Her lover has traveled, much. This does not surprise her.

  The passport is issued to Yaakel Benjamin Keinz, born New York City, 1935—this does surprise her.

  Her lover is an American citizen, Hannah thinks. Somehow she hadn’t expected this.

  Is the man in the photograph her lover? Hannah isn’t sure.

  Yaakel Benjamin Keinz. To Hannah an exotic name, Jewish?—German?

  Possibly, this is a younger Y.K. in the picture. His face leaner, the ridge of bone above his eyes less distinctive, the eyes not so heavy-lidded but clear, frank, affable.

  In this face, candor. An expression that Hannah has never seen in her lover’s face.

  The more Hannah examines the passport photograph of Yaakel Benjamin Keinz the less certain she feels that this is Y.K. Though the thick-tufted hair is very like Y.K.’s hair, and the line of the jaw, there is something about the eyes, and the mouth …

  Hannah shudders. Something is wrong here, hairs stir at the nape of her neck.

  Hurriedly Hannah returns the passport to the compartment where she’d found it but in her haste she can’t remember exactly where it had been, nearer the outside of the suitcase, or the inside; nor can she remember if the compartment was zipped closed, or only just partway.

  All this while, Y.K. is speaking on the phone in the next room. Hannah backs away from the suitcase feeling a wave of relief.

  Wanting to feel a wave of relief.

  No time to take a shower here in the hotel, in the luxurious white-tiled bathroom, Hannah will shower when she returns home, in the safety and privacy of her home standing under the hot hot shower for as long as she can bear it.

  Reapplying makeup on the sallow face, little dollops of liquid makeup, no time to rub expensive moisturizer deep into her skin, that, too, Hannah will do at home.

  Rummages for a lipstick in the Prada bag, badly needing to enliven her face.

  But her hair!—matted, disheveled like an ill-fitting wig.

  Dares to smile at herself in the mirror, a flinching sort of smile, abashed, apprehensive.

  Still Hannah—still you (me).

  As a child she’d tormented herself with wondering if there could be a time when, when you look into a mirror, there will be no one in the mirror to look back at you.

  Tormenting herself now with the most banal uncertainties: Should she seek out Y.K. in the other room to tell him that she must leave, or should she return to the bedroom, to change into her clothes?

  Not wanting to interrupt his phone conversation. Not wanting to seem to be listening to it.

  And will Hannah dare ask when he will see her again? When he will call her.

  The protocol of lovers is foreign to Hannah, it took her years to become comfortable with the protocol of marriage. Does physical intimacy between individuals guarantee some measure of a more general intimacy, or is there no (necessary) connection at all?—will she regret it if she mis-assumes?

  Always on edge with Y.K. Never feeling at ease.

  Sexual excitement: essence of unease.

  When Hannah returns to the bedroom she’s startled to see that Y.K. is waiting for her there, phone call ended. His expression is curious, bemused.

  He is smiling, in his way. With affection? Tenderness? Is he smiling?

  Leaning indolently against a bureau, starkly naked, indifferent to his nakedness, arms folded across his chest in a pose of ironic stillness as if he has been waiting for a long time for Hannah to join him.

  “H’lo, beautiful Han-nah!”—Y.K. seems amused.

  Hannah is thinking that, if Y.K., or Yaakel Keinz, was born in 1935, he is now forty-two. (Hannah was born in 1938.) Assuming that Y.K. is the man in the passport photograph.

  A predator male, self-delighting, exulting in his own being, unlike any man Hannah has known intimately, including Joker Daddy. For most men Hannah has known are insecure in some way, and Y.K. is not.

  An attractive man, confident that women will adore him. His body is no longer the body of a young man, beginning to thicken at the waist, the muscles of shoulders, upper arms, thighs are beginning to soften, yet the man is fit, compact, probably quite strong. Probably quite quick, if quickness is required.

  On his shoulders, arms, legs, and at his groin is a pelt of kinky dark hairs, grizzled-gray on his chest. Hannah knows, his muscled back is covered in thick dark hairs also, in erratic swaths.

  Hannah feels a fainting sensation, recalling the patchy pelt on his back. The startling feeling, at her fingertips.

  She hears herself explain that she has to leave. She hears herself laughing. She is nervous, breathless. What to say to a stranger who is her lover?

