hurt anyone!”


"You can't blame me for thinking...what could I have been thinking...?"


“Don't I have the right to wear whatever I want? To pretend to be whatever I want as long as I don't hurt anyone? I never hurt anyone…or any thing!” She was sobbing uncontrollably.


He embraced her. “I'm so sorry, my darling, so very sorry.


She got hold of herself. "It's all right, darling. I'm all right. I don't blame you. We all want something more from life. I might as easily say you must think me very shallow. All surface; always dressing up, limbering up, but no substance under the shell. Just a show."


"Nothing wrong with looking one's best, my dear. Not a thing in the world."


"Nor with wanting to live as long as one possibly can as you do, my darling. Without children, we have the time and the freedom to…."


"You are so very sweet...my dear sweet…. We won't say another word about it."


"You are a darling. I really must get some sleep, I'm so awfully tired."


"Goodnight, my dear."


"Goodnight, my darling."


The next afternoon, after their usual banter, during which she juxtaposed an impressive Cecchetti efface with a Russian epaulee, she said she was off to a very important date disguised as Master in Lunacy (or was it as a Defense Minister?) and was never seen or heard from again. All his inquiries, and those of the police and teams of investigators and solicitors he engaged, came to nothing. Whitehall denied ever having visited him, or having enquired about her.


Terrorism. Counter-terrorism, to be more precise. Nothing less than that.

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