“This film that … ‘did well’—as you say—what is it about?”

“I just meant in comparison to the other one.” It was misguided, she had learned, to assume she couldn’t seem arrogant to others just because she held a low opinion of herself. “It’s about a young white woman from South Africa under apartheid. She moves to Iceland to work in a fish-processing factory.”

He didn’t respond and she wondered if he’d heard her.

“I don’t know. It was the nineties. It’s almost like it happened to someone else. Though my husband shot it—he was the cinematographer—so I know it happened; I mean, he can verify that I was there, that I was … in control.” She laughed a little anxiously. “Do you ever feel that way about some of your memories?”

“Do I feel as if my life has been determined by another? Do I feel as if someone else has made certain decisions and has—look—taken this action or that one? Yes, of course. But this is a very common feeling, no?”

“Is it?”

“Of course it is.” He waved his hand as if to cast away any notion of singularity. “And, this … this story—why did you write such a thing?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve always said it came from seeing a photograph of these women in Iceland removing their snowsuits and revealing chic dresses underneath, around the same time as reading many articles about the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in Cape Town, but to tell you the truth I’m not sure how the idea started. I mean, I know I’ve seen that photograph, but I think the story might have come first. I met someone at a party who was visiting from Reykjavík.” Sarah shrugged.

They were underground again. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the grimy black of the subway window, with those under-eye circles still new enough to give her pause. “I don’t remember whether I met the Icelandic woman or saw that photo first. Anyway, it’s not autobiographical—the film—in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t. I do not make stupid assumptions. In addition, you are clearly an American.”

“Glad to hear it.” She was suddenly grinning and friendly, if also insulted by being clearly American. She was teetering on the verge of actual joy simply by talking to someone who knew nothing about her and her constricted little life. “Are you visiting?”

He nodded. “And you?”

“Me? No.” It was pleasant to imagine she was visiting New York. That she could pick up and return to another life, her real one. “No, I don’t travel much. Although I’m headed out of town for the weekend.”

“Somewhere nice?”

“I’m visiting old friends.” She suddenly realized that when she had envisioned this visit—walks in the woods, swims in a lake, wine in a spacious kitchen—there was no baby.