Annotation

Thesecondcollectionofshortstories.Callthemtranscriptsofdreamsordeadlyaccuratemapsofthetremorzonesofthepsyche,theseven

stories in this collection engage and implicate us in the most fearful ways imaginable. A two-timingpornographerbecomesanunwillingobjectinthefantasiesofoneofhisvictims.Ajadedmillionairebuyshimself the perfect mistress and plunges into a hell of jealousy and despair. And in the course of aweekend with his teenage daughter, a guilt-ridden father discovers the depths of his own blunderinginnocence.

Atoncechillingandbeguiling,andwritteninproseoflaceratingbeauty,InBetweentheSheetsisatourdeforcebyoneofEngland’smostacclaimedpractitionersofliteraryunease.

Review

“McEwanproveshimselftobeanacutepsychologistoftheordinarymind.”

—TheNewYorkTimesBookReview

“Awriter in fullcontrolofhismaterials…In[his]shortstories, theeffectacheivedbyMcEwan’squiet,preciseandsensual touch is thatofmagic realism—atransfigurationof theordinarythathasa…strongvisceralimpact.”

—RobertTowers,TheNewYorkReviewofBooks

IanMcEwan

AcknowledgmentsPornographyReflectionsofaKeptApeTwoFragments:March199-DeadasTheyComeInBetweentheSheetsToandFroPsychopolisCopyright

Librs.netБлагодаримВасзаиспользованиенашейбиблиотекиLibrs.net.

IanMcEwanINBETWEENTHESHEETSandOtherStories

AcknowledgmentsThe author and publishers wish to thank the following for permission to reproduce copyright

material:TheNewReviewfor“Pornography,”“ReflectionsofaKeptApe”and“InBetweentheSheets”;Encounter for “Saturday,March 199-” (published as “Without Blood”);Harpers/Queen for “Sunday,March 199-”; Bananas for “Dead as They Come” and “To and Fro”; American Review for“Psychopolis”;andABKCOMusic,Inc.forexcerptsfrom“LivewithMe”writtenbyMickJaggerandKeithRichards,©1969ABKCOMusic,Inc.,reprintedbypermission;allrightsreserved.

PornographyO’ByrnewalkedthroughSohomarkettohisbrother’sshopinBrewerStreetAhandfulofcustomers

leafing through the magazines and Harold watching them through pebble-thick lenses from his raisedplatform in the corner. Harold was barely five foot and wore built-up shoes. Before becoming hisemployeeO’Byrneused tocallhimLittleRunt.AtHarold’selbowaminiature radio raspeddetailsofrace meetings for the afternoon. “So,” said Harold with thin contempt, “the prodigal brother…” Hismagnifiedeyesflutteredateveryconsonant.HelookedpastO’Byrne’sshoulder.“Allthemagazinesareforsale,gentlemen.”Thereadersstirreduneasilyliketroubleddreamers.Onereplacedamagazineandwalkedquicklyfromtheshop.“Whered’yougetto?”Haroldsaidinaquietervoice.Hesteppedfromthedais,putonhiscoatandglaredupatO’Byrne,waitingforananswer.LittleRunt.O’Byrnewastenyearsyoungerthanhisbrother,detestedhimandhissuccessbutnow,strangely,wantedhisapprobation.“Ihadan appointment, didn’t I,” he said quietly. “I got the clap.” Harold was pleased. He reached up andpunchedO’Byrne’sshoulderplayfully.“Servesyou,”hesaidandcackledtheatrically.Anothercustomeredgedoutof theshop.From thedoorwayHaroldcalled,“I’llbebackat five.”O’Byrnesmiledashisbrotherleft.Hehookedhisthumbsintohisjeansandsaunteredtowardsthetightknotofcustomers.“CanIhelpyougentlemen,themagazinesareallforsale.”Theyscatteredbeforehimlikefrightenedfowl,andsuddenlyhewasaloneintheshop.

Aplumpwomanoffiftyormorestoodinfrontofaplasticshowercurtain,nakedbutforpantiesandgasmask.Herhandshunglimplyathersidesandinoneofthemacigarettesmoldered.WifeoftheMonth.Sincegasmasksandathickrubbersheetonthebed,wroteJ.N.ofAndover,we’veneverlookedback.O’Byrneplayedwiththeradioforawhilethenswitcheditoff.Rhythmicallyheturnedthepagesofthemagazine,andstoppedtoreadtheletters.Anuncircumcisedmalevirgin,withouthygiene,forty-twonextMay,darednotpeelbackhisforeskinnowforfearofwhathemightsee.Igetthesenightmaresofworms.O’Byrnelaughedandcrossedhislegs.Hereplacedthemagazine,returnedtotheradio,switcheditonandoff rapidlyandcaught theunintelligiblemiddleof aword.Hewalkedabout the shop straightening themagazinesintheracks.Hestoodbythedoorandstaredatthewetstreetintersectedbythecoloredstripsof the plastic walk-through. He whistled over and over a tune whose end immediately suggested itsbeginning. Then he returned to Harold’s raised platform and made two telephone calls, both to thehospital, the first to Lucy. But Sister Drew was busy in the ward and could not come to the phone.O’Byrneleftamessagethathewouldnotbeabletoseeherthateveningafterallandwouldphoneagaintomorrow.He dialed the hospital switchboard and this time asked for TraineeNurse Shepherd in thechildren’sward.“Hi,”O’ByrnesaidwhenPaulinepickedupthephone.“It’sme.”Andhestretchedandleanedagainstthewall.Paulinewasasilentgirlwhoonceweptatafilmabouttheeffectsofpesticidesonbutterflies,whowantedtoredeemO’Byrnewithherlove.Nowshelaughed,“I’vebeenphoningyouallmorning,”shesaid.“Didn’tyourbrothertellyou?”

“Listen,”saidO’Byrne,“I’llbeatyourplaceabouteight,”andreplacedthereceiver.

Harold did not return till after six, and O’Byrne was almost asleep, his head pillowed on hisforearm.Therewerenocustomers.O’Byrne’sonlysalewasAmericanBitch.“ThoseAmericanmags,”saidHaroldasheemptiedthetillof£15andahandfulofsilver,“aregood.”Harold’snewleatherjacket.O’Byrnefingereditappreciatively.“Seventy-eightquid,”saidHaroldandbracedhimselfinfrontofthefish-eyeminor.Hisglassesflashed.“It’sallright,”saidO’Byrne.“Fuckingrightitis,”saidHarold,andbegan to close up shop. “Never take much onWednesdays,” he said wistfully as he reached up andswitchedontheburglaralarm.“Wednesday’sacuntofaday.”NowO’Byrnewasinfrontofthemirror,examininga small trailofacne that led from thecornerofhismouth.“You’renot fuckingkidding,”he

agreed.Harold’shouselayatthefootofthePostOfficeTowerandO’Byrnerentedaroomfromhim.They

walked along togetherwithout speaking.From time to timeHaroldglanced sideways into a dark shopwindowtocatchthereflectionofhimselfandhisnewleather jacket.LittleRunt.O’Byrnesaid,“Cold,innit?”andHaroldsaidnothing.Minutes later,whentheywerepassingapub,HaroldsteeredO’Byrneintothedank,desertedpublichousesaying,“SinceyougottheclapI’llbuyyouadrink.”ThepublicanheardtheremarkandregardedO’Byrnewithinterest.Theydrankthreescotchesapiece,andasO’Byrnewaspaying for the fourth roundHaroldsaid,“Ohyeah,oneof those twonursesyou’vebeenknockingaroundwithphoned.”O’Byrnenoddedandwipedhis lips.AfterapauseHaroldsaid,“You’rewell inthere…”O’Byrnenoddedagain.“Yep.”Harold’sjacketshone.Whenhereachedforhisdrinkitcreaked.O’Byrnewasnotgoingtotellhimanything.Hebangedhishandstogether.“Yep,”hesaidoncemore,andstaredoverhisbrother’sheadat theemptybar.Harold triedagain.“Shewanted toknowwhereyou’dbeen…”“Ibetshedid,”O’Byrnemuttered,andthensmiled.

Pauline, short anduntalkative, her face bloodlessly pale, intersected by a heavyblack fringe, hereyes large,greenandwatchful,her flat small,dampandsharedwithasecretarywhowasnever there.O’Byrnearrivedafterten,alittledrunkandinneedofabathtopurgethefaintpurulentscentthatlatelyhad hung about his fingers. She sat on a smallwooden stool towatch him luxuriate.Once she leanedforwardsandtouchedhisbodywhereitbrokethesurface.O’Byrne’seyeswereclosed,hishandsfloatingathissides,theonlysoundthediminishinghissofthecistern.Paulinerosequietlytobringacleanwhitetowelfromherbedroom,andO’Byrnedidnothearherleaveorreturn.Shesatdownagainandruffled,asfarasitwaspossible,O’Byrne’sdamp,mattedhair.“Thefoodisruined,”shesaidwithoutaccusation.BeadsofperspirationcollectedinthecornersofO’Byrne’seyesandrolleddownthelineofhisnoseliketears.PaulinerestedherhandonO’Byrne’skneewhereitjuttedthroughthegraywater.Steamturnedtowateronthecoldwalls,senselessminutespassed.“Nevermind,love,”saidO’Byrne,andstoodup.

Paulinewentout tobuybeerandpizzas,andO’Byrne laydown inher tinybedroomtowait.Tenminutes passed.Hedressed after cursory examinationof his cleanbut swellingmeatus, andwanderedlistlessly about the sitting room.Nothing interested him in Pauline’s small collection of books. Therewerenomagazines.Heentered thekitchen in searchof adrink.Therewasnothingbut anovercookedmeatpie.Hepickedaroundtheburnedbitsandasheateturnedthepagesofapicturecalendar.Whenhefinishedhe rememberedagainhewaswaiting forPauline.He lookedathiswatch.Shehadbeengonenowalmosthalfanhour.Hestoodupquickly,tippingthekitchenchairbehindhimtothefloor.Hepausedinthesittingroomandthenwalkeddecisivelyoutoftheflatandslammedthefrontdooronhisway.Hehurried down the stairs, anxious not to meet her now he had decided to get out. But she was there.Halfwayup thesecondflight,a littleoutofbreath,herarmsfullofbottlesand tinfoilparcels.“Whered’yougetto?”saidO’Byrne.Paulinestoppedseveralstepsdownfromhim,herfacetiltedupawkwardlyoverherpurchases,thewhitesofhereyesandthetinfoilvividinthedark.“Theusualplacewasclosed.Ihadtowalkmiles…sorry.”Theystood.O’Byrnewasnothungry.Hewantedtogo.Hehitchedhisthumbsinto thewaist of his jeans and cocked his head towards the invisible ceiling, then he looked down atPauline whowaited. “Well,” he said at last, “I was thinking of going.” Pauline came up, and as shepushedpastwhispered,“Silly.”O’Byrneturnedandfollowedher,obscurelycheated.

Heleanedinthedoorway,sherightedthechair.WithamovementofhisheadO’ByrneindicatedthathewantednoneofthefoodPaulinewassettingoutonplates.Shepouredhimabeerandknelttogatherafew black pastry droppings from the floor. They sat in the sitting room. O’Byrne drank, Pauline ateslowly,neitherspoke.O’ByrnefinishedallthebeerandplacedhishandonPauline’sknee.Shedidnotturn.Hesaidcheerily,“What’swrongwithyou?”andshesaid,“Nothing.”AlivewithirritationO’Byrnemovedcloserandplacedhisarmprotectivelyacrosshershoulders.“Tellyouwhat,”hehalfwhispered.

“Let’sgotobed.”SuddenlyPaulineroseandwentintothebedroom.O’Byrnesatwithhishandsclaspedbehindhishead.HelistenedtoPaulineundress,andheheardthecreakofthebed.Hegottohisfeetand,stillwithoutdesire,enteredthebedroom.

Pauline lay on her back and O’Byrne, having undressed quickly, lay beside her. She did notacknowledgehiminherusualway,shedidnotmove.O’Byrneraisedhisarmtostrokehershoulder,butinsteadlethishandfallbackheavilyagainstthesheet.Theybothlayontheirbacksinmountingsilence,untilO’Byrnedecidedtogiveheronelastchanceandwithnakedgruntshauledhimselfontohiselbowandarrangedhisfaceoverhers.Hereyes,thickwithtears,staredpasthim.“What’sthematter?”hesaidin resignatory sing-song. The eyes budged a fraction and fixed into his own. “You,” she said simply.O’Byrnereturnedtohissideofthebed,andafteramomentsaidthreateningly,“Isee.”Thenhewasup,and on top of her, and then past her and on the far side of the room. “All right then…” he said. Hewrenchedhislacesintoaknot,andsearchedforhisshirt.Pauline’sbackwastohim.Butashecrossedthe sitting roomher rising, acceleratingwail of denialmade him stop and turn.Allwhite, in a cottonnightdress,shewasthereinthebedroomdoorwayandintheair,simultaneouslyateverypointofarcintheinterveningspace,likethetrickphotographer’sdiver,shewasonthefarsideoftheroomandshewasathis lapels,knuckles inhermouthandshakingherhead.O’Byrnesmiledandputhisarmsaroundhershoulders.Forgivenesssweptthroughhim.Clingingtoeachothertheyreturnedtothebedroom.O’Byrneundressedandtheylaydownagain,O’Byrneonhisback,Paulinewithherheadpillowedonhisshoulder.

