When she did not respond he grabbed her hair again, drawing her face up to his. "A drink."

His eyes were blue, flecked with gold, and they held her for an instant before she shot back, "Go to hell. Go straight to hell."

She saw his eyes narrow slightly. Then another stinging blow left her breathless, staring at a border of stylized birds woven into the edge of the rug.

He closed on her slowly, slipping his hand under her robe and tearing it off in long strips. When her arms reflexively moved to her breasts, he pinned her wrists together, forcing her head to the floor. For a moment they both remained still, breathing hard, rhythmically.

There were mirrors on an opposite wall, and an almost ludicrous vision of herself as a trussed-up chicken. Kierpert lowered his trousers and dropped to his knees behind her. His eyes were glazed, and she couldn't help wincing as he slipped between her legs, prodding, exploring. Then he was on her like a furious ghost, driving deep inside.

When he had finished he left her on the floor, trembling slightly but not uttering a sound.

He dressed in the shadows, watching her, also not speaking. A quick impression of his profile in the glass left her with only a momentary thought: how German . . . Then, without warning he spoke; flat, emotionless, as if nothing had happened. "I won't be able to see you on Friday. I have previous commitments."

She reached for the bedspread in a half-hearted attempt to cover herself, "Get out."

"If, however, you should need me—"

"Get out of here."

For a long time after he had gone she scarcely moved. Although it was still early, the neighborhood was silent—just another ordinary Tuesday afternoon stuck in time. Then, by degrees she returned to ordinary pursuits: washing her hair, running a bath, turning down the bed. Sounds of distant traffic made her sad, so she placed another record on the gramophone.

There was a bruise on her left cheek, bruises on her wrists. She didn't worry about them. Only a man would be concerned with such temporary imperfection. Men ... so vain, so foolish.

Dreams covered moods like this, dreams of a daughter that she hardly knew, and a house in a country she had never seen. They would live as only independent women could live, drying their hair in a garden filled with ragged grass and hibiscus trumpets, chatting over tea and biscuits. Men would remain peripheral entities: delivering letters, chopping wood, killing each other off. Artists of consequence would visit on Sundays. And if, on occasion, these simple pleasures were not enough, one could always turn to an innocuous soul like that young Charles Dunbar at the Esplanade Hotel.