Can I give you a hand?

He was in his mid- or late-thirties, stubble, sitting in the window seat of the plane. Dominique shook her head, and grimaced as the black case slotted into the compartment. She straightened out her jeans, placed her soft nylon briefcase on the seat. She took out her reading materials – a Coetzee novel and Harper's, a file folder of work-related papers – and stuffed the pile of text in the pocket along with the emergency procedures and the vomit bag. She took out her bottle of water, slid into place, put the briefcase under her seat, took off her shoes, did up her seatbelt and began reading the magazine.

She was exhausted. She couldn't wait to get home. All this travel was starting to wear her down.

It had been a long trip, starting with a conference in Geneva with nongovernmental agencies and the usual UN departments, and then on to the Philippines, for workshops with the community groups she was supposed to be helping. Though when she was tired, like now, she wondered whether she and her colleagues were doing any good at all, other than supporting a brisk hotel business.

Those hotels and destinations seemed so exotic a few years ago, but hotels in Geneva look like hotels in Manila which are dead ringers for hotels in Toronto, and usually these meetings took up as much energy as she could muster, regardless of what they actually accomplished.

By the end of the day, there was little desire for anything except television and sleep, which were more or less the same no matter what continent she was on.

The man beside her was attractive, there was no doubt about that.

She had once told Julian that she evaluated every man she met and slotted them into one of three categories: would sleep with; would not sleep with; possible.

They had been lying in bed the morning after their first night of lovemaking. Julian had laughed at the time. He told her about the sex-changing Greek priest Teiresias who, based on several years of experience in each camp, said that on a scale of one to ten, women enjoy sex nine times to a man's one. Teiresias was given the gift of prophesy by Zeus for her honesty, and struck blind by Zeus' wife Hera for betraying the female secret.

After Julian finished his story, he asked, as all the men Dominique slept with always asked: So, what did you think when you met me? He was on top of her, and she felt the weight of his body, a pleasant feeling of suffocation. Dominique answered, Would sleep with, of course. Though in fact he had been a possible, but had convinced her with his persistence.

Dominique had a theory that the possibles did better than the definitelies in the long run, and so far Julian had proved a very effective possible.

This man beside her, though, was a definitely. A definite definitely.

Not that she would consider having sex with him, of course, but in the fantasy world where no one knows anything, where there are no witnesses, she would probably be having sex with him right now.

She hoped she would be able to sleep on the plane.

***

She and Julian had had yet another fight before she left, she supposed it was about kids, though she was never sure what they were fighting about anymore. They rarely talked about children, it wasn't exactly a truce, but the topic seemed to be off-limits for the past year. She didn't want them; he did. They were at an impasse. She supposed her objections were rooted in the fear that she would be a mother like her own, who had left when Dominique was just two years old, off to Mexico with a German scuba diver, then to Goa with an American "journalist," and beyond. Hopefully Dominique would be better at motherhood than that, if and when the time came, but she didn't trust herself.

She remembered her mother's occasional returns into their lives, the chaos and gifts form exotic lands that came with her arrival. She remembered the excitement of stories of Zanzibar and New Guinea, and how beautiful her mother was in her flowing saris and leather sandals, miniature versions of which she brought for her daughter. She remembered listening in on the hushed conversations between her father and mother when she was supposed to be sleeping.

But most of all she remembered the look in her father's eyes when her mother left again, and the Slavic tragedy that descended on the apartment, the days of silence followed by vodka and late-night calls back to Poland to talk to his friends from his student days, while Dominique cried herself to sleep.

Why can't she stay? She shrieked at her father one time.

He lifted his dark hooded eyes, shrugged and shook his head. He didn't know why she didn't stay.

I wish I could go with her, Dominique said, stamping her foot, as the tears came. I don't want to be here anymore. It's boring.

And her dear, wise father had just gathered her up in his strong arms and rocked her until she stopped crying, and fell asleep in his arms.

Her wise, wounded father.