O’Byrnesaid,“Ineverknowwhat’sgoingoninyourmind,”anddeeplycomfortedbythisthought,he fell asleep.Half an hour later hewoke. Pauline, exhausted by aweek of twelve-hour shifts, sleptdeeplyonhisarm.Heshookhergently.“Hey,”hesaid.Heshookher firmly,andas the rhythmofherbreathing broke and she began to stir, he said in a laconic parody of someunremembered film, “Hey,there’ssomethingweain’tdoneyet…”

Haroldwasexcited.WhenO’Byrnewalked into theshop towardsnoon the followingdayHaroldtookholdofhisarmandwavedintheairasheetofpaper.Hewasalmostshouting.“I’veworkeditallout.IknowwhatIwanttodowiththeshop.”“Oh,yeah,”saidO’Byrnedully,andputhisfingersinhiseyesandscratchedtill the intolerable itch therebecameabearablepain.Haroldrubbedhissmallpinkhands together and explained rapidly. “I’mgoingAllAmerican. I spoke to their rep on the phone thismorningandhe’llbehereinhalfanhour.I’mgettingridofallthequidatimepiss-in-her-cuntletters.I’mgonnacarrythewholeoftheHouseofFlorencerangeat£4.50atime.”

O’ByrnewalkedacrosstheshoptowhereHarold’sjacketwasspreadacrossachair.Hetriediton.Itwasofcoursetoosmall.“AndI’mgoingtocallitTransatlanticBooks,”Haroldwassaying.O’Byrnetossedthejacketontothechair.Itslidtotheflooranddeflatedtherelikesomereptilianairsac.Haroldpickeditup,anddidnotceasetalking.“IfIcarryFlorenceexclusiveIgetaspecialdiscountand”—hegiggled—“theypayforthefuckingneonsign.”

O’Byrnesatdownand interruptedhisbrother. “Howmanyof those soddin’ inflatablewomendidyouunload?There’sstilltwenty-fiveofthefuckersinthecellar.”ButHaroldwaspouringoutscotchintotwoglasses.“He’llbehereinhalfanhour,”herepeated,andofferedoneglasstoO’Byrne.“Bigdeal,”said O’Byrne, and sipped. “I want you to take the van over to Norbury and collect the order thisafternoon.Iwanttogetintothisstraightaway.”

O’Byrnesatmoodilywithhisdrinkwhilehisbrotherwhistledandwasbusyabouttheshop.Amancameinandboughtamagazine.“See,”saidO’Byrnesourlywhilethecustomerwasstilllingeringoverthetentacledcondoms,“heboughtEnglish,didn’the?”Themanturnedguiltilyandleft.Haroldcameandcrouched byO’Byrne’s chair and spoke as onewho explains copulation to an infant. “Andwhat do Imake?Fortypercentof75p.Thirtyp.Thirtyfuckingp.OnHouseofFlorenceI’llmakefiftypercentof£4.50.Andthat”—herestedhishandbrieflyonO’Byrne’sknee—“iswhatIcallbusiness.”

O’ByrnewriggledhisemptyglassinfrontofHarold’sface,andwaitedpatientlyforhisbrothertofillit…LittleRunt.

TheHouseofFlorencewarehousewasadisusedchurchinanarrowterracedstreetontheBrixtonsideofNorbury.O’Byrneenteredbythemainporch.Acrudeplasterboardofficeandwaitingroomhadbeensetupinthewestend.Thefontwasalargeashtrayinthewaitingroom.Anelderlywomanwithabluerinsesataloneintheofficetyping.WhenO’Byrnetappedontheslidingwindowsheignoredhim,thensheroseandslidasidetheglasspanel.Shetooktheorderformhepushedtowardsher,glancingathim with unconcealed distaste. She spoke primly. “You better wait there.” O’Byrne tap-dancedabstractedlyaboutthefont,andcombedhishair,andwhistledthetunethatwentinacircle.Suddenlyashriveledmanwithabrowncoatandclipboardwasathisside.“TransatlanticBooks?”hesaid.O’Byrneshruggedandfollowedhim.Theymovedtogetherslowlydownlongaislesofboltedsteelshelves,theoldmanpushingalargetrolleyandO’Byrnewalkingalittleinfrontwithhishandsclaspedbehindhisback.Everyfewyardsthewarehousemanstopped,andwithbad-temperedgaspsliftedathickpileofmagazinesfromtheshelves.Theloadonthetrolleygrew.Theoldman’sbreathechoedhoarselyaroundthechurch.Attheendofthefirstaislehesatdownonthetrolley,betweenhisneatpiles,andcoughedandhawkedfora minute or so into a paper handkerchief. Then, carefully folding the tissue and its ponderous greencontents back into his pocket, he said to O’Byrne, “Here, you’re young. You push this thing.” AndO’Byrnesaid,“Pushthefuckeryourself.It’syourjob,”andofferedthemanacigaretteandlititforhim.

O’Byrnenoddedat theshelves.“Yougetsomereadingdonehere.”Theoldmanexhaledirritably.“It’s all rubbish. It ought to be banned.” Theymoved on. At the end, as he was signing the invoice,O’Byrnesaid,“Whoyougot linedupfor tonight?Madamintheofficethere?”Thewarehousemanwaspleased.Hiscacklesrangoutlikebells,thentailedintoanothercoughingfit.Heleanedfeeblyagainstthewall,andwhenhehadrecoveredsufficientlyheraisedhisheadandmeaningfullywinkedhiswateryeye.ButO’Byrnehadturnedandwaswheelingthemagazinesouttothevan.

Lucywas tenyearsolder thanPauline,anda littleplump.Butherflatwas largeandcomfortable.She was a sister and Pauline nomore than a trainee nurse. They knew nothing of each other. At theundergroundstationO’ByrneboughtflowersforLucy,andwhensheopenedthedoortohimhepresentedthemwithamockbowandtheclickingofheels.“Apeaceoffering?”shesaidcontemptuouslyandtookthedaffodilsaway.Shehadledhimintothebedroom.Theysatdownsidebysideonthebed.O’Byrneranhishandupherleginaperfunctorykindofway.Shepushedawayhisarmandsaid,“Comeon,then.Wherehaveyoubeenthepastthreedays?”O’Byrnecouldbarelyremember.TwonightswithPauline,onenightinthepubwithfriendsofhisbrother.

He stretched back luxuriously on the pink candlewick. “You know… working late for Harold.Changingtheshoparound.Thatkindofthing.”

“Thosedirtybooks,”saidLucywithalittlehigh-pitchedlaugh.O’Byrnestoodupandkickedoffhisshoes.“Don’tstartthat,”hesaid,gladtobeoffthedefensive.

Lucy leaned forwards and gathered up his shoes. “You’re going to ruin the backs of these,” she saidbusily,“kickingthemofflikethat.”

They both undressed. Lucy hung her clothes neatly in thewardrobe.WhenO’Byrne stood almostnakedbeforehershewrinkledhernoseindisgust.“Isthatyousmelling?”O’Byrnewashurt.“I’llhaveabath,”heofferedcurtly.

Lucystirredthebathwaterwithherhand,andspokeloudlyoverthethunderofthetaps.“Youshouldhavebroughtmesomeclothestowash.”Shehookedherfingersintotheelasticofhisshorts.“Givemethesenowandthey’llbedrybythemorning.”O’Byrnelacedhisfingersintohersinadecoyofaffection.“No,no,”heshoutedrapidly.“Theywerecleanonthismorning,theywere.”PlayfullyLucytriedtoget

them off. Theywrestled across the bathroom floor, Lucy shriekingwith laughter,O’Byrne excited butdetermined.

FinallyLucyputonherdressinggownandwentaway.O’Byrneheardherinthekitchen.Hesatinthe bath andwashed away the bright green stains.When Lucy returned his shorts were drying on theradiator.“Women’sLib,innit?”saidO’Byrnefromthebath.Lucysaid,“I’mgettingintoo,”andtookoffherdressinggown.O’Byrnemade roomforher.“Pleaseyourself,”he saidwitha smileas shesettledherselfinthegraywater.

O’Byrnelayonhisbackonthecleanwhitesheets,andLucyeasedherselfontohisbellylikeavastnestingbird.Shewouldhaveitnootherway,fromthebeginningshehadsaid,“I’mincharge.”O’Byrnehadreplied,“We’llseeaboutthat.”Hewashorrified,sickened,thathecouldenjoybeingoverwhelmed,likeoneofthosecripplesinhisbrother’smagazines.Lucyhadspokenbriskly,thekindofvoicesheusedfordifficultpatients.“Ifyoudon’tlikeitthendon’tcomeback.”ImperceptiblyO’ByrnewasinitiatedintoLucy’swants.Itwasnotsimplythatshewishedtosquatonhim.Shedidnotwanthimtomove.“Ifyoumoveagain,”shewarnedhimonce,“you’vehadit.”FrommerehabitO’Byrnethrustupwardsanddeeper,andquickasthetongueofasnakeshelashedhisfaceseveraltimeswithheropenpalm.Ontheinstantshecame, and afterwards lay across the bed, half sobbing, half laughing. O’Byrne, one side of his faceswollenandpink,departedsulking.“You’reabloodypervert,”hehadshoutedfromthedoor.

Nextdayhewasback,andLucyagreednottohithimagain.Insteadsheabusedhim.“Youpathetic,helplesslittleshit!”shewouldscreamatthepeakofherexcitement.AndsheseemedtointuitO’Byrne’sguiltythrillofpleasure,andwishtopushitfurther.Onetimeshehadsuddenlyliftedherselfclearofhimand,withafar-awaysmile,urinatedonhisheadandchest.O’Byrnehadstruggledtogetclear,butLucyheld him down and seemed deeply satisfied by his unsought orgasm. This time O’Byrne left the flatenraged.Lucy’sstrong,chemicalsmellwaswithhimfordays,anditwasduringthistimethathehadmetPauline.Butwithin theweekhewasbackatLucy’s tocollect, sohe insisted,his razor,andLucywaspersuadinghimtotryonherunderwear.O’Byrneresistedwithhorrorandexcitement.“Thetroublewithyou,”saidLucy,“isthatyou’rescaredofwhatyoulike.”

Now Lucy gripped his throat in one hand. “You dare move,” she hissed, and closed her eyes.O’Byrnelaystill.AbovehimLucyswayedlikeagianttree.Herlipswereformingaword,buttherewasnosound.Manyminuteslatersheopenedhereyesandstareddown,frowningalittleasthoughstrugglingtoplacehim.Andall thewhilesheeasedbackwardsandforwards.Finallyshespoke,more toherselfthan to him. “Worm…” O’Byrne moaned. Lucy’s legs and thighs tightened and trembled. “Worm…worm…youlittleworm.I’mgoingtotreadonyou…dirtylittleworm.”Oncemoreherhandwasclosedabouthisthroat.Hiseyesweresunkdeep,andhiswordtraveledalongwaybeforeitlefthislips.“Yes,”hewhispered.

ThefollowingdayO’Byrneattended theclinic.Thedoctorandhismaleassistantwerematter-of-fact,unimpressed.TheassistantfilledoutaformandwanteddetailsofO’Byrne’srecentsexualhistory.O’ByrneinventedawhoreatIpswichbusstation.Formanydaysafterthathekepttohimself.Attendingtheclinicmorningsandevenings,forinjections,hewassappedofdesire.WhenPaulineorLucyphoned,Harold told themhedidnot knowwhereO’Byrnewas. “Probably takenoff for somewhere,” he said,winking across the shop at his brother.Bothwomenphoned each day for three or four days, and thensuddenlytherewerenocallsfromeither.

O’Byrnepaidnoattention.Theshopwastakingingoodmoneynow.Intheeveningshedrankwithhisbrotherandhisbrother’sfriends.Hefelthimselftobebothbusyandill.Tendayspassed.WiththeextracashHaroldwasgivinghim,heboughtaleatherjacket,likeHarold’s,butsomehowbetter,sharper,linedwith red imitationsilk. Itbothshoneandcreaked.Hespentmanyminutes in frontof the fish-eyemirror,standingsidewayson,admiringthemannerinwhichhisshouldersandbicepspulledtheleatherto

atightsheen.Heworehisjacketbetweentheshopandtheclinicandsensedtheglancesofwomeninthestreet. He thought of Pauline and Lucy. He passed a day considering which to phone first. He chosePauline,andphonedherfromtheshop.

TraineeNurseShepherdwasnot available,O’Byrnewas told aftermanyminutesofwaiting.Shewastakinganexamination.O’Byrnehadhiscalltransferredtotheothersideofthehospital.“Hi,”hesaidwhenLucypickedupthephone.“It’sme.”Lucywasdelighted.“Whendidyougetback?Wherehaveyoubeen?Whenareyoucominground?”Hesatdown.“Howabouttonight?”hesaid.Lucywhisperedinsex-kittenFrench,“Ican ’ardlywait…”O’Byrne laughedandpressedhis thumband forefingeragainsthisforeheadandheardotherdistantvoiceson the line.HeheardLucygiving instructions.Thenshespokerapidlytohim.“I’vegottogo.They’vejustbroughtacasein.Abouteighttonight,then…”andshewasgone.

O’Byrnepreparedhisstory,butLucydidnotaskhimwherehehadbeen.Shewastoohappy.Shelaughed when she opened the door to him, she hugged him and laughed again. She looked different.O’Byrnecouldnotrememberhersobeautiful.Herhairwasshorterandadeeperbrown,hernailswerepaleorange,sheworeashortblackdresswithorangedots.Therewerecandlesandwineglassesonthediningtable,musicontherecordplayer.Shestoodback,hereyesbright,almostwild,andadmiredhisleatherjacket.Sheranherhandsuptheredlining.Shepressedherselfagainstit.“Verysmooth,”shesaid.“Reducedtosixtyquid,”O’Byrnesaidproudly,andtriedtokissher.Butshelaughedagainandpushedhimintoachair.“YouwaitthereandI’llgetsomethingtodrink.”

