We had just come back from two years in East Timor, and we reveled in the cleanliness of Europe, how easy it was to buy what you wanted: a certain kind of shampoo, books, fresh asparagus, Italian shoes. We went for weekends to Paris or Amsterdam or Berlin or to the country house of some new, interesting friends. At such a house we met Elise. I’ve considered that it’s possible we met her before but she was simply so forgettable that I didn’t remember. Even this particular time, I recall only certain details. It was early June, a heat wave. The house was on the far side of Lac Léman, right on the water. Tom and I had the attic bedroom and we jokingly called it Manila, it was so hot and humid in the small room. Elise wasn’t staying at the house, she only came for lunch on the Sunday. She was an odd, little mouse of a person with sharp, almost twitchy, movements. She didn’t say much. But she was sitting next to Tom at the table, and he spoke to her, engaged her, as he did everyone.
