I spent the morning pushing through the papers that had accumulated on my desk, reading through mail, returning the phone calls, catching up with staff correspondents and stringers on what was going on in the country and in the region, sitting with the office bookkeeper to sign bank requisitions and payments. I accidentally picked up the phone, finding the "extrasensory" woman on the other line, and tried to get her off the phone for nearly half-an-hour in which she talked rapidly and excitedly about her ability to detect where the faultlines were in Tashkent, which buildings were most at risk, including the new constructions going up, such as the luxury housing complex near my apartment. She left me with the words, "this city will come tumbling down with a great force."

I wondered if she was completely mad, or if she was like the Greek Cassandra, taken for mad, possessing the gift of prescience, but no one heeded her words.

I had the office driver, Lev, an elderly, good humored and silent Russian man, drive me to the Tata hotel, where Henrietta would be waiting for me by the pool. He was a kind man, always seemed tired, resigned, impossible to read, with portraits of Russian religious icons decorating his dashboard. He always knew how to talk to the numerous traffic police on the street whose jobs seemed only to collect money from drivers for the most arcane, and most-likely made up of reasons. Though he knew where, Lev had no idea what he was taking me to, and never asked me any questions. Henrietta would be waiting inside for me, but I suppose if word got out that I was meeting a woman in a hotel, it would be assumed only one thing -- sex. Sex in the afternoon. Sex, perhaps with a married woman. Or, since I was a foreigner, a journalist, I could be suspected of something more cloak and dagger as well in the somewhat cynical environment tinged with its Soviet legacy. Little would anyone suspect that I was going to sit by the pool, enjoy lunch and gossip with a friend. But Lev asked no questions. He asked how my family at home was, and I told him that everything was fine. He asked if they had heat in the summer there like here. And I said, there was, but it was different, it was humid. Within moments, we were there at the hotel and I told him not to wait, that I'd make my way back to the office myself. It was probably best not to be seen walking out with Henrietta. There were plenty of taxis by the hotel; this was the famous site of where I had caught a taxi in my shorts many months back and was mistaken for a male prostitute, so I sent Lev off.

The hotel, like all of the luxury hotels in Tashkent seemed spacious and devoid of people. Almost never did anyone stay at the hotels in Tashkent. At the very best of times, the hotels had a 20% level of occupancy, though large numbers of US military and diplomatic personnel now camped out at the Intercontinental or the Sheraton. The Tata, which was sometimes called Le Meridien, when it changed management, and probably had a new name and management, which was around much longer and was quite nice, never seemed to have anyone staying there. A young man staffed the concierge and I paid him for entrance to the swimming pool in the courtyard. There were few people by the pool, and I could recognize Henny sitting by the pool, her legs dangling over the edge, her hair wet, her solemn face, faced down to the water, hidden behind a pair of large dark sunglasses, looked up and she threw out her hand to wave at me.

I walked over to her, dropped off my bag on a lounge chair, kicked off my shoes, rolled up my trouser legs and dropped my feet into the pool beside her gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Missed you, sweetheart," I said. She seemed somber, subdued, not her usual self. Just when I wanted to ask her what I missed out on, a waiter came up to us and asked if we would like to order some food. We ordered sandwiches and salads. She seemed to light up. "How was it?" She asked.

"It was OK. You know...everything's still there, still the same. Except for the World Trade Center. Definitely some reverse culture shock for me, mild feelings of alienation, and family drama. My mother in particular. Kind of hysterical."

"All mothers are crazy," she said.

"I don't know about that. Something makes me think that mine is exceptionally worse than the others. She does bring out the worst in me. I'd come to visit her, and I'm barely at her place an hour and she's harping on me to take out the garbage, while I was having a jetlag attack. I thought she might have been a bit more sympathetic."

"Sorry to hear it. Just because you've gone doesn't mean her life hasn't stopped. Her garbage still needs to be taken out."

"Well, it's nothing. I'm back here, a million miles away from it all. So, you know. Out of sight, out of mind. In that way, glad to be back." I looked over at her. "What's up with you? Why so down?"

"It's Ali."

"What's going on with him?"

"Well, he doesn't seem to get it...."

"What doesn't he get?"

"Well, I'm not ready for babies, not now...Not even sure I want his babies."

"Oh no," I said, not knowing how to respond. I didn't really like her husband so much. He was a sweet enough guy, but seemed to be like a big child, in the way I imagined most Uzbek men to be.

"I've got my career right now. And I want to go back to school for my PhD. That was the plan. We were going to move back to the US next spring, but he wants everything to stay the same, for us to stay here. For me to work, for him to futz around, and to do whatever pleases his parents, which is just to have babies." She paused for a moment. "Can we just not talk about this. I'm sorry for bringing it up. It's just too depressing right now?"

"Ok, honey." She got up to go to her bag to pull out a pack of cigarettes and lit up. A cell phone started ringing.

"Is that mine?" She said, nervously fingering through her bag for her phone. "Yours."

I got up and looked at the phone, saw the number coming through, "Yulia," my heart sank, I had been dreading her awaited call. I put the ringer on silent and put the phone down, reminding myself that I should have Dildora change the phone number when I got back.

"Is that your girlfriend?" She said sarcastically.

"No, it's just the office. They can wait for now," I lied. She could tell. I always took my calls from the office.

"Are you still with her?"

"I don't think so, I mean, you know...I need to tell her that."

"You do," she said in a very schoolmarmish voice. "Did you get your ass whacked in New York?" She pronounced 'whacked' like 'waxed.'

"No, none of that. But you know...I'm not straight, not even bi. I don't have any feelings for her and I'm scared, you know, what if she got pregnant..." I grabbed her pack of cigarettes and pulled out a cigarette and lighter and lit up and mumbled, "if I don't watch it, I could wind up married and stuck with her..."

"Like me?"

Before I could respond, or not respond for some unintentional affront, our privacy was interrupted by the two waiters, who laid down our sandwiches and iced teas on the beach table beside us, laying out silverware and napkins, all in a complete and pregnant silence.  ¶ 11:07 PM