O’Byrnelayback.Fromthecorneramansangofloveinarestaurantwithcleanwhitetablecloths.Lucybroughtanicybottleofwhitewine.Shesatonthearmofhischairandtheydrankandtalked.Lucytoldhimrecentstoriesoftheward,ofnurseswhofellinandoutoflove,patientswhorecoveredordied.As she spoke sheundid the topbuttonsofhis shirt andpushedherhanddown tohisbelly.AndwhenO’Byrneturnedinhischairandreachedupforhershepushedhimaway,leaneddownandkissedhimonthenose.“Now,now,”shesaidprimly.O’Byrneexertedhimself.Herecountedanecdoteshehadheardinthepub.Lucylaughedcrazilyattheendofeach,andashewasbeginningthethirdsheletherhanddroplightly between his legs and rest there. O’Byrne closed his eyes. The hand was gone and Lucy wasnudginghim.“Goon,”shesaid.“Itwasgettinginteresting.”Hecaughtherwristandwantedtopullherontohislap.Withalittlesighsheslippedawayandreturnedwithasecondbottle.“Weshouldhavewinemoreoften,”shesaid,“ifitmakesyoutellsuchfunnystories.”

Encouraged,O’Byrne toldhis story, something about a car andwhat agaragemechanic said to avicar.OnceagainLucywasfishingaroundhisflyandlaughing,laughing.Itwasafunnierstorythanhethought. The floor rose and fell beneath his feet. And Lucy so beautiful, scented, warm… her eyesglowed.Hewasparalyzedbyherteasing.Helovedher,andshelaughedandrobbedhimofhiswill.Nowhesaw,hehadcometolivewithher,andeachnightsheteasedhimtotheedgeofmadness.Hepressedhis face intoherbreasts. “I loveyou,”hemumbled, andagainLucywas laughing, shaking,wiping thetearsfromhereyes.“Doyou…doyou…”shekept tryingtosay.Sheemptied thebottle intohisglass.“Here’satoast…”“Yeah,”saidO’Byrne.“Tous.”Lucywasholdingdownherlaughter.“No,no,”shesquealed.“Toyou.”“Allright,”hesaid,anddownedhiswineinoneswallow.ThenLucywasstandinginfrontofhimpullinghisarm.“C’mon,”shesaid.“C’mon.”O’Byrnestruggledoutofthechair.“Whataboutdinner, then?” he said. “You’re the dinner,” she said, and they giggled as they tottered towards thebedroom.

AstheyundressedLucysaid,“I’vegotaspeciallittlesurpriseforyouso…nofuss.”O’ByrnesatontheedgeofLucy’slargebedandshivered.“I’mreadyforanything,”hesaid.“Good…good,”andforthefirsttimeshekissedhimdeeply,andpushedhimgentlybackwardsontothebed.Sheclimbedforwardandsatastridehischest.O’Byrneclosedhiseyes.Monthsagohewouldhaveresistedfuriously.Lucyliftedhislefthandtohermouthandkissedeachfinger.“Hmmm…thefirstcourse.”O’Byrnelaughed.Thebed

andtheroomundulatedsoftlyabouthim.Lucywaspushinghishandtowardsthetopcornerofthebed.O’Byrneheardadistantjingle,likebells.Lucykneltbyhisshoulder,holdingdownhiswrist,bucklingittoaleatherstrap.Shehadalwayssaidshewouldtiehimuponedayandfuckhim.Shebentlowoverhisface and they kissed again. She was licking his eyes and whispering, “You’re not going anywhere.”O’Byrne gasped for air.He could notmove his face to smile.Now shewas tugging at his right arm,pullingit,stretchingittothefarcornerofthebed.WithadreadthrillofcomplianceO’Byrnefelthisarmdie.NowthatwassecureandLucywasrunningherhandsalongtheinsideofhisthigh,andondowntohisfeet…He laystretchedalmost tobreaking, splitting, fixed toeachcorner, spreadoutagainst thewhitesheet.Lucykneltattheapexofhislegs.Shestareddownathimwithafaint,objectivesmile,andfingeredherselfdelicately.O’Byrne laywaitingforher tosettleonhim likeavastwhitenestingbird.Shewastracingwiththetipofonefingerthecurveofhisexcitement,andthenwiththumbandforefingermakingatightringaboutitsbase.Asighfledbetweenhisteeth.Lucyleanedforwards.Hereyeswerewild.Shewhispered,“We’regoingtogetyou,meandPaulineare…”

Pauline.For an instant, syllableshollowofmeaning. “What?” saidO’Byrne, andashe spoke thewordheremembered,andunderstoodathreat.“Untieme,”hesaidquickly.ButLucy’sfingercurledunderher crotch and her eyes half closed. Her breathing was slow and deep. “Untie me,” he shouted, andstruggledhopelesslywithhisstraps.Lucy’sbreathcamenowinlightlittlegasps.Ashestruggled,sotheyaccelerated.Shewassayingsomething…moaningsomething.Whatwasshesaying?Hecouldnothear.“Lucy,”hesaid,“pleaseuntieme.”Suddenlyshewassilent,hereyeswideopenandclear.Sheclimbedoff the bed. “Your friend Pauline will be here, soon,” she said, and began to get dressed. She wasdifferent,hermovementsbriskandefficient,shenolongerlookedathim.O’Byrnetriedtosoundcasual.Hisvoicewasalittlehigh.“What’sgoingon?”Lucystoodatthefootofthebedbuttoningherdress.Herlipcurled.“You’reabastard,”shesaid.Thedoorbellrangandshesmiled.“Nowthat’sgoodtiming,isn’tit?”

“Yes,hewentdownveryquietly,”LucywassayingassheshowedPaulineintothebedroom.Paulinesaid nothing. She avoided looking at either O’Byrne or Lucy. AndO’Byrne’s eyes were fixed on theobjectshecarriedinherarms.Itwaslargeandsilver,likeanoutsizedelectrictoaster.“Itcanpluginjusthere,”saidLucy.Paulinesetitdownonthebedsidetable.Lucysatdownatherdressingtableandbegantocombherhair.“I’llgetsomewaterforitinaminute,”shesaid.

Paulinewentandstoodbythewindow.Therewassilence.ThenO’Byrnesaidhoarsely,“What’sthatthing?” Lucy turned in her seat. “It’s a sterilizer,” she said breezily. “Sterilizer?” “You know, forsterilizingsurgicalinstruments.”ThenextquestionO’Byrnedidnotdareask.Hefeltsickanddizzy.Lucylefttheroom.Paulinecontinuedtostareoutthewindowintothedark.O’Byrnefelttheneedtowhisper.“Hey,Pauline,what’sgoingon?”Sheturnedtofacehim,andsaidnothing.O’Byrnediscoveredthatthestraparoundhisrightwristwasslackeningalittle,theleatherwasstretching.Hishandwasconcealedbypillows.Heworked itbackwardsandforwards,andspokeurgently.“Look, let’sgetoutofhere.Undothesethings.”

Foramomentshehesitated,thenshewalkedaroundthesideofthebedandstareddownathim.Sheshookherhead.“We’regoingtogetyou.”Therepetitionterrifiedhim.Hethrashedfromsidetoside.“It’snotmyideaofafuckingjoke!”heshouted.Paulineturnedaway.“Ihateyou,”heheardhersay.Theright-handstrapgavealittlemore.“Ihateyou.Ihateyou.”Hepulledtillhethoughthisarmwouldbreak.Hishandwastoolargestillforthenoosearoundhiswrist.Hegaveup.

NowLucywasatthebedsidepouringwaterintothesterilizer.“Thisisasickjoke,”saidO’Byrne.Lucy lifted a flat black case onto the table. She snapped it open and began to take out long-handledscissors, scalpels and other bright, tapering silver objects. She lowered them carefully into thewater.O’Byrnestartedtoworkhisrighthandagain.Lucyremovedtheblackcaseandsetonthetabletwowhite

kidneybowlswithbluerims.Inonelaytwohypodermicneedles,onelarge,onesmall.Intheotherwascottonwool.O’Byrne’svoiceshook.“Whatisallthis?”Lucyrestedhercoolhandonhisforehead.Sheenunciatedwithprecision.“Thisiswhattheyshouldhavedoneforyouattheclinic.”“Theclinic…?”heechoed.He could see now that Paulinewas leaning against thewall drinking from a bottle of scotch.“Yes,”saidLucy,reachingdowntotakehispulse.“Stopyouspreadingroundyoursecretlittlediseases.”“Andtellinglies,”saidPauline,hervoicestrainedwithindignation.

O’Byrne laughed uncontrollably. “Telling lies… telling lies,” he spluttered. Lucy took the scotchfromPaulineand raised it toher lips.O’Byrne recovered.His legswere shaking.“You’rebothoutofyourminds.”LucytappedthesterilizerandsaidtoPauline,“Thiswilltakeafewminutesyet.We’llscrubdown in the kitchen.” O’Byrne tried to raise his head. “Where are you going?” he called after them.“Pauline…Pauline.”

But Pauline had nothingmore to say. Lucy stopped in the bedroom doorway and smiled at him.“We’llleaveyouaprettylittlestumptorememberusby,”shesaid,andsheclosedthedoor.

Onthebedsidetablethesterilizerbegantohiss.Shortlyafter,itgaveoutthelowrumbleofboilingwater,andinsidetheinstrumentsclinkedtogethergently.Interrorhepumpedhishand.Theleatherwasflayingtheskinoffhiswrist.Thenoosewasridingnowaroundthebaseofhisthumb.Timelessminutespassed.Hewhimperedandpulled,andtheedgeoftheleathercutdeepintohishand.Hewasalmostfree.

Thedooropened,andLucyandPaulinecarriedinasmall,lowtable.ThroughhisfearO’Byrnefeltexcitementoncemore,horrifiedexcitement.Theyarrangedthetableclosetothebed.Lucybentlowoverhiserection.“Ohdear…ohdear,”shemurmured.WithtongsPaulineliftedinstrumentsfromtheboilingwaterand laid themout inneatsilver rowson thestarchedwhite tableclothshehadspreadacross thetable.Theleathernooseslippedforwardsfractionally.Lucysatontheedgeofthebedandtookthelargehypodermicfromthebowl.“Thiswillmakeyoua littlesleepy,”shepromised.Sheheld ituprightandexpelledasmalljetofliquid.AndasshereachedforthecottonwoolO’Byrne’sarmpulledclear.Lucysmiled.Shesetasidethehypodermic.Sheleanedforwardsoncemore…warm,scented…shewasfixinghimwithwildredeyes…herfingersplayedoverhistip…sheheldhimstillbetweenherfingers.“Lieback,Michael,mysweet.”ShenoddedbrisklyatPauline.“Ifyou’llsecure thatstrap,NurseShepherd,thenIthinkwecanbegin.”

ReflectionsofaKeptApeEaters of asparagus know the scent it lends the urine. It has been described as reptilian, or as a

repulsive inorganic stench,oragain, asa sharp,womanlyodor…exciting.Certainly it suggests sexualactivity of some kind between exotic creatures, perhaps from a distant land, another planet. Thisunworldly smell is amatter for poets and I challenge them to face their responsibilities.All this… apreamble that you may discover me as the curtain rises, standing, urinating, reflecting in a smalloverheatedclosetwhichadjoinsthekitchen.Thethreewallswhichfillmyvisionarepaintedabrightandcloying red, decorated by Sally Klee when she cared for such things, a time of remote and singularoptimism.Themeal,whichpassedintotalsilenceandfromwhichIhavejustrisen,consistedofavarietyof tinned foods, compressedmeat, potatoes, asparagus, served at room temperature. ItwasSallyKleewhoopenedthetinsandsettheircontentsonpaperplates.NowIlingeratmytoiletwashingmyhands,climbingontothesinktoregardmyfaceinthemirror,yawning.DoIdeservetobeignored?

IfindSallyKleeasIlefther.Sheisinherdiningroomplayingwithusedmatchesinamustypooloflight.Wewereloversonce,livingalmostasmanandwife,happierthanmostwivesandmen.Then,shewearying of my ways and I daily exacerbating her displeasure with my persistence, we now inhabitdifferentrooms.SallyKleedoesnotlookupasIentertheroom,andIhoverbetweenherchairandmine,theplatesandtinsarrangedbeforeme.PerhapsIamalittle toosquat tobetakenseriously,myarmsalittletoolong.WiththemIreachoutandstrokegentlySallyKlee’sgleamingblackhair.Ifeelthewarmthofherskullbeneathherhairandittouchesme,soalive,sosad.

PerhapsyouwillhaveheardofSallyKlee.Twoandahalfyearsagoshepublishedashortnovelanditwasaninstantsuccess.Thenoveldescribestheattemptsandbitterfailuresofayoungwomantohaveababy.Medicallythereappearstobenothingwrongwithher,norwithherhusband,norhisbrother.InthewordsofTheTimesLiterarySupplement,itisataletoldwith“wandeliberation.”Otherseriousreviewswere lesskind,but in its firstyear itsold thirty thousandcopies inhardback,andsofaraquarterofamillioninpaperback.Ifyouhavenotreadthebookyouwillhaveseenthecoverofthepaperbackeditionasyoubuyyourmorningpaperattherailwaystation.Anakedwomankneels,faceburiedinhands,amidstabarrendesert.SincethattimeSallyKleehaswrittennothing.Everydayformonthsonendshesitsathertypewriter,waiting.Butforasuddenflurryofactivityattheendofeachdayhermachineissilent.Shecannotrememberhowshewroteherfirstbook,shedoesnotdaredepartfromwhatsheknows,shedoesnotdarerepeatherself.Shehasmoneyandtimeandacomfortablehouseinwhichshelanguishes,boredandperplexed,waiting.