If she inherited genes from her father's side she would be alright, but it was this motherhood thing that terrified her. She had heard that maternal instinct sometimes appeared in women when a baby was born, much to the surprise of everyone. But she had enough friends in whom no maternal instincts appeared, who resented the kidnapping of their bodies, the nine-month prison term followed by unending parole, restrictions on what one could do and when, what one could eat and drink, the banned cigarettes, the utter, unimaginable soul-destroying exhaustion.

And she saw how these women, friends of hers, had been changed, from sharp, powerful women into either the soft-focus maternal caricatures cooing over their offspring, or to harried, puke-stained unstable women on verges of nervous breakdowns.

Dominique didn't want to be either.

She had one friend in London, Gillian, who had been a striking beauty and a seducer of men, a young neurology resident with commanding eyes and a jaw of almost military resolve; Gillian, who had been reduced to tears in front of Dominique, sobbing at how tired she was, how little time she had for herself, at how worried she was about her baby who wouldn't stop crying, her baby who had a rash and no one knew what it was, and what did Dominique think she should do?

What should I do? What?

And then more sobbing.

This was a woman Dominique had always looked up to, a few years older, smarter, focused, a woman who did exactly what she wanted, with grace and certainty. And now she had turned into a sobbing wreck.

***

Are you a Coetzee fan? the man beside her asked, pointing his chin at the book.

Leave me alone, she thought. She smiled a blank smile, a reflexive gesture devoid of meaning, a physiological tick ingrained in all women. Or, ingrained, at least, in Dominique. It would be impossible for her not to smile at an attractive man engaging her in conversation on a plane. Why couldn't she just snarl and tell him to fuck off? She was so tired.

Yes. She nodded and continued reading her magazine. I am. (Of course I am, she thought. Why else would I have his novel here? )

He's brilliant, the man said. I think, anyway.

Dominique turned and studied him. He had a kind, strong face, short hair. Not corporate, but not a tourist either. A day's stubble, shirt open at the collar. Not unlike Julian, but better-looking, more rugged, bigger frame. Warmer perhaps, too. And a faint accent. Irish? Maybe.

When she was in her early twenties, a blind old Gypsy woman had told her that she would marry an Irishman. She'd come close, Julian's distant ancestors were Irish, but this row-neighbour was the real article, of that she was now quite certain. A poet from the bogs, perhaps, the granite – or was it limestone? – stretches of the Western World, with a stone cottage in Donegal or Sligo. She imagined the two of them briefly, in a movie-set bed with piles of luscious white sheets, clouds of sheets, an open window and a view of the sea, surf crashing, the two of them lounging by a sweet-smelling peat fire, naked together, the rough feel of his stubble …

She realized, with some pleasure, that she was smiling and blushing.

He is quite good, Dominique agreed. Coetzee. Have you read Disgrace?

The Irishman fell asleep, but Dominique was not so lucky.

***

She was in that exaggerated state of agitation that prevented her from reading Coetzee or Harper's. She tried to do work, but that failed as well, so she just stared ahead, watched an inane movie about a family of superheroes, and fiddled with the in-flight radio, listening to the same tepid jazz and pop tunes over and over, hour after hour.

There was a one-hour lay-over in London, that became a two-hour, then three-hour delay. She wandered around Heathrow in a sort of trance. On the London-Montreal leg of her trip, she took a Gravol, and this time she did fall asleep.

She felt stoned as she strode towards passport control at Dorval. Her eyes were dry, her face itchy, her hair greasy.

Her whole body was sore and she felt ill.  This must be what heroin smugglers feel like, she thought. She went through passport control quickly, waited twenty minutes at the carousel for her suitcase, dragged her bag and herself towards the exit, handed her customs declaration card to the agent at the door. She was about to walk out when he pointed towards a side door. This way please, he said.

Excuse me? She said.

He pointed with his thumb and said, again, please step through that door.

She stood there dumbly for a moment before she understood that she was being directed to the room to the side. She had been flagged as a risk, a smuggler, a terrorist. She wasn't free to go yet. She was being sent to the … what did they call it? The interrogation room?

She pulled the bag behind her, turned the corner. What am I doing with the Africans and Arabs? she thought, and immediately felt disgust at herself for thinking such a thing, but that's how a police state makes you think, isn't it, living in fear of everyone else.