  Almost, their relationship is like an arranged marriage. It had been determined that they would be lovers, Hannah had had no choice, as soon as she’d felt the stranger’s fingers circle her wrist.

  “Is something wrong, Hannah? What is it?”

  Hannah sees: Y.K. seems to have posed in a way that, as she faces him, she can’t avoid seeing the suitcase at the foot of the bed. In that instant she realizes—He knows.

  That Hannah has looked through his suitcase—Y.K. knows. She has discovered the passport …

  She knows the name he hadn’t wanted her to know: Yaakel Benjamin Keinz.

  Hannah is frightened, her mouth suddenly dry. Though Y.K. has not (yet) accused her. He is playful, flirtatious.

  “You want to run away from me, eh?—can’t stay for even one drink.”

  It is up to Hannah to determine: Does her lover sincerely regret that she is leaving, or is he being ironic?—teasing, or taunting?

  Speaking with a ghost-remnant of an accent as if he were not a native American but foreign born: the spondee stress (“Han-nah”) and the inflection (“eh?”)—not typical of native speakers of English.

  In this, Hannah thinks, beginning to panic, a circuitous reference to the suitcase: the (forbidden) passport removed from the (zippered) compartment.

  An invasion of Y.K.’s privacy. Why has Hannah done such a thing!

  Unless Hannah is imagining an accent. Unless Hannah is imagining much.

  “Before you leave, darling. Just some minutes.”

  Some minutes—this, too, isn’t typical American speech. Y.K. knows what she has done, and is tormenting Hannah.

  “One drink—‘dlya dorogi.’”

  Hannah has no idea what this means. She has no idea what Y.K. has said. She is frightened, confused.

  It seems that Y.K. has brought with him two miniature bottles of (white) wine from the minibar in the other room. But Hannah doesn’t want a drink just now, not a drink just before she drives home on I-75, not a good idea, her jangled nerves, the wine she’d had at lunch, but Y.K. acknowledges none of this, remains heedless of her indecision, her anxiety; indeed, he is enjoying the small ceremony of opening the bottles, pouring the contents into two sparkling wineglasses, tapping his glass lightly against Hannah’s when she has no choice but to take it from him.

  “‘Han-nah!’ Who has come so far.”

  Hannah lifts the glass slowly to her lips. Takes a sip, cautiously. As if she were not tremulous, yearning for a drink.

  Sweet-tart white wine, delicious wine, coursing through her blood like balm. A magical component to alcohol, Hannah thinks, a kind of shorthand, if you’ve been a practiced drinker you can anticipate its effect immediately, like one who, knowing her destination, feels immense relief and anticipation as she sets out.

  As it’s said that a drug addict feels the anticipatory thrill of the high, just assembling drug paraphernalia in her hands, these sacred tools, preparing to inject the magical solution into her veins.

  Hannah takes just the cautious sip. Her hand is trembling badly.

  Hears herself ask in a bright blithe way, as if nothing were wrong, when Y.K. will be leaving Detroit—and Y.K. says with a negligent shrug—“When? When my business is done.”

  “And your ‘business’ is—business?”

  “What other kind of ‘business’ is there?”

  Hannah laughs. Tries to think. As if amusing her lover might distract him.

  “Well, not all ‘business’ is focused on—money … There is art, there is music, philanthropy …” Hannah’s voice trails off, she can see that Y.K. isn’t impressed.

  “‘Philanthropy’!”—Y.K. laughs. “If you have money to toss away. If you are an ‘heir.’”

  Hannah laughs with her lover, uneasily. It is always like this in Y.K.’s presence: Hannah is drawn to emulate him as a torn sheet of paper is drawn into the wake of a speeding vehicle.

  Does Y.K. think that Hannah has inherited money? A substantial sum of money? Joker Daddy would have found this supposition gratifying for Joker Daddy had skirted bankruptcy through much of his life and yet gave away money as well, to shrewdly selected organizations, and to select political campaigns, hoping to establish a reputation as a man of wealth and discerning generosity.

  Had Joker Daddy died bankrupt? His children came to think so, for his estate hadn’t included them. Pointedly, his estate had excluded them, as it had excluded their bereft mother.