Sally Klee places her hand on mine as it moves across her head, either to forestall or toacknowledge tenderness—her head is still bowed and I cannot see her face. Knowing nothing, Icompromiseandholdherhandandsecondslaterourhandsdroplimplytooursides.Isaynothingand,liketheperfectfriend,begintoclearawaytheplatesandcutlery,tinsandtinopener.InordertoassureSallyKlee that I am not at all piqued by or sulking at her silence I whistle “Lillibullero” cheerfullythroughmyteeth,ratherinthemannerofSterne’sUncleTobyintimesofstress.

Exactly so. I amstacking theplates in thekitchenand sulking, almost to thepointof forgetting towhistle.DespitemynegativesentimentsIsetaboutpreparingthecoffee.SallyKleewillhaveablendofno less than four different kinds of bean in emulation of Balzac, whose life she read in a lavishlyillustratedvolumewhileattendingtotheproofsofherfirstnovel.Wealwayscallitherfirstnovel.Thebeansmustbemeasuredoutcarefullyandgroundbyhand—atasktowhichmyphysiqueiswellsuited.Secretly,Isuspect,SallyKleebelievesthatgoodcoffeeistheessenceofauthorship.LookatBalzac(Ibelieve she says to herself), who wrote several thousand novels and whose coffee bills presentthemselvestothewell-wisherfrombehindglasscasesintranquilsuburbanmuseums.AfterthegrindingI

mustaddalittlesaltandpourthemixtureintothesilvercavityofacompactstainless-steelmachinesenthere by post fromGrenoble.While this warms on the stove, I peer in at SallyKlee from behind thedining-roomdoor.Shehasfoldedherarmsnowandisrestingthemonthetableinfrontofher.Iadvanceafewpacesintotheroom,hopingtocatchhereye.

Perhapsfromtheverybeginningthearrangementwascertaintofail.Ontheotherhand,thepleasuresitafforded—particularly toSallyKlee—wereremarkable.Andwhileshebelieves that inmybehaviortowardsher Iwasa little toopersistent, toomanic, too“eager,” andwhile I formypart still feel shedelightedmoreinmyunfamiliarity(“funnylittleblackleatherypenis”and“yoursalivatasteslikeweaktea”)thaninmyessentialself,Iwouldliketothinktherearenoprofoundregretsoneitherside.AsMoiraSillito, the heroine of Sally Klee’s first novel, says to herself at her husband’s funeral, “Everythingchanges.”Isthequiet,assertiveyetultimatelytragicMoiraconsciouslymisquotingYeats?So,nolastingregrets, I hope, when, this afternoon, I carried my few personal effects from Sally Klee’s spaciousbedroomtomyownsmallroomatthetopofthehouse.Yes,Iratherliketoclimbstairs,andIleftwithoutamurmur.Ineffect(whydenyit?)Iwasdismissed,butIhadmyownreasonsforquittingthosesheets.Thisliaison,forallitsdelights,wasinvolvingmetoodeeplyinSallyKlee’screativeproblemsandonlyafinalactofgood-naturedvoyeurismcouldshowmehowfaroutofmydepthIwas.Artisticgestationisaprivatematterandmyproximitywas,andperhapsisstill,obscene.SallyKlee’sgazeliftsclearofthetableandforan immeasurablemomentmeetsmyown.Withaslightaffirmativemotionof theheadsheindicatessheisreadytotakecoffee.

SallyKleeandIsipourcoffee“inpregnantsilence.”ThisatleastishowMoiraandherhusband,Daniel,arisingyoungexecutiveatalocalbottlingfactory,siptheirteaanddigestthenewsthattherearenomedicalreasonswhybetweenthemtheyshouldbeincapableofproducingachild.Laterthesamedaytheydecidetotry(agoodword,Ithought)yetagainforababy.Personallyspeaking,sippingissomethingatwhich I ratherexcel,but silence,ofwhateverkind,makesmeuncomfortable. Ihold thecupseveralinches away from my face and propel my lips towards the rim in a winsome, tapering pout.SimultaneouslyIrollmyeyesintomyskull.Therewasatime—Irememberthefirstoccasionparticularly—when the whole performance brought a smile to the less flexible lips of Sally Klee. Now I exceluncomfortablyandwhenmyeyeballsare facingoutwards into theworldoncemore I seenosmilebutSallyKlee’spale,hairlessfingersdrummingonthepolishedsurfaceof thediningtable.Sherefillshercup,standsandleavestheroom,leavesmetolistentoherfootstepsonthestairs.

ThoughIremainbelowIamwithhereveryinchoftheway—Ihavesaidmyproximityisobscene.Sheascendsthestairs,entersherbedroom,sitsathertable.FromwhereIsitIhearherthreadintohertypewriterasinglesheetofpaper,off-white,A4,61mgpersquaremeter,theverysamepaperonwhichsheeffortlesslycomposedherfirstnovel.Shewillensurethemachineissetatdoublespace.Onlylettersto her friends, agent and publisher go at single space.Decisively she punches the red keywhichwillprovide,whentherearewordstosurroundit,aneat,off-whiteemptinesstoprecedeherfirstsentence.Anawesomesilencesettlesover thehouse, Icommence towrithe inmychair,an involuntaryhigh-pitchedsoundescapesmythroat.FortwoandahalfyearsSallyKleehasgrapplednotwithwordsandsentences,norwithideas,butwithform,orrather,withtactics.Shouldshe,forinstance,breaksilencewithashortstory,work a single ideawith brittle elegance and total control?Butwhat single idea,what sentence,whatword?Moreover,goodshortstoriesarenotoriouslyhardtowrite,harderperhapsthannovels,andmediocre stories lie thick on the ground. Perhaps then another novel aboutMoira Sillito. Sally Kleecloseshereyesandlookshardatherheroineanddiscoversyetagainthateverythingsheknowsabouthershehasalreadywrittendown.No,asecondnovelmustbreakfreeofthefirst.Whataboutanovelset(mytentativesuggestion)inthejunglesofSouthAmerica?Howridiculous!Whatthen?MoiraSillitostaresupatSallyKleefromtheemptypage.Writeaboutme,shesayssimply.ButIcan’t,SallyKleecriesoutloud,Iknownothingmoreaboutyou.Please, saysMoira.Leavemealone,SallyKlee criesout louder than

before.Me,me,saysMoira.No,no,SallyKleeshouts,Iknownothing,Ihateyou.Leavemealone!SallyKlee’scriespiercemanyhoursoftensesilenceandbringmetomyfeettrembling.WhenwillI

everaccustommyselftotheseterriblesoundswhichcausetheveryairtobendandwarpwithstrain?IncalmerretrospectionIwillberemindedofEdvardMunch’sfamouswoodcut,butnowIscamperaboutthediningroom,unabletostifletheagitatedsquealswhichwellfrommeinmomentsofpanicorexcitementandwhich,toSallyKlee’sears,diminishmyromanticcredibility.AndatnightwhenSallyKleeshoutsinhersleep,myownpatheticsquealsrendermedismallyincapableofgivingcomfort.Moirahasnightmarestoo,asisestablishedwithchillingeconomyinthefirstlineofSallyKlee’sfirstnovel:“ThatnightpaleMoira Sillito rose screaming fromher bed…”TheYorkshirePost was one of the few papers to takenoticeofthisopeningbut,sadly,foundit“tooenergeticbyhalf.”Moiraofcoursehasahusbandtosootheherandbythefootofpagetwosheis“sleepinglikealittlechildintheyoungman’sstrongarms.”InasurprisereviewthefeministmagazineRefractoryGirlquotesthislinetoevidencetheredundanceofboth“little”andthenovel’s“banalsexism.”However,Ifoundthelinepoignant,moresowhenitdescribestheverysolaceIyearntobringinthedeadofnighttoitsbegetter.

Iamsilencedbythescrapeofachair.SallyKleewillcomedownstairsnow,enterthekitchentofillhercupwithcold,blackcoffeeandthenreturntoherdesk.Iclimbontothechaiselongueandarrangemyselfthereinanattitudeofsimianpreoccupationincasesheshouldlookin.Tonightshepassesby,herform framed briefly in the open doorway, while her cup, rattling harshly in its saucer, announces hernervous wretchedness. Upstairs again I hear her remove the sheet of paper from her typewriter andreplace itwitha freshpiece.She sighsandpresses the redkey,pushesherhair clearofher eyesandbeginstotypeathersteady,efficientfortywordsperminute.Musicfillsthehouse.Istretchmylimbsonthechaiselongueanddriftintoanafter-dinnersleep.

IfamiliarizedmyselfwithSallyKlee’sritualordealsduringmybriefresidenceinherbedroom.Ilayonherbed,shesatatthedesk,inourseparatewaysdoingnothing.Iluxuriatedin,Icongratulatedmyselfhourlyon,myrecentelevationfrompet to loverand,stretchedoutonmyback,armsfoldedbehindmyhead, legs crossed, I speculated upon further promotion, from lover to husband. Yes, I saw myself,expensive fountain pen in hand, signing rental-purchase agreements formy prettywife. I would teachmyself to hold a pen. I would be man-about-the-house, scaling drainpipes with uxorious ease toinvestigate the roofgutters, suspendingmyself fromlight fittings to redecorate theceiling.Down to thepubintheeveningwithmyhusbandcredentialstomakenewfriends,inventanameformyselfinordertobestow it on my wife, take up wearing slippers about the house, and perhaps even socks and shoesoutside.OfgeneticrulesandregulationsIknewtoolittletoreflectonthepossibilityofprogeny,butIwasdeterminedtoconsultmedicalauthoritieswhowouldinturninformSallyKleeofherfate.Shemeanwhilesat before her empty page, pale as screaming, rising Moira Sillito, but silent and still, progressingineluctablytowardsthecrisiswhichwouldbringhertoherfeetandpropelherdownstairsforunwarmedcoffee.Intheearlydaysshecastinmydirectionnervousencouragingsmilesandwewerehappy.ButasIcametoknowoftheagonybehindhersilence,myemphaticsqueals—soshewastoinsinuate—madeithardertoconcentrateandthesmilesinmydirectionceased.

Theyceasedand, therefore, likewisemyspeculations. Iamnot,asyoumayhavegathered,one toseekconfrontations.Thinkofmeratherasonewhowouldsuckyolks fromeggswithoutdamage to theshells, remember my dextrous sipping. Beyond my silly noises, which were more evolutionary thanpersonal, I said nothing. Late one evening, overwhelmed by a sudden intuition, I scampered into thebathroomminutesafterSallyKleehadleftit.Ilockedthedoor,stoodontheedgeofthebath,openedthesmall,scentedcupboardinwhichshekepthermostprivate,womanlythingsandconfirmedwhatIalreadyknew.Her intriguing cap still lay inside its plastic oyster, dusted and somehowdisapproving ofme. Ipassedrapidly then, in the longafternoonsandeveningson thebed, fromspeculation tonostalgia.Thelongpreludeofmutualexploration,shecountingmyteethwithherball-pointpen,Isearchinginvainfor

nits in her copious hair. Her playful observations on the length, color, texture of my member, myfascinationwithherendearinglyuselesstoesandcoylyconcealedanus.Ourfirst“time”(MoiraSillito’sword)wasalittledoggedbymisunderstandinglargelyduetomyassumptionthatweweretoproceedaposteriori. That matter was soon resolved and we adopted Sally Klee’s unique “face to face,” anarrangementIfoundatfirst,asItriedtoconveytomylover,toofraughtwithcommunication,alittletoo“intellectual.”However,Irapidlymademyselfcomfortable,andnottwoafternoonslaterwasbringingtomind:

Andpicturesinoureyestoget

Wasallourpropagation.Fortunately it was not, at this stage, quite all. “The experience of falling in love is common but

neverthelessineffable.”ThesesentimentsareofferedtoMoiraSillitobyherbrother-in-law,theonlyoneofalargefamilytohavebeentoauniversity.IshouldaddthatMoira,thoughfamiliarwiththewordfromthehymnsofherschooldays,doesnotknowwhat“ineffable”means.Afterasuitablesilencesheexcusesherself,runsupstairstothebedroom,findsthewordinapocketdictionarythere,runsdownstairstothelivingroomandsayscozilyasshecomesthroughthedoor,“No,itisnot.Fallinginloveislikefloatingonclouds.”LikeMoiraSillito’sbrother-in-law,Iwasinloveand,aswillhappen,itwasnotlongbeforemytirelessnessbegantooppressSallyKlee,norwasitlongbeforeshecomplainedthatthefrictionofourbodiesbroughtheroutinarash,andthatmy“alienseed”(aliencorn,Iquippedfruitlesslyat thetime)wasaggravatingherthrush.Thisandmy“bloodygibberingonthebed”precipitatedtheendoftheaffair,thehappiesteightdaysofmylife.IwillbetwoandahalfnextApril.

Afterspeculation,afternostalgia,andbeforemyremovaltotheroomupstairs,Ihadleisuretoposemyself certain questions concerning SallyKlee’s creative ordeals.Why, after a long day of inactivitybeforeoneblanksheetofpaper,didshereturntotheroomintheeveningwithherunwarmedcoffeeandreplacethatsheetwithanother?Whatwasitshethenbegantotypesofluentlythateachdaytookuponlyone sheetofpaperandwasafterwards filedwitha thickbankofother such sheets?Andwhydid thissuddenactivitynotofferherrelieffromherquietsuffering,whydidsherisefromhertableeachnightstillpained,preoccupiedwiththeemptinessoftheothersheet?Certainlythesoundofthekeyswasreleaseforme,andinvariablyattheveryfirststrokeIfellintoagratefulsleep.HaveInotleftmyselfdozinginthecrystallinepresentonthechaiselonguedownstairs?Once,insteadoffallingasleepIsidleduptoSallyKlee’schaironthepretextofaffectionandglimpsedthewords“inwhichcasethewholethingcouldbeconsidered from”beforemy lover—asshestillwas then—kissedmegentlyon theearandshovedmetenderlyinthedirectionofthebed.Thisratherpedestrianconstructiondulledmycuriosity,butonlyforadayortwo.Whatwholething?Whatwholethingcouldbeconsideredfromwhat?AfewdayslatertheplasticoysterhadceasedtoyieldupitsrubberpearlandIbegantofeelthatI,asSallyKlee’srejectedlover,hadtherighttoknowthecontentsofwhatIhadcometoregardasaprivatediary.Betweenthemcuriosity and vanity concocted a balm to easemy prying conscience, and like an out-of-work actor Ilongedtoseeafavorablenoticeofmyself,evenonerelating—asitwere—toapastproduction.