Her bag seemed unbelievably heavy. She felt like she might pass out with fatigue as she walked.

The customs agent was rude, and vaguely threatening. He dumped her dirty clothes out of the suitcase, onto the stainless steel table. Where'd you buy these, he said, picking up a pair of panties between his thumb and forefinger and leering at her. Her face flushed with anger and shame. She'd report him when she got home, she thought. She looked around the room at the other travellers, tired families, old men and women, pleading people who had so much more at stake than she did. For them, crossing a border meant something; for Dominique, it was just another annoyance.

I bought them at Simon's she said, holding his bullying gaze as best as she could. She felt her throat clenching, and thought, oh God, don't let me cry. Not in front of this prick.

She didn't, and when she plunked into the taxi for the ride home, she thought again about filing a complaint, but she knew she wouldn't. She would have a bath, Julian would cook her dinner, they would lie down on the couch and he would stroke her hair. Everything would be all right again.

***

There had been only one indiscretion, recent, foolhardy, and not serious, or so Dominique told herself. It was with Nicholas, an old friend of Julian's. She started the affair with a sort of casualness that surprised her. She was having doubts, she supposed, wondering when her love for Julian would wear off – as it had with all the others before him. Perhaps the thought of children caused the affair.

She had never really expected to be attracted to the fatherhood qualities of a lover, and yet here she was married to a solid, kind, good fatherly man – who wanted children.

Unlike Nicholas.

Nicolas was a frequent visitor to their apartment, a part-time broadcaster and occasional writer, sometime-English-teacher, one of these grown-up children that peppered Montreal. Flirtatious, enthusiastic. Dominique had always liked him. He drank in the bars on St-Laurent, smoked pot and slept with strangers. At wine-filled dinners, Nicholas regaled them with stories of his conquests and sexual adventures with twenty-year-olds, women, he said with mock horror, who were almost half his age!

Dominique wanted to be a twenty-year-old again, wanted to be half his age.

Julian was away at a conference, and Dominique bumped into Nicholas walking along St-Denis street. She was shopping for Christmas presents; he was walking off a hang-over. They had coffee, then a beer, then dinner at Nicholas' place. They drank too much wine, listened to old records, smoked pot, and next thing she knew she was in bed with him. We shouldn't be doing this, he said. I know, she said, attacking him, ripping off the last of his clothes. It had been years since she had felt such carnal desire for another body.

Don't beat yourself up, he said afterwards, perhaps trying to assuage his own guilt. You've been married a few years now, we've got urges.

Urges, Dominique said, halfheartedly. She wasn't quite sure what to think of herself.

We're just animals, Nick continued. we like fucking different people, just like every other organism on the planet.

Dominique snorted an objection, but Nick didn't listen, and she just closed her eyes.

There was something refreshing about being ignored. Julian would have hounded her for an opinion, weighed it against his own, against the balance of evidence he had to present. He would have invited criticisms, and considered her views.  Though in the end he would have arrived at the same place, with the right answer. His answer.

But Nick liked to talk. He just rattled on, while he rolled another joint. He didn't care what Dominique thought. He didn't really care what he thought. He just liked to talk. Dominique enjoyed listening.

It's like an ant hill, he said. We all play our different roles in the system, like all the different ants, the worker ants and the soldier ants and the cleaner ant. Everyone's got their purpose, but in the grand scheme the main thing is to ensure the survival of the colony, survival of the species. Knowing that, he said, makes life very simple. Women want men who will give them good strong babies who will make lots of babies themselves -- that's why you all swoon over the rock stars and the dickheads.

The family guy's a good long term prospect, but you can't deny how hot you get over the lady-slayers. It's pretty simple, really. We want to fuck, you want to get fucked. Simple.

And you're a ladyslayer, are you, Nick?

He laughed in the night, stroked her head. I try to be.

Did your high school gym teach you all about this? Dominique said. She was half disgusted, half amused. It was hard to take Nicholas seriously, with his impish little grin. Is sex the only thing? What about Art? She asked. Love? What about morality?

