Then there were the separations. At first, he would disappear for a few days; later he would go for weeks or months. He took to moving to new lodgings without telling me where he was going. I would seek him out and find him, asking his friends where he was, looking into his favorite coffee shops and taverns, or simply scouring the streets. I couldn’t help but remain loyal to him, even in the face of his utter rejection. I felt responsible for him, as if I were his guardian.

So it was fitting that it should be one of my stories that undid us. It occurred on one of those penniless nights when he had not drunk any wine or laudanum, and his temper was greatly frayed. A nightmare woke him. I asked what he had dreamed. He did not wish to tell me. I asked him again and he told me to be silent. “Did you dream of an island?” I asked.

He turned to me with his eyes narrowed hatefully and said, “Say the word again and I shall make you regret it.”

“Did you dream of a sailing ship?” For the first time since I had known him, he slapped me. The impact of the slap spun my head, but I would not be quelled. “Did you dream of an island?” He slapped me again. “Did you dream of looking into another man’s eyes?” Slap. “Did you dream of a sailing ship?” By now, in a frenzy, Charles took his belt from his trousers and began flailing me as I cowered before him, crouched on the ground, my arms wrapped around my head. But I would not be stopped. He tore the dress from my back and whipped me, cursing me as he did so, calling me a slave. By the time he was done, as warm blood trickled from the welts on my back, Charles collapsed on the divan. I asked him one more time about his dream, but he was spent. It was the first and only time he ever beat me. I rose from the ground and, staggering into the next room, fell onto the bed and fainted. By the time I awoke the next morning he was gone, and this time I did not seek him out.