WhileSallyKleesatathertableIhadlaininluxury,planningherfutureandmine,Ithenhadlainthereinremorseandnow,asourincommunicativenessbecamefirmlyestablished,Ilayinwait.Istayedawakelateintotheeveninginordertowatchherassheopenedadrawerinherdesk,removedfromitafadedblueclaspfile,peeledfromher typewriter thecompletedsheet,placeditfacedownwardsinthefile toensure(Isurmisedthroughhalf-closedeyes) that theearliestentrieswereontop,closedthefileand returned it to its drawer, closed the drawer and stood, eyes dulled by exhaustion and defeat, jawslack,spiritoblivious to the lover-turned-spyfeigningsleeponherbed,makinghissilentcalculations.Though not remotely altruistic,my intentionswere not purely selfish either. Naturally I hoped that bygainingaccess toSallyKlee’smost intimatesecretsandsorrowsImight,bypittingmystrengthagainst

selectedlocalesofherclandestinefrailty,persuadeherthatitch,thrushandgibberingweresmallpricestopayformyboundlessaffection.OntheotherhandIdidnotthinkonlyofmyself.Iranandre-ranfantasyfootagewhichshowsmeporingover the journalwhile its author isoutof thehouse,meconfessing toSallyKleeonherreturnmyslight treacheryandcongratulatingherwithpassionateembracebeforeshecandrawbreathonhavingwrittenamasterpiece,acolossalanddevastatingpsychicjourney,shesinkingintothechairIdeftlyproffer,eyeswideningandglowingwiththedawningrealizationofthetruthofwhatIsay,us,shothereintightclose-up,studyingthejournallongintothenight,meadvising,guiding,editing,thepublisher’srapturousreceptionofthemanuscriptoutdonebythatofthecriticsandthatinturnbythereading, buying public, the renewal of Sally Klee’s writing confidence, the renewal, through ourcooperativeendeavors,ofourmutualunderstandingandlove…yes,renewal,renewal,myfilmwasallaboutrenewal.

Itwasnotuntil todaythatanopportunityfinallyoffereditself.SallyKleewasobligedtovisitheraccountantintown.Inordertosublimatemynear-hystericalexcitementIperformedkindservicesathighspeed.Whilesheretiredtothebathroomtoarrangeherhairbeforethemirrorthere,Isearchedthehouseforbusandtraintimetablesandpushedthemunderthebathroomdoor.Iclimbedthehattreeandpluckedfrom itshighestbranchSallyKlee’s red silk scarf and ran toherwith it.After shehad left thehouse,however,Inoticedthescarfbackinitsposition.HadInotofferedit,IconjecturedsulkilyasIwatchedheratthebusstopfromtheatticwindow,shewouldmostlikelyhavewornit.Herbuswasalongtimecoming(sheshouldhaveconsultedthetimetables)andIwatchedherpacearoundtheconcretepostandfinallyengage inconversationwithawomanwhoalsowaitedandwhocarriedachildonherback,asightwhichcommunicated tomeacross thesuburbangablesachemicalpangofgeneric longing. IwasdeterminedtowaituntilIhadseenthebuscarrySallyKleeaway.LikeMoiraSillitogazing,inthelongdaysthatfollowedherhusband’sfuneral,atasnapshotofhisbrother,Ididnotwishtoappear,eventomyself,precipitate.Thebuscameandthepavementwassuddenlyandconspicuouslyvacant.TouchedbyamomentarysenseoflossIturnedawayfromthewindow.

SallyKlee’s desk is unpretentious, standard office equipment of the kind used bymiddle-stratumadministrators of hospitals and zoos, its essential constituent being plywood. The design is simplicityitself.Aplainwritingsurface restson twoparallelbanksofdrawers,and thewhole isbackedbyonelacqueredsheetofwood.Ihadlongagonotedthatthetypedsheetswerefiledinthetopleftsidedrawer,andmy initial reactionondescending from theatticand finding it lockedwasoneofanger rather thandespair.WasInottobetrustedthenaftersolonganintimacy,wasthishowonespeciesinitsarrogancetreated another? As an insult of omission, all the other drawers slid out like mocking tongues anddisplayedtheirdullstationerycontents.Inthefaceofthisbetrayal(whatelsehadshelocked?thefridge?thegreenhouse?)ofoursharedpastIfeltmyclaimtothefadedblueclaspfileutterlyvindicated.FromthekitchenIfetchedascrewdriverandwithitsetaboutprisingloosethesheetofflimsywoodthatboundtheback of the desk.With a sound like the crack of awhip a large piece detached itself along a line ofweakness,andleftinitsplaceanuglyrectangularhole.Iwasnotconcernedwithappearanceshowever.Ithrustmyhanddeep inside, found thebackof thedrawer, insinuatedmyfingers farther, finding the filebegantoliftitclearand,hadnotitsleadingedgecaughtonanailandtippeditscontentsinawhiteswarmontothesplinter-strewnfloor,couldhavecongratulatedmyselfonanimpeccableappropriation.InsteadIgatheredasmanysheetsasmyleftfootcouldconveytomyrighthandinonecontinuousmovement,andretiredtothebed.

Iclosedmyeyesand,inthemannerofthosewho,poisedabovethepan,fleetinglyhugtheirfecestotheirbowels,retainedthemoment.Forthesakeoffuturerecollection,Iconcentratedontheprecisenatureofmyexpectations.Iwaswellawareoftheuniversallawwhichpre-ordainsadiscrepancybetweentheimaginedandthereal—Ievenpreparedmyselfforadisappointment.WhenIopenedmyeyesanumberfilled my vision—54. Page 54. Below that I found myself halfway through a sentence which had its

originsonpagefifty-three,asentencesinisterinitsfamiliarity.“saidDave,carefullywipinghislipswithit and crumpling it on to his plate.” I turned my face into the pillow, sickened and stunned by anapprehensionofthecomplexityandsophisticationofSallyKlee’sspeciesandthebrutishignoranceofmyown.“Davestared intently throughthecandlelightathissister-in-lawandherhusband,hisbrother.Hespokequietly. ‘Oragain, some thinkof it as a sharp,womanlyodor (heglancedatMoira)…exciting.Certainlyitsuggestssexualactivityofsome…’”Ithrewthesheetasideandclutchedatanother,page196:“ofearthstruckthecoffinlid,therainceasedassuddenlyasithadbegun.Moiradetachedherselffromthemaingroupandwanderedacrossthecemetery,readingwithoutrealcomprehensiontheinscriptionsonthestones.Shefeltmellow,asifshehadseenadepressingbutultimatelygoodfilm.Shestoppedunderayewtreeandstoodtherealongtime,abstractedlypickingatthebarkwithherlongorangefingernails.Shethought,Everythingchanges.Asparrow,itsfeathersfluffedagainstthecold,hoppedforlornlyatherfeet.”Notonephrase,notonewordmodified,everythingunaltered.Page230:“‘-ingonclouds?’Daverepeatedpeevishly.‘Whatexactlydoesthatmean?’MoiralethergazefallonaflawintheBokharadesignandsaidnothing.Davecrossedtheroomandtookherhand.‘WhatImeanwhenIaskthat,’hesaidhurriedly,‘isthat I have so many things to learn from you. You’ve suffered so much. You know so much.’ Moirareleased her hand to pick up her cup of barely warm, weak tea. She thought listlessly,Why do mendespisewomen?”

Icouldreadnomore.Isquattedonthebedpostpickingatmychestlisteningtotheponderoustickoftheclockinthehallwaydownstairs.Wasartthennothingmorethanawishtoappearbusy?Wasitnothingmorethanafearofsilence,ofboredom,whichthemerelyreiterativerattleofthetypewriter’skeyswasenoughtoallay?Inshorthavingcraftedonenovel,woulditsufficetowriteitagain,typeitoutwithcare,pagebypage?(GloomilyIrecyclednitsfromtorsotomouth.)DeepinmyheartIknewitwouldsufficeand,knowingthatseemedtoknowlessthanIhadeverknownbefore.TwoandahalfnextAprilindeed!Icouldhavebeenbornthedaybeforeyesterday.

ItwasgrowingdarkwhenI finallysetaboutarranging thepapersand returning themto the file. Iworkedquickly, turningpageswithallfour limbs,drivenlessbythefearofSallyKleereturninghomeearlythanbyanobscurehopethatbyrestoringorderIcoulderasetheafternoonfrommymind.Ieasedthefilethroughthebackofthedeskandintoitsdrawer.Isecuredthejaggedsegmentofwoodwithdrawingpinshammereddownwiththeheelofashoe.Ithrewthesplintersofwoodoutthewindowandpushedthedesk against the wall. I crouched in the center of the room, knuckles barely brushing the carpet,questioningthesemidarknessandthefrightfulhissoftotalsilenceaboutmyhead…noweverythingwasas it had been and as Sally Klee would expect it to be—typewriter, pens, blotting paper, a singlewitheringdaffodil—andstillIknewwhatIknewandunderstoodnothingatall.Simply,Iwasunworthy.Idid not wish to turn on the light and illuminatemymemories of the happiest eight days ofmy life. Igroped,therefore, inthegloomuniquetobedroomsuntil,vibrantwithself-pity,Ihadlocatedallofmyfewpossessions—hairbrush,nailfile,stainless-steelmirrorandtoothpicks.MyresolvetoleavetheroomwithoutoncelookingbackfailedmewhenIreachedthebedroomdoor.Iturnedandpeered,butIcouldseenothing.Iclosedthedoorsoftlybehindmeand,evenasIsetmyhandonthefirststepofthenarrowatticstaircase,IheardSallyKlee’skeyscratchingforleverageinthefrontdoorlock.

Iwakefrommyafter-dinnersleepintosilence.Perhapssilence,thesuddencessationofSallyKlee’stypewriter,hasawakenedme.Myemptycoffeecupstillhangsby itshandle frommy finger, aviscousresidueoftinnedfoodscoatsmytongue,whereasatrickleofsalivafrommysleepingmouthhasstainedthepaisleypatternofthechaiselongue.Sleepafterallsolvesnothing.Irisescratchingandlongformytoothpicks(fishboneinchamoispouch)butnowtheyareattheverytopofthehouseandtofetchthemIshouldhavetopassSallyKlee’sopendoor.AndwhyshouldInotpassheropendoor?WhyshouldInotbeseenandbetakenaccountofinthishousehold?AmIinvisible?DoInotdeserveformyquiet,self-

effacing removal to another room a simple acknowledgment, the curt exchange of nods and sighs andsmilesbetweentwowhohaveknownbothsufferingandloss?Ifindmyselfstandingbeforethehallwayclock,watchingthesmallhandedgetowardsten.ThetruthisthatIdonotpassherdoorbecauseIsmartfrombeingignored,becauseIaminvisibleandofnoaccount.BecauseIlongtopassherdoor.Myeyesstraytothefrontdoorandfixthere.Toleave,yes,regainmyindependenceanddignity,tosetoutontheCityRingRoad,mypossessionsclaspedtomychest,theinfinitestarstoweringabovemeandthesongsofnightingalesringinginmyears.SallyKleerecedingeverfartherbehindme,shecaringnothingforme,no,nor I for her, to lope carefree towards the orange dawn and on into the next day and again into thefollowingnight,crossingriversandpenetratingwoods,tosearchforandfindanewlove,anewpost,anewfunction,anewlife.Anewlife.Theverywordsaredeadweightonmylips,forwhatnewlifecouldbemoreexaltedthantheold,whatnewfunctionrivalthatofSallyKlee’sex-lover?Nofuturecanequalmypast.IturntowardsthestairsandalmostimmediatelybegintowonderifIcouldnotconvincemyselfofalternativedescriptionsofthesituation.Thisafternoon,blightedbymyowninadequacy,Iactedforthebest,itwasinbothourinterests.SallyKlee,returninghomefromatroubledday,musthaveenteredherroom to discover it bereft of a certain few familiar articles and shemust have felt then that her onlysourceofcomforthadlefthersidewithoutaword.Withoutoneword!Myhandsandfeetareonthefourthstair.Surely it is she,not I,who ishurt.Andwhat are explanationsbut silent, invisible things inyourhead?Ihaveappropriatedmorethanmyfairshareofdamageandsheissilentbecausesheissulking.Itisshewholongsforexplanationsandreassurance.Shewholongstobeesteemed,stroked,breathedon.Ofcourse! How could I have failed to understand that during our silentmeal. She needsme. I gain thisrealizationlikeamountaineeravirginsummitandarriveatSallyKlee’sopendooralittleoutofbreath,lessfromexertionthanfromtriumph.

Wreathedbythelightfromherwritinglampshesitswithherbacktome,elbowsrestingonthedesk,headsupportedunderthechinbyhercuppedhands.Thesheetofpaperinhertypewriteriscrowdedwithwords. Ithasyet tobepulledclearand laid in theblueclasp file.StandingheredirectlybehindSallyKleeIamstuckbyavividmemoryfrommyearliestinfancy.Iamstaringatmymother,whosquatswithher back tome, and then, for the first time inmy life, I see past her shoulder as through amist pale,spectralfiguresbeyondtheplateglass,pointingandmouthingsilently.IadvancenoiselesslyintotheroomandsquatdownafewfeetbehindSallyKlee’schair.NowIamhere,itseemsanimpossibleideashewilleverturninherchairandnoticeme.