She was lying naked on her stomach, hugging a pillow under her, her eyes closed, contemplating her own questionable morality. She felt like an undergraduate asking such questions. There was something about Nick that made growing up seem so dull.

Nick was caressing her bare ass as he spoke. He offered her the joint, which she refused.

We've spent the past 5,000 years, Nick went on, convincing ourselves that we're different from all the other animals on earth, that we live by different rules, we're more important, our spirit and soul give us some special privilege and status in the universe. But we're no different from the rest of the viruses and bacteria and worms and kangaroos. The ants. We do stuff so we can get laid. In Africa, if you skin an antelope well, the girls love you; at McGill, if you publish in Nature, the women drop their knickers.

I've been known to drop my knickers, Dominique said sleepily, for cretinous imbeciles with the opinions of cavemen. But that just makes me an adulterous idiot, and proves you don't know what you're talking about.

Everything, one way or another, is about fucking for more babies. It's simple arithmetic. Darwin figured it all out for us and we still don't get it. We still think we're different, special. But art, soul, morality, all that stuff is meaningless if we don't fuck for babies. That's the the only thing that matters in the end.

I don't want to fuck for babies, she said. And you don't.

You've got your metaphysics all wrong, he said.Too much time with Descartes. I'm not saying everyone thinks they want to fuck for babies. He had climbed on top of her and was lying on her back now, but she groaned and shifted so he fell off her. Or that everyone wants to fuck. But as a system, in general, that's the objective. Not everyone wants to fuck for babies, but if the non-fuckers were to start to kill off the fuckers, for instance, we wouldn't last very long, would we? Nick smiled in the night, she could feel him smiling. He rolled back on top of her. We've got all sorts of biological and cultural urges that push us in that direction.

You are a prick, Dominique said laughing. Nick was joking and charming, but deadly serious. And she knew it.

And so she laughed, and had sex with him instead of thinking any more. So much easier.

They fucked that night, six months ago, but not for babies.

As Dominique walked home sometime after midnight, chain smoking all the way, she wondered what, indeed, she had been fucking for, if not for babies. Revenge? Anger? Fun? Horniness? Boredom? Drunkenness? Love?

None of those seemed right, not even all of them together seemed right.

She thought about her husband, a man she did love, she thought she loved, knew she loved, more or less… more not less… a man she eventually wanted to fuck for babies with – but not quite yet. She wondered if Julian would forgive her for this transgression, if he ever found out. He had forgiven her for everything else, maybe he would understand this, even if she didn't. She inhaled the cigarette smoke, thick and rich. She felt raw and unsure of herself.

Nick's universe made a terrible sort of sense, that we all just wanted to fuck, forget the rest. It was so much simpler. Fucking was easier to understand than happiness. Certainly easier to understand than love, love that was supposed to be constant and unwavering, but never was. Occasional joy, frequent ebbs of disappointment, rare – but not unknown – moments of disgust. Disgust with herself sometimes, with her own life, and of course disgust with Julian, with other men she had loved. And that vague feeling of disappointment, that nothing was ever good enough, nothing ever lasted. It had nothing to do with anything that Julian was, but what he was not. Unknown. Better. More. The man who would make all of this better for her, forever.

She had a feeling sometimes, when she was in the middle of something wonderful, a sensation of a future when everything would be spoiled - as it always was, eventually. She would feel overwhelmed with sadness and a nostalgia of the future, of a time when she would think back to joy she was feeling right now. She could never quite love the moment as it was, the present was always tainted by a premonition of a cloudy, depressing day with dusk fast approaching and an empty house when all the sounds in her ears were louder than they should be.

When she was old enough to be alone and her father was working on the weekends, she used to watch terrible Sunday television instead of doing her homework. She knew he would be home soon, but he never was home soon enough. When he finally arrived she would run to the door to hug him. He would pat her head and make a quick dinner and then disappear into his office to call Poland and talk on the phone all night in a language she didn't understand. There was a quality to the light on days like that, metallic, nostalgic. Awful. And it was this light that she always imagined in times of happiness or joy. She imagined how that joy would be gone later, and she'd be left alone again, waiting for things to get better.

