The seven days of mourning went by as if in a daze; it was as if someone had poured sedatives into the innumerable cups of coffee she kept drinking. She sat on a low couch in the center of the living room, resentful of the social game she was compelled to play. The consolers expected her to entertain them, to be sad and pleasant at the same time, so that later they would be able to report to their friends what the new widow had said and whom they met in her elegant living room where, until now, only dinners and parties had taken place.
Jonathan’s death was on everybody’s mind and was discussed incessantly. The question was repeated everywhere: Did he commit suicide or was his death an accident? Her heart sank, like a mountain climber after losing his grip, whenever that question was addressed to her, in various guises, from subtle and insinuating to blatant and invidious. “Say, what exactly happened to Jonathan?” asked coquettish society ladies who came to her house to see and be seen. The sounds of men and women mingled in her mind; shrill, pampered voices, smoke-filled women’s voices, indifferent, callous men’s voices, cynical voices that asked her questions yet did not believe her answers.
At times she felt as if she were in a movie, playing many parts; she was the director, the producer, the main actress. She would see her pictures in the papers, smiling, her green, cat’s eyes meticulously made up with black eye-liner, her long auburn hair carefully groomed. Who took those pictures? Who made her up and combed her hair? Was it she, herself, as part of the show? She functioned like a mechanical doll, and when she tried to remember any of her actions she drew a complete blank.