  Some things it’s better not to know, Hannah’s mother had advised, bitterly, yet in a way gratified, as if she had not anticipated the worst in vain. Determined to avoid contagion Hannah had made an effort not to learn too much about the private lives of her parents.

  Wondering if Y.K. has made inquiries about her, in Detroit. Among mutual acquaintances. Inquiries about Wes Jarrett.

  It isn’t Hannah’s family but her husband’s, the Jarretts, longtime residents of Detroit, who have a history of local philanthropy.

  Hannah asks when Y.K. will return to Detroit, does he know yet?

  “No. Don’t know.”

  A mild rebuff. Of course Y.K. doesn’t like to be interrogated.

  Of course Y.K. doesn’t like a woman hoping to make a claim on his time.

  Then, relenting: “Things happen quickly, in my business. If they are to happen at all.”

  Y.K. has been smiling at Hannah, as if recalling something that gives him pleasure.

  “You know, Han-nah, the night we met?—all those people around us? That wasn’t the first time.”

  “Wasn’t it!”—Hannah is hoping to be enchanted.

  “No. Not at all. I had a dream—dreams—of you, before that night. When I saw you, and you turned to me, and looked at me—your eyes … It came back to me then, the dream. And in your face I could see that you recognized me, too.”

  Hannah is taken by surprise, Y.K. is speaking almost humbly. He doesn’t seem to be joking now.

  He is saying—he loves me.

  Is that what he is saying?

  Hannah feels light-headed. No more wine!

  Indeed Y.K. is regarding her tenderly. He takes Hannah’s wineglass from her fingers, sets it down. With both hands he frames her face, he kisses her mouth.

  He does not push his tongue into her mouth, he kisses her gently and almost formally, respectfully.

  No kiss like this, from Y.K. Hannah is astonished.

  “That was how I knew, Han-nah. That night, that we met. When I saw you. But you also—you saw me.”

  “Yes …”

  “You knew me, yes?”

  “I … I knew you.”

  Hannah isn’t sure if this is true, yet, as she utters the words, mesmerized by her lover, the yeasty-sweaty smell of his body lifting to her nostrils, it is crucial to believe that everything she says is true.

  “Will you call me, then? And not wait for so long?”—Hannah hears her voice wistful, pleading.

  “Of course, dear Han-nah. You can believe that I will.”

  “Because I—I was worried …”

  “No need to worry, Han-nah. Not about me.”

  “If you—could give me your number … Not that I would call you but if I wanted suddenly to speak to you, just to—speak with you … It would be good to have your number.”

  “Yes! Of course.”

  “And is there a name I can call you? ‘Y.K.’ isn’t really a name.”

  “But yes, dear—‘Y.K.’ is a name. You must be content with ‘Y.K.’”

  Hannah hesitates, wondering if Y.K. is laughing at her. And if there is cruelty or tenderness in that laughter.

  “Or, you could call me ‘darling.’”

  “‘Darling’—!”

  Hannah laughs, giddy. This is what it is—to have a lover.

  The lover is the shadow, the eclipse. The marriage is full daylight.

  The lover is outside the marriage, at a perpendicular angle to the marriage. The lover helps to define the marriage, for there is no lover without a marriage.

  Hannah sees now, there is no true marriage without the lover. No wonder Hannah’s marriage has been so incomplete, unsatisfying to her.

  The children have made her mother—Mommy. Without knowing, Hannah has allowed mother to eclipse wife, woman. No wonder her husband has ceased to desire her, he has ceased to see her. Mommy is food, suffocating embraces, reproach, hurt at being insufficiently loved. Her lover will restore her, as a (sexual) woman.

  Already, Hannah’s lover has infiltrated her being, her blood. Mesmerized by him, she has not thought of Wes, she has not even thought of her children, for the past hour.

  Intense sexual pleasure, annihilation of memory, conscience. The woman is left stunned, helpless.

  Hannah has suspected that Wes has been involved with other women over the course of their marriage. Not in Far Hills (probably: Wes is discreet) but elsewhere, on business trips, those overnight trips when he calls her very late, or fails to call her. Fleeting relationships, she is sure. Professional escorts, possibly. These are not lovers, they have no role in the life of the marriage.

