The Ancient Rain by Domenic Stansberry Page A

When they had talked about the house—about the possibility of moving in—it had not been about the house as it was but as it might be: if this wall were gone, a door here, the kitchen opening onto the back porch. Now her manner grew remote, a little sad. And he saw at the same time her professional side, a real-estate agent examining a property.
    â€œWhat did Prospero want?”
    â€œI have a client,” she said. “He’s considering selling his place. And he wanted to look at the multiple listings—to get an idea of the market.”
    â€œThe man on the phone?”
    â€œHum?”
    â€œThe man who left the message the other day—that was the one?”
    She looked distracted.
    â€œOh, yes,” she said. “The market is hot, you know—all of a sudden.”
    She had tried to explain it to him earlier. On the surface, it might not make sense, given the papers were full of doom—stories about how easy it would be to poison the water at Hetch Hetchy, to gas the crowd at Candlestick, to make a dirty bomb, to kill us all—but for some reason, in the midst of all this doom, houses were selling. People were frightened, nesting in.
    â€œDid you bring the photos?”
    She nodded then and laid them out on the table: pictures of an apartment somewhere in Spain. A place with a balcony and a view of a city street. Then more pictures behind those.
    Marilyn sipped at the wine. “I read in the papers,” she said, “Owens has been granted bail.”
    â€œHe still has to raise the money. We’ve been invited to the defense party—when he gets out … remember?”
    Marilyn faltered. “The kids…?”
    â€œThey’re okay.”
    â€œSure.”
    He glanced again at the pictures.
    â€œYou and I,” she said.
    â€œThat’s not the Costa Brava.”
    â€œSomeone snapped that place up.”
    â€œMadrid?”
    â€œYes. I spent some time there, just after college.”
    â€œI hear it’s different now.”
    â€œThere’s still the backcountry, all those little towns. The women in black…”
    â€œThat was a long time ago.”
    â€œFranco…”
    â€œThe peasants, they are all gone.”
    â€œNo, they just dress differently,” she said. “More like here.”
    They sifted through other possibilities. A cottage in the hills near Dublin. A house with a tin roof in Baja. A thatched veranda. Ceiling fans. Lava rolling to the jungle coast.
    More pictures.
    Saigon and Copenhagen and Casablanca.
    Landscapes in which to imagine yourself.
    Marilyn, with her green eyes and her skirt up around her knees, lying by the glass coffee table, next to the red sofa from Milan, her hands inside his pants, that first time making love, years ago, on the floor of his cousin’s house.
    â€œHow much do you think I could get for this place?”
    â€œDo you think you could let it go?” she asked.
    Empty now, stripped of artifacts, it was just a house, but the emptiness had its own grip as well.
    â€œI think so.”
    â€œIf you did sell, what would hold you here?”
    â€œIn North Beach?”
    â€œYou could go anywhere.”
    â€œWe could, yes.”
    She was smiling, her eyes had a brightness to them, but there was a dark sheen over the luminosity. He saw her sense of vulnerability but also a toughness, a determination not to be taken in. She liked things, he knew that. She liked clothes, hotel rooms. Men with money.
    He thought about his mother’s box with the rings inside.
    He was tempted to get the box—to show her the rings—but there was a next step following that, an implication.
    â€œLet’s go,” she said. “Let’s get some decent wine.”
    She smiled then and kissed him, but she carried a reserve about her that he could not quite read. Or did not want to read.
    Everyone had their secrets.
    They left the house and walked down the street,