TwoFragments:March199-

Saturday

TowardsdawnHenrywoke,butdidnotopenhiseyes.Hesawaluminouswhitemassfoldinuponitself,theresidueofadreamhecouldnotrecall.Superimposedblackshapeswitharmsandlegsdriftedupwardsandawaylikecrowsagainstablanksky.Whenheopenedhiseyestheroomwassunkindeepbluelightandhewasstaringintotheeyesofhisdaughter.Shestoodclosetothebed,herheadlevelwithhis.Pigeonsgruntedandstirredonthewindow-ledge.Fatheranddaughter,theystaredandneitherspoke.Footstepsrecededonthestreetoutside.Henry’seyesnarrowed.Marie’sgrewlarger,shemovedherlipsfaintly,hertinybodyshiveredunderthewhitenightgown.Shewatchedherfatherdriftintosleep.

Presentlyshesaid,“I’vegotavagina.”Henrymovedhislegsandwokeagain.“Yes,”hesaid.“SoI’magirl,aren’tI?”Henrysupportedhimselfonhiselbow.“Gobacktobednow,Marie.You’recold.”Shemovedawayfromthebed,outofhisreach,andstoodfacingthewindow,facingthegraylight.

“Arepigeonsboysorgirls?”Henrylayonhisbackandsaid,“Boysandgirls.”Mariemovedclosertothesoundofthepigeonsandlistened.“Dogirlpigeonshaveavagina?”“Yes.”“Wheredothey?”“Wheredoyouthink?”Sheconsidered,shelistened.Shelookedbackathimoverhershoulder.“Undertheirfeathers?”“Yes.”Shelaugheddelightedly.Thegraylightwasbrightening.“Intobednow,”Henrysaidwithfakedurgency.Shewalkedtowardshim.“Inyourbed,Henry,”shedemanded.Hemovedoverforherandpulled

backthecovers.Sheclimbedinandhewatchedherfallasleep.AnhourlaterHenryslippedfromthebedwithoutwakingthechild.Hestoodbeneaththedribbling

showerandafterwardspausedforamomentinfrontofalargemirrorandregardedhisnakeddrippingbody.Litfromonesideonlybythewaterylightoffirstdayheappearedtohimselfsculpted,monumental,capableofsuperhumanfeats.

Hedressedhurriedly.Whenhewaspouringcoffeeinthekitchenheheardloudvoicesandfootstepsonthestairsoutsidehisflat.Automaticallyheglancedoutthewindow.Alightrainwasfallingandthelightwasdropping.Henrywenttothebedroomtowatchoutthewindow.BehindhimMariestillslept.Theskywasthickandangry.

Asfarashecouldseeineitherdirectionthestreetwasfillingwithpeoplepreparingtocollectrain-water.Theywereunrollingcanvastarpaulins,workingintwos,infamilies.Itgrewdarker.Theystretchedthecanvasesacrosstheroadandsecuredtheendstodrain-pipesandrailings.Theyrolledbarrelsintothecenterof thestreet tocollectwater fromthe tarpaulins.Forall thisactivity therewassilence, jealous,competitivesilence.Asusualfightswerebreakingout.Spacewaslimited.BeneathHenry’swindowtwofigureswrestled.Itwashardtomakethemoutatfirst.Nowhesawthatonewasaheavilybuiltwoman,theotheramanofslightbuildinhisearlytwenties.Withtheirarmslockedabouteachother’sneckstheyedgedsidewayslikeamonstrouscrab.Therainfellinacontinuoussheetandthewrestlerswereignored.Their tarpaulins lay inpilesat their feet, thedisputed spacewas takenbyothers.Now they fought for

pride alone and a fewchildrengathered around towatch.They rolled to the ground.Thewomanwassuddenlyontop,pinningthemantothegroundwithherkneepressedagainsthisthroat.Hislegskickeduselessly.A small dog, its pinkmember erect and vivid in the gloom, threw itself into the struggle. Itclasped theman’sheadbetween its frontpaws. Itshaunchesquivered likepluckedstringsand itspinktongueflashedfromtheroot.Thechildrenlaughedandpulleditaway.

Mariewasoutofbedwhenheturnedawayfromthewindow.“Whatareyoudoing,Henry?”“Watchingtherain,”hesaid,andgatheredherupinhisarmsandcarriedhertothebathroom.

Ittookanhourtowalktowork.Theystoppedonce,halfwayacrossChelseabridge.MarieclimbedfromherpushchairandHenryheldherupsoshecouldlookdownattheriver.Itwasadailyritual.Shegazedinsilenceandstruggleda littlewhenshe’dhadenough.Thousandswalkedin thesamedirectioneachmorning.Henryrarelyrecognizedafriendbutifhedidtheywalkedtogetherinsilence.

TheMinistryrosefromavastplainofpavement.Thepushchairbumpedovergreenwedgesofweed.Thestoneswerecrackingandsubsiding.Humanrefuselitteredtheplain.Vegetables,rottenandtroddendown, cardboardboxes flattened intobeds, the remainsof fires and thecarcassesof roasteddogsandcats,rustedtin,vomit,worntires,animalexcrement.Anolddreamofhorizontallinesconvergingonthethrustingsteel-and-glassperpendicularwasnowbeyondrecall.

Theairabovethefountainwasgraywithflies.Menandboyscametheredailytosquatonthewideconcreterimanddefecate.Inthedistance,alongoneedgeoftheplain,severalhundredmenandwomenstillslept.Theywerewrappedinstriped,brightlycoloredblanketswhichindaytimemarkedoutshopspace.Fromthatgroupcamethesoundofachildcrying,carriedonthewind.Noonestirred.“Whyisthatbaby crying?”Marie shouted suddenly, andherownvoicewas lost in that big,miserableplace.Theyhurriedon,theywerelate.Theyweretiny,theonlymovingfiguresonthegreatexpanse.

TosavetimeHenryrandownthestairstothebasementwithMarieinhisarms.Evenbeforehewasthrough the swingdoors someonewas saying tohim,“We like them tobeon time.”He turnedand setMarie down. The play-group leader rested her hand onMarie’s head. Shewas over six feet tall andemaciated,her eyeswere sunkdeepandbrokenbloodvesselsdancedonher cheeks.When she spokeagainshestretchedher lipstightlyaroundher teethandroseonhertoes.“Andifyoudon’tmind…thesubscriptions.Would you care to settle now?”Henrywas threemonths behind.He promised to bringmoneythenextday.SheshruggedandtookMarie’shand.Hewatchedthempassthroughadoorandcaughtaglimpseof twoblackchildren in aviolent embrace.Thenoisewas shrill anddeafening, andcutoffdeadwhenthedoorclosedbehindthem.

When,thirtyminuteslater,Henrybegantotypethesecondletterofthemorning,hecouldnolongerrememberthecontentsofthefirst.Heworkedfromthelong-handscrawlofsomehigherofficial.Whenhecametotheendofthefifteenthletter,shortlybeforelunch,hecouldnotrememberitsbeginning.Andhedidnotcaretomovehiseyesupthepagetosee.Hecarriedthelettersintoasmallerofficeandgavethemtosomeonewithoutseeingwhoitwaswhotookthem.Henryreturnedtohisdesk,withonlyminutesnowtowastebeforelunch.Allthetypistsweresmokingastheyworkedandtheairwasthickandsharpwithsmoke, not of this day alone but of ten thousand previous days and ten thousand days to come. Thereseemednowayforward.Henrylitacigaretteandwaited.

Hedescendedthesixteenfloorstothebasementandjoinedalongqueueofparents,mostlymothers,whocameintheirlunchhourtoseetheirchildren.Itwasamurmuringqueueofsupplicants.Theycameout of need not duty. They spoke to each other in soft voices of their childrenwhile the line shuffledtowardstheswingdoors.Eachchildhadtobesignedfor.Theplay-groupleaderstoodbythedoors,byherpresencealoneconveyinganeedforsilenceandorder.Theparentscomplied,andsigned.Mariewaswaiting forhim justbeyond thedoors,andwhenshesawhimshe raised twoclenched fistsaboveher

headandmadeaninnocentlittledance.Henrysignedandtookherhand.Theskyhadclearedandasicklywarmthrosefromtheflagstones.Thevastplainteemednowlikea

colony of ants. Above it hung a pale sicklemoon, clear against the blue sky.Marie climbed into thepushchairandHenrywheeledherthroughthecrowds.

Allthosewithsomethingtosellcrammedontotheplainandspreadtheirgoodsoncoloredblankets.Anoldwomanwas selling half-used cakes of soap arranged across a bright yellow rug like preciousstones.Mariechoseagreenpiecethesizeandshapeofachicken’segg.Henrybargainedwiththewomanand brought her down to half her first price.As they exchangedmoney for soap shemade a show ofscowlsandMarie recoiled fromher in surprise.Theoldwomansmiled, she reached intoherbagandbroughtoutasmallpresent.ButMarieclimbedbackintoherpushchairandwouldnottakeit.“Goaway,”Marieshoutedattheoldwoman.“Goaway.”Theywalkedon.Henryheadedforafarcorneroftheplainwhere therewas space to sit andeat lunch.Hemadeawidedetouraround the fountain,on the rimofwhichmenperchedlikefeatherlessbirds.

Theysatonaparapetwhichranalongonesideoftheplainandatebreadandcheese.BelowthemstretchedthedesertedbuildingsofWhitehall.HenryaskedMariequestionsabouttheplay-group.Therewere rumors of indoctrination but his questionswere casual and unpressing. “What did you playwithtoday?”

Shetoldhimexcitedlyofagamewithwaterandaboywhohadcried,aboywhoalwayscried.Hetookfromhispocketasmalltreat,cold,brightyellow,mysteriouslycurvedandlaiditinherhands.

“Whatisit,Henry?”“It’sabanana.Youcaneat it.”Heshowedherhow topeel the skinaway,and toldherhow they

grewinbunchesinafar-offcountry.Laterheasked,“Didtheladyreadyouastory,Marie?”Sheturnedandstaredovertheparapet.“Yes,”shesaidafterawhile.“Whatwasitabout?”Shegiggled.“Itwasaboutbananas…bananas…bananas.”They began the half-milewalk back to theMinistry andMarie chanted her newword quietly to

herself.

Faraheadthecrowdwascollectingaroundapointofinterest.Somepeoplewererunningpastthemto join itandwereformingacirclearoundacompulsivebeat,aroundamanwithadrum.By the timeHenry andMarie arrived the circlewas ten deep and the cries of themanweremuffled.Henry liftedMarieontohisshouldersandpusheddeeperintothecrowd.ByhisclothesthepeoplerecognizedhimasaMinistryworkerandindifferentlystoodaside.Nowitwaspossibletosee.Inthecenteroftheringwasasquat,blackoildrum.Animalskinwasstretchedoveroneendandthemanbesideit,amanthesizeofagreatlumberingbear,bangeditwithhisbarefist.Sackingdousedinredpaintwoundaroundhisbodylikeatoga.Hishairwasredandcoarseandreachedalmosttohiswaist.Thehaironhisbarearmswasthickandmattedlikeanimalfur.Evenhiseyeswerered.

Hewasnot shoutingwords.Witheachpulseof thedrumhegaveoutadeep loudgrowl.HewaswatchingsomethingcloselyinthecrowdandHenry,followinghiseyeline,sawalargerustytinpassingfromhandtohandandheardtheclinkofcoins.Thenhesawinthecrowdadullflashofreflectedsunlight.Itwasalongsword,slightlycurvedwithanornamentalhandle.Thecrowdreachedouttoholdit,touchit,assure themselves of its substantiality. It moved in countermotion to the biscuit tin. Marie tugged atHenry’searanddemandedexplanations.Hepusheddeepertowardsthecircletilltheyweresecondfromthefront.Thetincameclose.Henryfelttheman’sfierceredeyesonhimandthrewinthreesmallcoins.Themanbeatthedrumandroaredandthetinpassedon.

MarieshiveredonHenry’sshoulders,andhestrokedherbarekneesforcomfort.Suddenlythemanbrokeintowords,acrudechantontwonotes.Hiswordswereponderousandslurred.Henrymadethem

out, and at the same time saw the girl for the first time. “Without blood… without blood… withoutblood…”Shewasstandingfartooneside,agirlofaboutsixteen,nakedfromthewaistupandbarefoot.Shestoodperfectlystill,handsathersides,feettogether,staringatthegroundafewfeetinfrontofher.Herhairtoowasred,butfineandcroppedshort.Aroundherwaistsheworeapieceofsacking.Shewassopaleitwasquitepossibletobelievethatshewaswithoutblood.

Nowthedrumtookonasteady,arterialpulseandtheswordwasreturnedtotheman.Heheldithighabove his head and glowered at the crowd. Someone from the crowd brought him the biscuit tin. Hepeeredinsideandshookhisgreathead.Thetinwasreturnedtothecrowdandthedrumbeataccelerated.“Withoutblood,”themanshouted.“Throughherbelly,outherback,withoutblood.”Thetinappearedinhishandsagain,andagainherefusedit.Thecrowdwasdesperate.Thoseatthebackpushedforwardtothrowinmoney,thosewhohadgivenshoutedatthosewhohadnot.Quarrelsbrokeout,butthetinwasfilling.Whenit returnedthethirdtimeitwasacceptedandthecrowdsighedwithrelief.Thedrumbeatceased.