  Hannah yearns to confide in Y.K., because he is her lover. Because she is on intimate terms with him, their sexual connection is actual, of the moment. Hannah yearns to lie in his arms, to talk.

  To confess to him, her marriage is unsatisfying to her, ill-fitting like clothes that are the wrong size for her, too-tight shoes, she is bound tight, often she can’t draw a deep breath.

  Her children adore her but—do Hannah’s children know her?

  The children! Hannah realizes: She should leave the hotel. Time seems to have passed with unnatural swiftness, it has become late afternoon, beyond five o’clock. No idea how long she’d been asleep in that sodden bed, as if she’d been drugged.

  Hannah needs to change into her clothes, not in Y.K.’s presence but in the bathroom, in privacy. She is desperate to be alone! But when she tries to ease out of his arms Y.K. doesn’t release her.

  It’s simply natural, a kind of protocol, if you are being held, tight, if you make a move to detach yourself from someone’s arms, the other will immediately comply—the other will release his grip, release you.

  But Y.K. doesn’t release his grip on Hannah, and doesn’t step away. He has begun kissing Hannah’s neck, in a way that makes her shiver.

  Hannah laughs nervously. She should leave, and Y.K. must want her to leave, yet now, as if whimsically, Y.K.’s mood has changed, he has become amorous, impassioned. Hannah doesn’t know if he is being sincere or being funny—self-mocking … Hannah has no choice, she thinks, except to cooperate, to kiss him in return; she cannot offend this man who is her lover, and not her husband, for expectations are very different for lovers, than for husbands. Her relationship with Y.K. is new, and precarious; the smallest misunderstanding, an unintended insult, anything to suggest sexual rejection, Y.K. may be offended and cease loving her, his desire for Hannah extinguished like a lit match that has been shaken out.

  A lover is not like a husband who shares a household and cannot easily walk out of the household, has no choice but to accept an apology, or to apologize …

  Within marriage, much is forgiven. Outside marriage, forgiveness is a matter of choice.

  “Excuse me, I—I should … I should leave”—Hannah tries to protest, not very forcibly. Despite her anxiety, she has been made to feel, in the pit of her belly, in the pulsing fork between her legs, a stab of (abject) desire: for Y.K. is a skilled lover, his tenderness is irresistible. Yet, Hannah must leave the hotel, and return home, gently she tries to break away from him …

  Y.K. tugs off the terry-cloth robe, lets it drop onto the floor. Running his hands over her, as one might roughly caress a captive animal, daring it to shrink away, struggle to escape. It’s a gesture of supreme possession. Hannah’s skin that is chafed, as with sunburn, is made to smart anew. The gesture is so deliberate, willed—Hannah begins to be frightened.

  The heft of the man is fearful to her, always a factor that alarms her, for she is not his equal, he is so much stronger than she, so much taller, heavier. In their conversation, in their speech, it comes to seem to Hannah that they are equals, or nearly; but when speech ceases, this conviction fades at once.

  Y.K. tugs Hannah back to the bed, a badly rumpled and smelly bed, a pig’s swill of a bed Hannah realizes, mortified … Why hadn’t she at least made a gesture of smoothing out the sheets, pulling over the coverlet, as she does routinely when she and Wes travel and stay in hotels, for now she feels a wave of shame, revulsion, in no mood for love or intimacy or tenderness, wanting only to escape. Clearly her lover is laughing at her discomfort, the rich man’s wife has become squeamish, apprehensive.

  Y.K. knows: Hannah has dared to open his suitcase. Intuitively, Y.K. knows. He knows that Hannah has violated his trust in her—obviously. He is furious with her but will not express his fury directly, it isn’t Y.K.’s way to be direct, Hannah can only infer the man’s contempt, she wonders if leaving her alone with his suitcase had been a test, a test Y.K. had known that Hannah would fail; possibly, he’d contrived a trap for her, if she unzipped the compartment something would be displaced, a hair, or a thread, a paper clip … (Hadn’t a paper clip fallen out of the compartment, lost amid socks and underwear?)

  Hannah has blundered, badly. Naïveté would not save her.

  Now it’s too late, Y.K. will never forgive her.

  For what delight in punishing such a contemptible person, striking away her feeble defenses as he pushes away her flailing hands, ignores her pleas—But I can’t stay, really I have to leave—I—have to be home by …