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You　have？　he　said　with　a　hint　of　jealousy。
A　friend　of　mine　once　sent　me　a　postcard　from　there。　It's　taped　up　over　the　toilet。　Haven't　you　noticed？　
Then　she　told　him　a　story。　Once　upon　a　time；　in　the　early　part　of　the　century；　there　lived　a　poet。　He　was　so　old　he　had　to　be　taken　on　walks　by　his　amanuensis。　'Master；'　his　amanuensis　said　one　day；　'look　what's　up　in　the　sky！　It's　the　first　airplane　ever　to　fly　over　the　city！'　'I　have　my　own　picture　of　it；'　said　the　poet　to　his　amanuensis；　without　raising　his　eyes　from　the　ground。　Well；　I　have　my　own　picture　of　Palermo。　It　has　the　same　hotels　and　cars　as　all　cities。　And　my　studio　always　has　new　and　different　pictures。　
Franz　was　sad。　He　had　grown　so　accustomed　to　linking　their　love　life　to　foreign　travel　that　his　Let's　go　to　Palermo！　was　an　unambiguous　erotic　message　and　her　I　prefer　Geneva　could　have　only　one　meaning：　his　mistress　no　longer　desired　him。
How　could　he　be　so　unsure　of　himself　with　her？　She　had　not　given　him　the　slightest　cause　for　worry！　In　fact；　she　was　the　one　who　had　taken　the　erotic　initiative　shortly　after　they　met。　He　was　a　good…looking　man；　he　was　at　the　peak　of　his　scholarly　career；　he　was　even　feared　by　his　colleagues　for　the　arrogance　and　tenacity　he　displayed　during　professional　meetings　and　colloquia。　Then　why　did　he　worry　daily　that　his　mistress　was　about　to　leave　him？
The　only　explanation　I　can　suggest　is　that　for　Franz；　love　was　not　an　extension　of　public　life　but　its　antithesis。　It　meant　a　longing　to　put　himself　at　the　mercy　of　his　partner。　He　who　gives　himself　up　like　a　prisoner　of　war　must　give　up　his　weapons　as　well。　And　deprived　in　advance　of　defense　against　a　possible　blow；　he　cannot　help　wondering　when　the　blow　will　fall。　That　is　why　I　can　say　that　for　Franz；　love　meant　the　constant　expectation　of　a　blow。
While　Franz　attended　to　his　anguish；　his　mistress　put　down　her　brush　and　went　into　the　next　room。　She　returned　with　a　bottle　of　wine。　She　opened　it　without　a　word　and　poured　out　two　glasses。
Immediately　he　felt　relieved　and　slightly　ridiculous。　The　I　prefer　Geneva　did　not　mean　she　refused　to　make　love；　quite　the　contrary；　it　meant　she　was　tired　of　limiting　their　lovemaking　to　foreign　cities。
She　raised　her　glass　and　emptied　it　in　one　swig。　Franz　did　the　same。　He　was　naturally　overjoyed　that　her　refusal　to　go　to　Palermo　was　actually　a　call　to　love；　but　he　was　a　bit　sorry　as　well：　his　mistress　seemed　determined　to　violate　the　zone　of　Purity　he　had　introduced　into　their　relationship；　she　had　failed　to　understand　his　apprehensive　attempts　to　save　their　love　from　banality　and　separate　it　radically　from　his　conjugal　home。
The　ban　on　making　love　with　his　painter…mistress　in　Geneva　was　actually　a　self…inflicted　punishment　for　having　married　another　woman。　He　felt　it　as　a　kind　of　guilt　or　defect。　Even　though　his　conjugal　sex　life　was　hardly　worth　mentioning；　he　and　his　wife　still　slept　in　the　same　bed；　awoke　in　the　middle　of　the　night　to　each　other's　heavy　breathing；　and　inhaled　the　smells　of　each　other's　body。　True；　he　would　rather　have　slept　by　himself；　but　the　marriage　bed　is　still　the　symbol　of　the　marriage　bond；　and　symbols；　as　we　know；　are　inviolable。