Byamovementofhisheadthemanorderedthegirl,surelyhisdaughter,intothecenterofthecircle.She stoodwith the oil drumbetween her and her father.Henry sawher legs shaking.The crowdwassilent,anxioustomissnothing.Thecriesofvendorsreachedthemacrosstheplainasthoughfromanotherworld.Marieshoutedoutsuddenly,hervoice thinwith fear,“What’sshegoing todo?”Henryshushedher, themanwasputting the sword intohisdaughter’shands.Hedidnot takehiseyesoffherand sheseemedpowerlesstolookanywherebutintohisface.Hehissedsomethinginherearandsheraisedthepointoftheswordtoherbelly.Herfatherbentdownandemptiedthebiscuittinintoaleatherbagwhichheslungacrosshisshoulder.Theswordshookinthegirl’shandsandthecrowdstirredimpatiently.

Henryfeltsuddenwarmthspreadacrosshisneckanddownhisback.Mariehadurinated.Heliftedhertothegroundandatthatmoment,urgedonbyherfather,thegirlpushedthetipoftheswordhalfaninchintoherbelly.Mariescreamedwithrage.ShebeatherfistsagainstHenry’slegs.“Liftmeup,”shesobbed.Asmallcoinofcrimson,brilliantinthesunlight,spreadoutwardsaroundtheshaftofthesword.Someoneinthecrowdsneered,“Withoutblood.”Thefathersecuredtheleatherbagbeneathhistoga.Hemadetowardstheswordasiftoplungeitthroughhisdaughter.Shecollapsedathisfeetandtheswordclatteredonto thepavement.Thegiganticmanpicked itupandshook itat theangrycrowd.“Pigs,”heshouted. “Greedypigs.”The crowdwas enraged and shoutedback. “Cheat…murderer…he’sgot ourmoney…”

Buttheywereafraid,forwhenhepulledhisdaughtertoherfeetanddraggedherofftheyscatteredtomakeapath forhim.Heswung the swordabouthishead. “Pigs,”hekepton shouting. “Getback,youpigs.” A stone was thrown hard and caught him high on the shoulder. He spun around, dropped hisdaughterandwentforthecrowdlikeamadman,sweepingtheswordinhugeviciousarcs.HenrypickedupMarieandranwith therestof them.Whenhe turnedbackto lookthemanwasfaraway,urginghisdaughteralong.Thecrowdhadlefthimalonewithhismoney.HenryandMariewalkedbackandfoundthepushchaironitsside.Oneofthehandleswasbent.

Thatevening,onthelongwalkhome,Mariesatquietlyandaskednoquestions.Henryfeltanxiousforher,buthewas too tired tobeofuse.After the firstmileshewasasleep.Hecrossed the riverbyVauxhallbridgeandstoppedhalfwayacross, this timeforhimself.TheThameswas lower thanhehadeverseenit.Somesaidthatonedaytheriverwoulddryupandgiantbridgeswoulduselesslyspanfreshmeadows.Heremainedon thebridge tenminutessmokingacigarette. Itwasdifficult toknowwhat tobelieve.Manysaidthattapwaterwasslowpoison.

AthomehelitallthecandlesinthehousetodispelMarie’sfears.Shefollowedhimaboutclosely.He cooked a fishon theparaffin stove and they ate in thebedroom.He talked toMarie about the sea

whichshehadneverseenandlaterhereadherastoryandshefellasleeponhislap.Shewokeashewascarryinghertoherbedandsaid,“Whatdidthatladydowithhersword?”

Henrysaid,“Shedanced.Shedancedwithitinherhands.”Marie’sclearblueeyeslookeddeeplyintohisown.Hesensedherdisbeliefandregrettedhislie.

Heworked late into the night. Towards two o’clock hewent to thewindow in his bedroom andopenedit.Themoonhadsunkandcloudshadmovedinandcoveredthestars.Heheardapackofdogsdownbytheriver.TothenorthhecouldseethefiresburningontheMinistryplain.Hewonderedifthingswouldchangemuchinhislifetime.BehindhimMariecalledoutinhersleepandlaughed.

Sunday

IleftMariewithaneighborandwalkednorthwardsacrossLondon—adistanceofsixmiles—toareunionwithanoldlover.Wekneweachotherfromtheoldtimes,anditwasintheirmemoryratherthanforpassionthatwecontinuedtomeetoccasionally.Onthisdayourlovemakingwaslongandpoignantlyunsuccessful.After,inaroomofdustysunshineandtornplasticfurniture,wespokeoftheoldtimes.InalowvoiceDianecomplainedofemptinessandforeboding.Shewonderedwhichgovernmentandwhichset of illusions were to blame and how it could have been otherwise. Politically Diane was moresophisticatedthanIwas.“We’llseewhathappens,”Isaid.“Butnowrollontoyourbelly.”Shetoldmeabouthernewjob,helpinganoldmanwithhisfish.Hewasafriendofheruncle’s.Eachdayatdawnshewasdownattherivertomeethisrowboat.Theyloadedahandcartwithfishandeelsandpushedittoasmall streetmarketwhere the oldmanhad a stall.Hewent home to sleep andprepare for the night’swork,shesoldhisfish.Intheearlyeveningshetookthemoneytohishouseandperhapsbecauseshewaspretty,heinsistedtheydividethetakingsevenly.WhileshespokeImassagedherneckandback.“Noweverythingsmellsoffish,”shecried.Ihadtakenitforthelingeringgenitalsmellofanotherlover—shehadmany—butIdidnotsay.Herfearsandcomplaintswerenodifferentfrommine,andyet—orrather,consequently—Isaidonlybland,comfortlessthings.Iworkedmythumbsintothethickfoldsofskininthesmallofherback.Shesighed.Isaid,“It’sajobatleast.”

I rose from the bed. In the bathroom I gazed into an ancient-lookingmirror.My bag of skin layagainst the cool rim of the sink. Orgasm, however desultory, brought on the illusion of clarity. Theunvaryingbuzzofaninsectsustainedmyinaction.MakingaguessatmysilenceDianecalledout,“How’syourlittlegirl?”

“Allright,comingon,”Isaid.However,Iwasthinkingofmybirthday,thirtyintendays’time,andthatinturnbroughttomindmymother.Istoopedtowash.Twoyearsagotherehadreachedme,throughafriend,aletterwrittenonacoarsesheetofpinkpaperfoldedtightlyandsealedinsideausedenvelope.Mymothernamedavillage inKent.Shewasworking in the fields, shehadmilk,cheese,butterandalittlemeat from the farm. She sent wistful love to her son and grandchild. Since then, inmoments ofcharityorrestlessness—Icouldnottell—IhadmadeandretractedplanstoleavethecitywithMarie.Icalculatedthevillagetobeaweek’swalkaway.ButeachtimeImadeexcuses,Iforgotmyplans.Iforgoteventherecurrenceofmyplansandeachoccasionwasfreshlydetermined.Freshmilk,eggs,cheese…occasionalmeat.Andyetmorethanthedestination,itwasthejourneyitselfwhichexcitedme.WithanoddsenseofmakingmyfirstpreparationsIwashedmyfeetinthesink.

I returned to the bedroom transformed—aswas usualwhen Imade these plans—andwas faintlyimpatient to find it unchanged. Diane’s clothes and mine littered the furniture, dust and sunshine andobjectspackedtheroom.DianehadnotmovedsinceIlefttheroom.Shelayonherbackonthebed,legsapart, right knee a little crooked, hand resting on her belly,mouth slackwith a buried complaint.Wefailedtopleaseeachother,butwedidtalk.Weweresentimentalists.Shesmiledandsaid,“Whatwasthat

youweresinging?”When I toldherofmyplans, shesaid,“But I thoughtyouweregoing towaituntilMariewasolder.”Irememberedthatnowasmerelyanexcusefordelay.“Sheisolder,”Iinsisted.

ByDiane’sbedtherestoodalowtablewithathickglasstopwithinwhichtherewastrappedastillcloudofdelicateblacksmoke.Onthetabletherewasatelephone, itswireseveredatfourinches,andbeyond that, propped against the wall, a cathode ray tube. The wooden casing, the glass screen andcontrol buttons had long ago been ripped away and nowbunches of brightwire curled about the dullmetal.Therewereinnumerablebreakableobjects—vases,ashtrays,glassbowls,VictorianorwhatDianecalledArtDeco. Iwasnevercertainof thedifference.Weall scavengeforserviceable items,but likemany others in her minimally privileged part of the city, Diane amassed items without function. Shebelievedininteriordecor,instyle.Wearguedabouttheseobjects,onceevenbitterly.“Wenolongercraftthings,”shehadsaid.“Nordowemanufactureormass-producethem.Wemakenothing,andIlikethingsthat are made, by craftsmen or by processes” (she had indicated the telephone), “it doesn’t matter,because they’restill theproductsofhumaninventivenessanddesign.Andnotcaringforobjects isonestepawayfromnotcaringforpeople.”

I had said, “Collecting these things and setting themout like this amounts to self-love.Without atelephonesystemtelephonesareworthlessjunk.”DianewaseightyearsolderthanI.Shehadinsistedthatyoucannotloveotherpeopleoraccepttheirloveforyouunlessyouloveyourself.Ithoughtthatwastrite,andthediscussionendedinsilence.

Itwasgrowingcolder.Wegotbetweenthesheets,mewithmyplansandcleanfeet,shewithherfish.“Thepointis,”IsaidreferringtoMarie’sage,“thatyoucannotsurvivenowwithoutaplan.”IlaywithmyheadonDiane’sarmandshedrewmetowardsherbreast.“Iknowsomeone,”shebegan,andIknewshe was introducing a lover, “who wants to start a radio station. He doesn’t know how to generateelectricity.Hedoesn’tknowanyonewhocouldbuildatransmitterorrepairanoldone.Andevenifhedid, heknows there areno radios topickuphis signal.He talksvaguely about repairingoldones, offinding a book that will tell him how to do it. I say to him, ‘Radio stations cannot exist without anindustrialsociety.’Andhesays,‘We’llseeaboutthat.’Yousee,it’stheprogramshe’sinterestedin.Hegetsotherpeople interested and they sit around talking aboutprograms.Hewantsonly livemusic.Hewantseighteenth-centurychambermusicintheearlymorning,butheknowstherearenoorchestras.Intheevenings he meets his Marxist friends and they plan talks, courses, they discuss which line to take.There’s a historian who has written a book and wants to read it aloud in twenty-six half-hourinstallments.”

“It’snogoodtryingtohavethepastalloveragain,”Isaidafterawhile.“Idon’tcareaboutthepast,IwanttomakeafutureforMarieandmyself.”Istoppedandwebothlaughed,forasIdeniedthepastIlayonDiane’sbreastsandspokeoflivingwithmymother.Itwasanoldjokebetweenus.Wedriftedintoreminiscences. Surrounded byDiane’smementos itwas easy enough to imagine theworld outside theroomasitoncewas,orderedandcalamitous.Wetalkedaboutoneofthefirstdayswehadspenttogether.Iwaseighteen,Dianetwenty-six.WewalkedfromCamdenTownacrossRegent’sPark,alonganavenueofbareplanetrees.ItwasFebruary,coldandbright.Weboughtticketstothezoobecausewehadheardthat itwassoontoshutdown.Itwasadisappointment,wewandereddespondentlyfromonecage,onemoatedfollyofanenvironmenttothenext.Thecoldmutedtheanimals’smell,thebrightnessilluminatedtheir futility.We regretted the money spent on tickets. After all, the animals simply looked like theirnames,tigers,lions,penguins,elephants,nomore,noless.Wepassedabetterhourinthewarmtalkinganddrinkingtea,theonlycustomersinavastcaféofinfinitemunicipalsadness.

Onourwayoutofthezoo,weweredrawnbytheshoutsofschoolchildrentowardsthechimpanzees.Itwasacageinthestyleofanenormousaviary,ameanparodyoftheanimalsforgottenpast.Betweenrhododendronbushesajungletrackcurved,anirregularsystemofbarsforswingingspannedthecageandthereweretwostuntedtrees.Theshoutswereforapowerful,bad-temperedmale,thecagepatriarch,who

wasterrorizingtheotherchimpanzees.Theyscatteredbeforehim,andweredisappearingthroughasmallhole in thewall. Now all that remainedwaswhat looked like an elderlymother, perhaps shewas agrandmother,aroundwhosebellyclungababychimpanzee.Themalewasafterher.Screaming,sheranalongthetrackandswungontothebars.Theyflewaroundthecage.Hewasinchesbehindher.Ashertrailinghandleftonebar,sohisforwardhandreachedit.

Thedelightedchildrendancedandscreamedassheclimbedhigherandwentfaster.Thebabyclung,itssmallpinkface,halfburiedintitandfur,describedwidetrajectoriesintheair.Nowthetworacedacross theceilingof thecage, thefemale jabberingassheflewandspattering thebarsbelowwithherbrightgreenexcrement.Suddenly themale lost interestandpermittedhisvictims toescape through thehole in the wall. The schoolchildren moaned in disappointment. The cage was silent and still,chimpanzeesappearedcomicallyattheholeandlookedout.Thepatriarchsathighinonecornergazingwithbright,abstractedeyesoverhis shoulder.Slowly thecage filledand themother returnedwithherbaby.Glancingwarily atherpursuer, shegatheredupasmuchofher excrement as shecould findandwithdrewtoatreetopwhereshecouldeatincomfort.Fromtheendofherfingershefedsmallamountstothe baby. She looked down at the human spectators and stuck out her bright green tongue. The infanthuddledagainstitsprotectress,theschoolchildrendispersed.

Welayinsilenceformanyminutesafterourreminiscences.Thebedwassmallbutcomfortable,andI felt drowsy. My eyes were already closed when Diane said, “Memories like that don’t bother meanymore.EverythinghaschangedsomuchIcanhardlybelieve itwasuswhowere there.” IheardherclearlybutIcoulddonomorethangruntinassent.IbelievedmyselftobesayinggoodbyetoDiane.

