I heard it with my own ears.  I was in the other room reading Thomas Mann, so I wasn’t really paying attention.  I mean to the Bro and his gal.  I was definitely paying attention to Gustav, as he slowly lost his whole being, a slave to his passions, dying in the squalor of cholera.  Oh, yeah.  I was paying attention, all right.  But not to all the kerfuffle in the bedroom.  I mean, who cares about that?

 

But then I heard her crying and the bro’s silence – which is unusual.  Like I said before, she is really sweet and I knew something was up, although I have to admit, I wasn’t all that surprised.  Since his promotion he had been out of control in the alcohol department, consuming way too much by my standards.  And she had been saying it too.

 

Somewhere in the last chapter, where Gustav is back at the beach watching Tadzio for what he believes will be the last time, I heard her say it: I’m leaving.  Followed by the requisite: What do you mean? spoken with just the edge of panic.

 

I missed most of the conversation, as I had to finish the book, and it was fantastic.  But once done, I scurried into the bedroom to listen.  The Bro was sitting on the edge of the bed, half dressed, looking out the window into the darkness, nothing in particular in view.  I could hear the wind blowing and gently shaking the window, as though trying to get his attention.  She sat on the bed with her beautiful legs extended and her head bowed, talking slowly, deliberately, peacefully, looking at her own folded hands.  I didn’t need to hear what was spoken, I could see it there before me.  Acrid, uncomfortable, nearly silent, the Bro sweating, staring aimlessly, unclear if he was even capable of hearing her words.

 

I’m sorry, she said quietly.  This is hard.

 

But what she said was clear and precise; it was thoughtful and so clearly from her heart.  Tears were dripping occasionally from her chin.  Love was not in question, but the safety of her heart very much was.  I could see it, just as clearly as if her heart were in her folded hands.  But could he?  When she had finished, I looked at him closely and could see the almost imperceptible tremor, the rapid breathing, the eyes blinking more frequently than might be normal, but still not a word.

 

After sitting in complete silence for perhaps five minutes, she stood from her side of the bed and quickly, competently, assembled her clothes and dressed, wrapped her neck in a knitted red scarf, pulled her heavy blue jacket onto her small arms, and walked to the door of the bedroom, which was open.  But still she stopped and turned and looked long at her partner.  She, too, saw the tremor and she saw the sweat trickle down his back.  She saw the heavy breathing.  She saw the agony.

 

It’s not just the alcohol, she said.  It’s you.  You are the one who must make the choice.

 

She waited but there was no reply.  Then she was gone.  I could hear the front door open and close, followed by complete silence, only disturbed by his heavy breathing.

 

Well, she was right.  Only he could make the decision.  As much as I wanted to shout at him, make him see what was so plainly obvious to me, to her, to the world, it would do nothing.  And he sat, looking blankly out the window.

 

The rain had started and now was tapping at the window, rising and falling with the wind.  There was an occasional whistle from air leaking around the glass, eventually followed by a small trickle of water.  I watched as this gathered on the sill, until finally, it began dripping onto the floor, perfectly timed.