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Every morning, Eva pours herself a glass of Scotch, sniffs and lets the alcohol vapors tempt her, then upends the contents in the kitchen sink. Once, during a very bad week, she let herself lap at it, then threw the glass at the wall to keep herself from taking a sip. The stain is still there, a reminder and a warning.
Her life is a complex tangle of temptation and restriction. She must take on a client she despises at least once a month—it had been once a week, but she couldn't live with that much irritation in her life. Although these days, she's having trouble finding clients she doesn't despise. She will accept half of the invitations extended to her by Dr. Reichwein, Dieter, and Nina to keep herself from relying upon them or ignoring them altogether. She may think about Kenzo once a day and inquire after him once a month. Of course, it doesn't count if someone else tells her about Kenzo, and she suspects Reichwein, Dieter, and Nina of doing so out of pity. Most of the time, she scoffs and pretends she doesn't think about him at all, but every so often, she slips and thanks them.
Today is a Tuesday, which normally means a client visit. Thankfully, Nina asked for help on a case a few days earlier, and Eva had gladly grabbed the excuse to cancel on Mr. Berger, whose hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes remind her of Roberto. She faxes over information she wormed out of an aggressively confident CEO at yesterday's charity-ball-cum-schmoozefest before swinging by Nina's apartment. She's two hours and forty-four minutes late, but Nina's smiling warmly as she welcomes Eva in.
"Oh Eva!" Nina says as she takes her coat. "It's so good to see you."
"It's only been a fortnight," Eva says. She's secretly pleased that Nina doesn't look irritated by the wait, then annoyed with herself for caring. Nina tries to hug her, and Eva pushes her away.
"Here, let me make you some tea," Nina says. "Sit down, sit down. The papers you faxed over are on the dining table. Thanks so much! I'm sure they'll be extremely helpful."
Eva grabs the papers from the table and heads to the kitchen instead of sitting down. She passes judgment. "Your kitchen is horrible. You should let me redo it. Of course, it'll probably cost more than you can afford."
Nina smiles. "Probably! And it's not like I do much cooking here anyway."
The ritual fulfilled, Eva clears a chair by dumping stacks of files and law textbooks on the floor, then creates an empty space amidst the chaos of the table. Nina pours both of them tea and stays standing, Eva having taken the only chair. They're ready to begin.
"Remember," Eva says, "this is the last one I'm doing for you."
"Of course," says Nina. "I shouldn't keep inconveniencing you anyway." They both know she'll be phoning Eva within a few weeks with another request.
The next few errands don't involve the circle of people Eva refuses to call her friends. But in the midst of looking at tiles and granite and the latest in gas-range stoves, she purchases a box of watercolors for Dieter, a fountain pen for Reichwein, and a leather briefcase for Nina. The present shopping doesn't take her out of her way, at least not by too much, and she'll have to bring something to dinner on Saturday anyway. When she doesn't, no one notices, but she feels her debt to these people adding up all the same. The gifts themselves are inadequate, but at least they signal that she's trying, and that's more than she was capable of only a year ago.
After she's handled calls and snapped at two clients—her count this week is not bad, but probably because it's only Tuesday—she embarks upon the most difficult journey of the week.
"Hello, Martin," she says upon reaching her destination. There's no gravestone, only one monument to the many anonymous people buried here. Sometimes she wishes there were a gravestone, a physical marker indicating that he once existed. But she only knows his first name and his date of death, and a gravestone with missing information seems worse than none at all.
She spreads her coat on the grass and sits. Some days, she talks to him, although less now that she's no longer going through withdrawal. Today she desires silence. She remembers picnics and muddy sandwiches, her three ex-husbands (one is in jail for tax evasion, one is a raging alcoholic, and one is happily remarried to a woman probably ten years older than she is) and how she hates them, and her father, buried kilometers away.
His grave has a stone, a full name, dates, and heaps of flowers even a decade or so after his death. But though he provided for her in every way, Eva prefers this site and this man, who gave her nothing but her life.
She's in the middle of trying to figure out which ex-husband she hates the most when someone blocks her sun.
"Ready for dinner?" Kenzo asks. His hair is long again, bringing up memories of the bad old days when people were trying to kill her, but he's not as skinny as he was, and at least he remembered a tie.
"You're interrupting me," she says even as she rises.
Kenzo apologizes (does he ever not?), motions for her to stay seated, and sits next to her. They stay there for a while, and Eva permits herself to lean slightly against his shoulder. It's as solid and dependable as always, and that's precisely why she won't let herself rest her head against it. He'll be gone in a few days anyway.
She wishes she could have lent Martin a shoulder, even though she knows she never would have, and when her head bows, Kenzo breaks the silence. "Time to go?" he asks.
"Fine, if you're in such a hurry," she says. She turns away to blink away tears, and Kenzo averts his eyes as he stands up.
Dinner is passable, although the service isn't attentive enough, the steak on the medium side of medium-rare, and the wine list too well chosen. She lets Kenzo go on about fighting malaria, cholera, HIV, and when the dessert comes, Eva heads to the bathroom and grabs the bill on the way. She spots Kenzo flagging down a waiter out of the corner of her eye and smiles. He's too late to pay the check, and really, this is the fifth time she's pulled the bathroom trick, and he hasn't caught on yet.
"Thank you for dinner," Kenzo says when she returns.
"I'll never be able to go to the places I like if you're treating."
Kenzo laughs as though she's joking.
"I'm flying out again on Thursday. I'm glad I got the chance to see you, even though Nina and Dr. Reichwein and Dieter all write about you. It's good to see you happy."
She rolls her eyes. "I'm not happy," she says. "People like me don't get to be happy."
"Oh, Eva," Kenzo says with a sigh. "Everyone gets the chance to be happy."
"People's lives aren't created equal."
"Even if that were true, they'd worth the same nonetheless," Kenzo argues.
"No," she says. "You think I don't know how little my life is worth, compared to one like yours?" She doesn't want to talk about it any more, so she leaves.
He catches up with her a few blocks from the restaurant and gives her a small box. "You forgot to eat your dessert," he says. Then he hugs her for several awkward seconds as she stands there stiffly, box in one hand, purse dangling from the other.
"Your life is worth everything," he whispers. "Why else would I have gone through so much trouble to help save it?" She bristles at the reminder and nearly snaps that he would have done the same for just about anyone, worm-ridden dogs included. But before she can, he's released her from the embrace and is waving goodbye.
"Be happy, Eva!" he shouts. "Thank you for taking care of everyone!" Then he's gone, maybe for a few months, maybe for a few years, depending on where he'll be stationed.
She opens the box at home, and inside is a card from Kenzo, thanking her yet again. It probably wasn't the best idea to make the donation in Martin's name, but she had wanted to see it in print. Then she shreds the card. She doesn't deserve the thanks, not yet.