The Central Staircase

The central staircase is wider than ours, with a curved banister on either side. From above I can hear the chanting of the women who are already there. We go up the stairs, single file, being careful not to step on the trailing hems of each other’s dresses. To the left, the double doors to the dining room are folded back, and inside I can see the long table, covered with a white cloth and spread with a buffet: ham, cheese, oranges – they have oranges! – and fresh-baked breads and cakes. As for us, we’ll get milk and sandwiches, on a tray, later. But they have a coffee urn, and bottles of wine, for why shouldn’t the Wives get a little drunk on such a triumphant day? First they’ll wait for the results, then they’ll pig out. They’re gathered in the sitting room on the other side of the stairway now, cheering on this Commander’s Wife, the Wife of Warren. A small thin woman, she lies on the floor, in a white cotton nightgown, her greying hair spreading like mildew over the rug; they massage her tiny belly, just as if she’s really about to give birth herself.

The Commander, of course, is nowhere in sight. He’s gone wherever men go on such occasions, some hideout. Probably he’s figuring out when his promotion is likely to be announced, if all goes well. He’s sure to get one, now.

Ofwarren is in the master bedroom, a good name for it; where this Commander and his Wife nightly bed down. She’s sitting on their king-sized bed, propped with pillows: Janine, inflated but reduced, shorn of her former name. She’s wearing a white cotton shift, which is hiked up over her thighs; her long broom-coloured hair is pulled back and tied behind her head, to keep it out of the way. Her eyes are squeezed closed, and this way I can almost like her. After all, she’s one of us; what did she ever want but to lead her life as agreeably as possible? What else did any of us want? It’s the possible that’s the catch. She’s not doing badly, under the circumstances.