His eyes seemed even darker than usual.

“I’ll be seeing you again, I hope,” he said, his voice rather formal.

“Yes, yes … of course.” I said quickly and turned around to go.

The moon was immense above the courtyard, standing far away in the sky.

In the middle of the courtyard, I saw my mother coming out of her room and standing by the doorway.

“Oh, here you are,” she said excitedly.

Another figure stood beside her. It was Tony.

14

He sat awkwardly on the rug in my room trying to keep his legs in a comfortable position as he ate the stew, rice, and salad my mother had put before him. I sat across from him. He looked a little older, his hair and shirt covered with dust from the bus ride. Even his dark blue valise and briefcase were dusty.

He had an obscure expression on his face—he always looked like that when he did not want to cope with an emotion openly. I could read his thoughts: what the hell are we doing here? Why aren’t I back in my study with my familiar books, the soft leather chair I like to sit in so much, the spotlight that gives just the right amount of light? I must not say that to Feri though. She looks very edgy and, after all, no matter what she says, this is her home.

My telegram had never gotten to him. They might have phoned him while he was away (to a convention) and then thrown it away. He had decided to go to the convention because it was in San Francisco and since I was gone he thought he would turn a business trip into a little vacation. When I did not arrive at the time I was supposed to, he tried to phone me at my father’s house but the operator could not find the number. He had begun to feel seriously worried as days went by.

“Then I got to your father’s house and we couldn’t understand each other,” he said, trying to smile, but looking strained. “Finally your brother brought in someone from the neighborhood who knew English. They were very surprised to know that I was your husband. They had let me in, not knowing who I was or what I wanted.”

“I’m sorry you had to get dragged away like this.”

I told him about the letter of permission I needed to get out, my having gone to the hospital, how I went about finding my mother.

“Don’t get so excited,” he said after I told him about my mother. “It’s nice but …”

That phrase, “Don’t get excited,” was a common phrase of his. He said it almost out of habit, but it often dulled the edge of excitement for me. I somehow resented it more than usual now.

“Your father sent you a note.” He rummaged through his pockets. His shirt, pants, then the checkered sports jacket he had put at the edge of the bed. He found the note in the jacket and handed it to me.