Each　time　he　lay　down　next　to　his　wife　in　that　bed；　he　thought　of　his　mistress　imagining　him　lying　down　next　to　his　wife　in　that　bed；　and　each　time　he　thought　of　her　he　felt　ashamed。　That　was　why　he　wished　to　separate　the　bed　he　slept　in　with　his　wife　as　far　as　possible　in　space　from　the　bed　he　made　love　in　with　his　mistress。
His　painter…mistress　poured　herself　another　glass　of　wine；　drank　it　down；　and　then；　still　silent　and　with　a　curious　nonchalance；　as　if　completely　unaware　of　Franz's　presence；　slowly　removed　her　blouse。　She　was　behaving　like　an　acting　student　whose　improvisation　assignment　is　to　make　the　class　believe　she　is　alone　in　a　room　and　no　one　can　see　her。
Standing　there　in　her　skirt　and　bra；　she　suddenly　（as　if　recalling　only　then　that　she　was　not　alone　in　the　room）　fixed　Franz　with　a　long　stare。
That　stare　bewildered　him；　he　could　not　understand　it。　All　lovers　unconsciously　establish　their　own　rules　of　the　game；　which　from　the　outset　admit　no　transgression。　The　stare　she　had　just　fixed　on　him　fell　outside　their　rules；　it　had　nothing　in　common　with　the　looks　and　gestures　that　usually　preceded　their　lovemaking。　It　was　neither　provocative　nor　flirtatious；　simply　interrogative。　The　problem　was；　Franz　had　not　the　slightest　notion　what　it　was　asking。
Next　she　stepped　out　of　her　skirt　and；　taking　Franz　by　the　hand；　turned　him　in　the　direction　of　a　large　mirror　propped　against　the　wall。　Without　letting　go　of　his　hand；　she　looked　into　the　mirror　with　the　same　long　questioning　stare；　training　it　first　on　herself；　then　on　him。
Near　the　mirror　stood　a　wig　stand　with　an　old　black　bowler　hat　on　it。　She　bent　over；　picked　up　the　hat；　and　put　it　on　her　head。　The　image　in　the　mirror　was　instantaneously　transformed：　suddenly　it　was　a　woman　in　her　undergarments；　a　beautiful；　distant；　indifferent　woman　with　a　terribly　out…of…place　bowler　hat　on　her　head；　holding　the　hand　of　a　man　in　a　gray　suit　and　a　tie。
Again　he　had　to　smile　at　how　poorly　he　understood　his　mistress。　When　she　took　her　clothes　off；　it　wasn't　so　much　erotic　provocation　as　an　odd　little　caper；　a　happening　a　deux。　His　smile　beamed　understanding　and　consent。
He　waited　for　his　mistress　to　respond　in　kind；　but　she　did　not。　Without　letting　go　of　his　hand；　she　stood　staring　into　the　mirror；　first　at　herself；　then　at　him。
The　time　for　the　happening　had　come　and　gone。　Franz　was　beginning　to　feel　that　the　caper　（which；　in　and　of　itself；　he　was　happy　to　think　of　as　charming）　had　dragged　on　too　long。　So　he　gently　took　the　brim　of　the　bowler　hat　between　two　fingers；　lifted　it　off　Sabina's　head　with　a　smile；　and　laid　it　back　on　the　wig　stand。　It　was　as　though　he　were　erasing　the　mustache　a　naughty　child　had　drawn　on　a　picture　of　the　Virgin　Mary。
For　several　more　seconds　she　remained　motionless；　staring　at　herself　in　the　mirror。　Then　Franz　covered　her　with　tender　kisses　and　asked　her　once　more　to　go　with　him　in　ten　days　to　Palermo。　This　time　she　said　yes　unquestioningly；　and　he　left。
