But not intervening, I could feel my body imbued with pleasure, a sense of calm.

That expression of Barbara’s, which only I noticed, lasted the rest of our visit. I didn’t attempt to tear through that tight mask. I accepted that behind this expression was an individual I could never really know, who walked beside me through these rooms, escorted by the woman renter, to take a look at the usual key places that needed checking on. Though the house incorporated modern building techniques—to cut down on lost heat, for instance—that it wasn’t waterproofed was starting to be a concern. Water scared Barbara: we didn’t know why, hadn’t figured out yet why she wiped her cheek if I kissed her after drinking something; she didn’t like sweat, saliva, broth, coffee, bodily fluids—any liquid on her skin she immediately dried off—and she definitely didn’t like the dampness at the edges of the parquet floor, or that mold spreading across the walls.

She discovered that they’d unplugged the dehumidifier in the downstairs room and put it out in the greenhouse, for aesthetic reasons. Since this was only a cellar space converted to a downstairs guest room, it had to be kept dry: now there was an inhospitable cold emanating from the room, and it stank of cellar. The being hidden behind Barbara’s face spoke as if she were giving some advice: “If you want to have guests down here, it’s best to run the dehumidifier.”

I added: “Meaning, the dehumidifier should be on at all times, on the control timer.”

Barbara said we’d be happy to get it going again, and three times the woman answered that this wouldn’t be necessary, until Barbara stopped and changed the subject.

A stirring, nondescript and private, dark and subtle, beneath the mask of my wife: she noted all the mold climbing the walls, the cobwebs on the stairs. She pointed these things out, not speaking. I saw and followed behind her, while the renter, a forty-year-old brat in a sweatshirt, smelling nicely of incense, began to respond more curtly.

I knew Barbara wasn’t up to adding that the wood table needed oiling, so I spoke up, talking like her.

The crucial room was the bathroom. More than any other problem in the house—and she would spot it every time we went over to somebody’s place that wasn’t very clean—she was most disturbed by the lime buildup when water would steadily, imperceptibly drip inside the toilet bowl.

Now, Barbara, who’d asked to use the bathroom, detected the first very slight trail of lime.

After all her politeness, when it was time to leave, she informed them that the workers would be by in the morning to address the various unsettled issues, as it was better to do it now than later, or “the problems will increase exponentially.”