Julian had cured her of this nostalgic disease at first, but it came back once in while, she felt it now walking home. How was she supposed to love another human forever? If you just looked at the math, it was a pretty unlikely proposition. To try to match up two chaotic functions, two human beings, to make them both work together in tandem until t = ∞.

Maybe Julian was right. Love, he liked to say, is a decision, not a feeling.

Which was all fine and well, but what happens when you've decided to love Julian yet you feel like sleeping with Nick? Well, you don’t do it.

But she did it. I am a moron, she thought. It wasn't exactly guilt she felt, but disappointment in herself, her lack of willpower. Her seediness. I won’t do that again, she thought. Never again.

But she knew that, like so many things that have had that pledge attached to them, the "never" only applied for so long. Not for a while, anyway, would be a better motto for her, a better motto for the human race. Not until we feel like it again. Not until it's convenient.

They slept together a few more times, until Dominique told Nick they had to stop.

This is just so stupid, she said, inhaling on the joint he had passed her, coughing. They were lying together naked in his bedroom, his battered apartment on St-Viateur, with books, old vinyl LPs, and clothes scattered around the floor.

I know, he answered. I feel like a shit.

I don't want to do this anymore.

Me neither.

You live like a pig, Nick.

I know.

And I love Julian.

I know you do. I do too. He's an old friend. This does have to stop.

So it's settled, Dominique said.

They might as well have been discussing the weather, which was a relief. She'd been worried that Nicholas might protest.

"Yes," he said.

But next time I'm over at your place, he stubbed out the joint in the ashtray on the sheets between them, I'll be imagining fucking you while we're having cocktails with Julian.

Shut up, Dominique said. But she was happy to know that he would be imagining sex with her. The more men who imagined having sex with her, she thought, the better.

***

The taxi driver rode the horn as they pulled away from the airport, accelerating and decelerating continuously. Dominique felt the blood draining from her face. She thought she might throw up. This was always the worst part of every trip, after the hotels, the flight, the baggage collection, the neon of the airport: it was this last leg of taxi travel that condensed everything that was awful about voyages into twenty minutes of distilled hell. This terrible time just before you get home.

The driver wanted to talk. She leaned her head against the window while he asked her questions that she had stopped answering. At least he had the air conditioning on.

--Which is why I don't like bicycles, lady, you know what I mean?--

She wasn't sure what the taxi driver was talking about. She didn't encourage him, but he kept talking, not at all concerned that she was answering none of his questions.

--You know, lady? You ever wondered that? I have, I'll tell you. It's because they don't want you to know. They don't want you to ask what they're putting in it --

***

The silence of the apartment was different, somehow. More silent than usual, more empty.

Hello? she said to the empty place. She put her bags down by the front door and strode towards the bathroom. She splashed her face with water, and walked into the kitchen. She got herself a glass of water, drank it, and knocked on the door of Julian's office, pushed her way in. It was empty, the sun steamed in through the window, the green leaves of the trees in the back yard bright in their new summer colours. Everything was still. A pile of books sat on his desk. His laptop was plugged in on his desk, on, but tight-lipped.

Julian? she called, but he was not here.

She went back to the kitchen, opened the fridge. It was well-stocked.

She sat down at the kitchen table, saw the note, read it several times, and then picked up the phone and dialed the cottage near Mount Echo.

***

She hung up the phone and wiped her eyes.

He's gone mad, she said aloud. Completely mad. The future father of my children has gone bonkers.

What was he talking about, visions of God and direct experience of the Universe itself, and clarity and and and … he sounded like a ranting wino, a street-corner madman. He sounded like the taxi driver. My God, what has happened? She was shaking. I need a doctor; Julian needs a doctor. She called Nicholas, asked him if he'd seen Julian recently.

No, he said. Not for a couple of weeks.

Can I come over?

I don't –

Please?

Sure. Sure.

Are you all right?

No, she said.

After she hung up the phone, Dominique sat for an hour at the kitchen table. Then she showered, dressed, and walked towards Nicholas' apartment, craving cigarettes.

Cigarettes.

Whiskey.

Pot.

An explanation.