He　was　in　an　excellent　mood　again。　Geneva；　which　he　had　cursed　all　his　life　as　the　metropolis　of　boredom；　now　seemed　beautiful　and　full　of　adventure。　Outside　in　the　street；　he　looked　back　up　at　the　studio's　broad　window。　It　was　late　spring　and　hot。　All　the　windows　were　shaded　with　striped　awnings。　Franz　walked　to　the　park。　At　its　far　end；　the　golden　cupolas　of　the　Orthodox　church　rose　up　like　two　gilded　cannonballs　kept　from　imminent　collapse　and　suspended　in　the　air　by　some　invisible　Power。　Everything　was　beautiful。　Then　he　went　down　to　the　embankment　and　took　the　public　transport　boat　to　the　north　bank　of　the　lake；　where　he　lived。
2
Sabina　was　now　by　herself。　She　went　back　to　the　mirror；　still　in　her　underwear。　She　put　the　bowler　hat　back　on　her　head　and　had　a　long　look　at　herself。　She　was　amazed　at　the　number　of　years　she　had　spent　pursuing　one　lost　moment。
Once；　during　a　visit　to　her　studio　many　years　before；　the　bowler　hat　had　caught　Tomas's　fancy。　He　had　set　it　on　his　head　and　looked　at　himself　in　the　large　mirror　which；　as　in　the　Geneva　studio；　leaned　against　the　wall。　He　wanted　to　see　what　he　would　have　looked　like　as　a　nineteenth…century　mayor。　When　Sabina　started　undressing；　he　put　the　hat　on　her　head。　There　they　stood　in　front　of　the　mirror　（they　always　stood　in　front　of　the　mirror　while　she　undressed）；　watching　themselves。　She　stripped　to　her　underwear；　but　still　had　the　hat　on　her　head。　And　all　at　once　she　realized　they　were　both　excited　by　what　they　saw　in　the　mirror。
What　could　have　excited　them　so？　A　moment　before；　the　hat　on　her　head　had　seemed　nothing　but　a　joke。　Was　excitement　really　a　mere　step　away　from　laughter？
Yes。　When　they　looked　at　each　other　in　the　mirror　that　time；　all　she　saw　for　the　first　few　seconds　was　a　comic　situation。　But　suddenly　the　comic　became　veiled　by　excitement：　the　bowler　hat　no　longer　signified　a　joke；　it　signified　violence；　violence　against　Sabina；　against　her　dignity　as　a　woman。　She　saw　her　bare　legs　and　thin　panties　with　her　pubic　triangle　showing　through。　The　lingerie　enhanced　the　charm　of　her　femininity；　while　the　hard　masculine　hat　denied　it；　violated　and　ridiculed　it。　The　fact　that　Tomas　stood　beside　her　fully　dressed　meant　that　the　essence　of　what　they　both　saw　was　far　from　good　clean　fun　（if　it　had　been　fun　he　was　after；　he；　too；　would　have　had　to　strip　and　don　a　bowler　hat）；　it　was　humiliation。　But　instead　of　spurning　it；　she　proudly；　provocatively　played　it　for　all　it　was　worth；　as　if　submitting　of　her　own　will　to　public　rape；　and　suddenly；　unable　to　wait　any　longer；　she　pulled　Tomas　down　to　the　floor。　The　bowler　hat　rolled　under　the　table；　and　they　began　thrashing　about　on　the　rug　at　the　foot　of　the　mirror。
But　let　us　return　to　the　bowler　hat：
First；　it　was　a　vague　reminder　of　a　forgotten　grandfather；　the　mayor　of　a　small　Bohemian　town　during　the　nineteenth　century。
Second；　it　was　a　memento　of　her　father。　After　the　funeral　her　brother　appropriated　all　their　parents'　property；　and　she；　refusing　out　of　sovereign　contempt　to　fight　for　her　rights；　announced　sarcastically　that　she　was　taking　the　bowler　hat　a