This was not his way of operating. He had in the past always depended on those virtues which, he supposed, he thought of as male: a capacity for detachment, rationality, the negation of emotion as a tactic for survival. You could not weep and take effective photographs; indignation and anger were of no help when deciding on the technicalities of focus, film, and shutter speed under fire, or under stress. He had, and he knew this, dehumanized himself for at least the duration of his assignments. It was a strategy that had always served him well. Now, reexamining it, it filled him with doubts.

None of this in the end truly mattered, he thought, rising, and beginning to pace. He could unravel his past actions and hers a thousand ways; he could not explain her infidelity, and he doubted very much that Gini could herself. It was an action so out of character and so utterly unforeseen by them both that it still left him feeling concussed with pain and uncertainty, half blind and half deaf.

It did not, of course, prevent his loving her, or even diminish the love he felt for her; if anything, and with an evil ingenuity, the doubts the action engendered made the love more agonizingly intense. Was this event small, or large? He paced again, back and forth, until finally some hope returned, and he could again foresee some future life, many years hence, in which his continued closeness to Gini and hers to him had rendered that infidelity an event of minor importance, and one which had brought them closer, made them more rich in their love, not less.

Instantly gripped by the old conviction, unable anymore to tolerate the patterns he saw in his own life, he reached for the telephone and dialed her hotel. Gini was now in Room 615. She picked up on the third ring.

Their conversation was brief. No apologies, no recriminations, no interrogations on either side. Pascal was afraid of the damage of too many words; also he could hear pain, but possibly alteration, even obstinacy in her voice.

He suggested they meet now. She quietly refused. He suggested she meet him the following morning, and explained his appointment with Marianne. He suggested they meet immediately after that. She refused these proposals as well. They both needed time, she said, then apologized for this cliché. There was a pause; she would be working the following morning, she said.

Pascal looked at the void that had opened up in his life.

“I love you,” he said.

He said the words first in English, then repeated them in French.

He expected, or at least hoped, that this must effect a translation. It did not. She gave a small gasp he was unable to interpret, then replaced the receiver.

The following morning, setting off to collect Marianne, Pascal, who had finally forced himself to sleep, was making plans. As soon as Marianne was safely delivered home, he would go straight to Gini’s hotel; if Gini was not there he would track her down. Not another day would go by without resolving this.