Outsidethedaywassunnyandwarm.Ileanedoutofmycarandwavedtoherwhereshestoodatthewindow.IfoundIknewthecontrolsperfectly,ofcourse,Ihadalwaysknown.Thecarmovedforwardsilently.IfelthungryanddrovepastrestaurantsandcafésbutIdidnotstop.Ihadadestination,afriendinsomedistantsuburb,butIdidnotknowwho.WhatIwasdrivingalongwascalledtheCircleRoad.Theafternoon was warm, the traffic around me swift and agile, the landscape dehumanized and utterlycomprehensible.Placenameswereilluminatedonclinicalroadsigns.Aglaringtunneltiledlikeaurinalswungfromleft torightthroughparaboliccurvesandpitchedviolentlyupwardsintodaylight.Menandwomen gunned their engines at traffic lights, faulty machines or incompetent drivers would not betolerated.Throughanopenwindowringedfingersdrummedagainstthesideofacar.Beforeatoweringbraadvertisementamanscrutinizedhiswatch.Behindhimthecolossustuggedatherstrapswithfrozeninsouciance.Thelightschangedandweallleaptforward,contentandcontemptpressedintothesetofourlips.Isawasadboyastrideasupermarkethorsewhilehisfatherstoodbyandsmiled.

Itwasbitterlycoldandgrowingdark.Dianewasontheothersideoftheroomlightingacandle.Ilayinherbedwatchinghersearchforwarmerclothestoputon.Ifeltsorryforher,livingalonewithallherantiques.Wehadsucheasyintimacybutmyvisitswererare,itwasalongwalkfromsouthtonorthandbackagain,andalittledangerous.

Ididnotmentionmydream.Dianepinedfortheageofmachinesandmanufacture,forautomobileswereoncepartof the textureofher life.Sheoften spokeof thepleasureofdrivingacar,of travelingwithinasetofrules.Stop…Go…FogAhead.IwasanindifferentpassengerasachildandinmyteensIwatchedtheirdwindlingnumbersfromthepavement.Dianelongedforrules.Isaid,“IsupposeI’dbettergo,”andbegantogetdressed.Westoodshiveringbythedoor.

“Promisemesomething,”saidDiane.“Whatisthat?”“Thatyouwon’tleaveforthecountrywithoutcomingtosaygoodbye.”Ipromised.Wekissedand

Dianesaid,“Icouldn’tbearyoubothtoleavewithoutmeknowing.”Asusualintheearlyeveningtherewerealotofpeopleabout.Itwascoldenoughforstreet-corner

firestobelitandpeoplestoodaroundthemandtalked.Behindthemtheirchildrenplayedinthedarkness.

TomakequickerprogressIwalkedinthemiddleofthestreet,downlongavenuesofrusted,brokencars.ItwasdownhillallthewayintocentralLondon.IcrossedthecanalandenteredCamdenTown.IwalkedtoEustonandturneduptheTottenhamCourtRoad.Everywhereitwasthesame,peoplecameoutoftheircoldhousesandhuddledaroundfires.SomegroupsIpassedstoodinsilence,staringintotheflames;itwastooearlyyettogotosleep.IturnedrightatCambridgeCircusintoSoho.AtthecornerofFrithStreetandOldComptonStreettherewasafireandIstoppedtorestandgetwarm.Twomiddle-agedmenoneither side of the fire were arguing passionately through the flames while the rest listened or stooddreamingontheirfeet.Leaguefootballwasafadingmemory.Menlikethesewouldbeattheirbrainsout,oreachother’s,attemptingtorecalldetailsthatoncecameeasilytomind.“Iwasthere,mate.Theyscoredbeforehalf-time.”Withoutmovinghisfeettheotherpretendedtowalkawayindisgust.“Don’ttalklikedaft,”hesaid.“Itwasagoal-lessdraw.”Theybegantotalkatthesametimeanditbecamedifficulttolisten.

SomeonebehindandtomyrightmadeamovementtowardsmeandIturned.AsmallChinamanstoodjust within the circle of light. His head was onion-shaped, he was smiling and beckoning with largesweepsofhisarm,asthoughIstoodonadistanthilltop.Itookacoupleofpacestowardshimandsaid,“Whatdoyouwant?”Heworetheupperpartofanoldgraysuit,andbrightnewdrainpipejeans.Wheredidhegetnewjeans?“Whatdoyouwant?”Isaidagain.Thelittlemanbreathedandsangatme.“Come!Youcome!”Thenhesteppedoutoftheringoflightanddisappeared.

TheChinamanwalkedseveral feetaheadandwasbarelyvisible.WecrossedShaftesburyAvenueintoGerrard Street and here I slowed to a shuffle and stretchedmy hands in front ofmy face.A fewupper-storywindowsgleameddully,theygaveasenseofthedirectionofthestreetbuttheyshonenolightintoit.ForseveralminutesIedgedforwards,thentheChinamanlitalamp.Hewasfiftyyardsaheadandstoodholdingthelamplevelwithhishead,waiting.WhenIreachedhimheshowedmealowdoorwayblockedbysomethingsquareandblack.ItwasacupboardandasthemansqueezedpastitIsawbyhislampthatbeyondittherewasasteepflightofstairs.TheChinamanhungthelampinsidethedoorway.Heliftedhisendofthecupboard.Iliftedmine.Itwasunnaturallyheavyandwehadtotakeituponestepatatime.Tocoordinateourefforts, theChinamanexhorted“Youcome”inhisbreathing,singingvoice.Wedevelopedarhythmandleftthelampfarbelow.Alongtimepassedandthestairsseemedtobewithoutend.“Youcome…youcome,”theChinamansangtomefrominsidehiscupboard.Atlastadooropenedaheadandyellowlightandkitchensmellstrickleddownthestairwell.Ataut,tenorvoiceofindeterminatesexspokeChineseandsomewherefurtherbeyondachildcried.

Isatdownatatablescatteredwithbiscuitcrumbsandsaltgrains.AttheotherendofthiscrowdedroomtheChinamanwasarguingwithhiswife,atiny,strainedwomanwithafaceoftendonsandtwistingmuscles. Behind themwas a boarded-up window and beyond the door was a pile of mattresses andblankets.AfewfeetfromwhereIsattwomaleinfants,nakedbutforyellowishvests,stoodbowleggedanddrooling,watchingme,theirelbowsextendedforbalance.Agirlofabouttwelveyearswatchedoverthem.Herfacewasacreamierversionofhermother’s,andherdresswashermother’stoo,fartoolarge,andgatheredaboutthewaistwithathinplasticbelt.Fromapotwhichsimmeredonasmallwoodfirecame a thin, salty smell, mingling with the milk-and-urine smell of small children. I was uneasy, Iregretted the lostprivacyofmywalkhome in thedark, the contemplationofmyplans,but anobscuresenseofpolitenesspreventedmefromleaving.

I was developing my own version of the argument between man and wife. I knew of Chinesedecorum.Hewaswantingtorewardtheguestforhishelp,itwasamatterofhonor.“That’snonsense,”shewasinsisting.“Lookatthatthickcoathe’swearing.Hehasmorethanwedo.Itwouldbefoolishandsentimental,whenwehavesolittle,tomakegiftstosuchaman,howeverkind.”

“Buthehelpedus,”herhusbandseemedtocounter.“Wecan’tsendhimawaywithnothing.Atleastlet’sgivehimsomesupper.”

“No, no. There isn’t enough.” The discussion was formal and restrained, barely rising above awhisper.Dissentwasexpressedbymonologueswhichoverlapped,theundulatingtendonsinthewoman’sneck,theman’slefthandwhichclenchedandunclenched.SilentlyIurgedthewomanon.Iwishedtobedismissedwithgentle,courteoushandshakes,nevertoreturn.Iwouldwalksouthwardshomeandclimbinto bed.One of the infants, eyes fixed onmine, began to stagger towardsme. I looked to the girl tointercepthim.Shecomplied,butsullenly,andIsuspectedsheheldbacklongerthanwasnecessary.

Theargumentwasover, thewomanwasbendingoverapileofmattressespreparingabedforthebabies,andherhusbandwaswatchingherfromachairnexttomine.Thegirlleanedagainstthewallandmadeamelancholyexaminationofherfingers.Iplayedwiththecrumbsandgrains.TheChinamanturnedandsmiledfaintlyatme.Thenheaddressedtohisdaughteranunbrokensentenceofapparentcomplexity,thefinalsectionofwhichrosesteadilyinpitchwhiletheexpressiononhisfaceremainedfixed.Thegirllookedatmeand saiddully, “Dad saysyougotta eatwivus.”Toclarify thisher fatherpointedatmymouthandthentothepot.“Youcome,”hesaidwithenthusiasm.Inthecornerthemotherspokesharplytoherchildrenwholayateitherendofasmallmattresscryingsleepily.Ilookedsteadilyinherdirectionhopingtocatchhereyeandhaveherapprobation.Bored,thegirlresumedherpositionagainstthewall,herfathersatwithfoldedarmsandfilmy,vacanteyes.Isaid,“Whatdoesyourmotherthink?”Thegirlshruggedanddidnotlookupfromherfingernails.Againsthersmyvoicesoundedhollowandcultivated,suggestiveoflaconicmanipulation.“Whatwereyourparentstalkingaboutjustnow?”Shelookedattheblackcupboard.“MumsaysDadpaidtoomuchforit.”

Idecidedtoleave.TotheChinamanIpantomimedbymakingasickfaceandpointedtomystomachthatIwasnothungry.MyhostseemedtotakethistomeanthatIwastoohungrytowaittillsuppertime.Hespokerapidlytohisdaughter,andwhensheansweredhecutheroffangrily.Sheshruggedandcrossedtothe fire. The room filledwith a thin, hot, animal smellwhich resembled the taste of blood. I twistedaround inmychair to speak to thegirl. “Idon’twant tooffendyourparents,but tellyourdad I’mnothungryandI’vegottogo.”

“I told him that already,” she said, and ladled something into a large white bowl which she setbeforeme.Sheseemedtorelishmysituation.“Neitherof‘emlisten,”shesaid,andreturnedtoherpartofthewall.

Ina largequantityofclearhotwaterseveraldun-coloredglobes,partiallysubmerged,driftedandcollidednoiselessly.TheChinaman’sfacepuckeredinencouragement.“Youcome.”Iwasawareofthewomanwatchingmefromhersideoftheroom.“Whatisit?”Iaskedthegirl.

“It’smuck,”shesaidvaguely.Thenshechangedhermindandhissedvehemently.“It’spiss.”Withalow chuckle and small flourish of his dry hands the Chinaman appeared to celebrate his daughter’smasteryofadifficultlanguage.WatchedbyallthefamilyIpickedupthespoon.Thebabieswerequietintheircorner.Itooktworapidsipsandsmiledupattheparentsthroughtheunswallowedliquid.“Good,”Isaidatlast,andthentothegirl.“Tellthemit’sgood.”Onceagainnotlookingupfromherfingernailsshesaid,“I’dleaveitifIwasyou.”Imaneuveredoneoftheglobesontomyspoon,itwassurprisinglyheavy.Ididnotaskthegirlwhatitwas,forIknewwhatshewouldsay.

I swallowed it and stoodup. I offeredmyhand to theChinaman in farewell, but he andhiswifestared and did notmove. “G’wan, just go,” the girl saidwith resignation. Imoved slowly around thetable, fearful of vomiting.As I reached the door something the girl said caused themother to becomesuddenlyangry.Shewasshoutingatherhusbandandpointingatmybowlfromwhichtherestillrose,asifin accusation, a fine white trace of steam. The Chinaman sat quietly, apparently indifferent. Now thefurious woman lay into her daughter, who abruptly turned her back and would not listen. Father anddaughterseemedtowaitforsilence,foracordtosnapinthetinywoman’sneck,andItoowaited,halfconcealedbythecupboard,hopingtogoforwardandeasethesituationandmyconsciencewithfriendlygoodbyes.Buttheroomanditspeoplewereanunmovingtableau.OnlytheshoutingcarriedforwardsoI

slippedawayunnoticeddownthestairs.Thelampstillburnedabovethedoorway.KnowingthedifficultyoffindingparaffinIturneditout,

thensteppedintotheblackstreet.

DeadasTheyComeIdonotcareforposturingwomen.Butshestruckme.Ihadtostopandlookather.Thelegswere

wellapart,therightfootboldlyadvanced,thelefttrailingwithstudiedcasualness.Sheheldherrighthandbeforeher,almosttouchingthewindow,thefingersthrustinguplikeabeautifulflower.Thelefthandsheheldalittlebehindherandseemedtopushdownplayfullapdogs.Headwellback,afaintsmile,eyeshalfclosedwith boredomor pleasure. I could not tell.Very artificial thewhole thing, but then I amnot asimpleman. Shewas a beautifulwoman. I saw hermost days, sometimes two or three times.And ofcourseshestruckotherposturesasthemoodtookher.SometimesasIhurriedby(Iamamaninahurry)Iallowedmyselfaquickglanceandsheseemedtobeckonme,towelcomemeoutofthecold.OtherdaysIrememberseeingherinthattired,dejectedpassivitywhichfoolsmistakeforfemininity.

Ibegantotakenoticeoftheclothesshewore.Shewasafashionablewoman,naturally.Inasenseitwasherjob.Butshehadnoneofthesexless,mincingstiffnessofthosebarelyanimatedclotheshangerswhodisplayhautecoutureinstuffysalonstothesoundofexecrableMusak.No,shewasanotherclassofbeing.Shedidnotexistmerelytopresentastyle,acurrentmode.Shewasabovethat,shewasbeyondthat.Herclotheswereperipheraltoherbeauty.Shewouldhavelookedgooddressedinoldpaperbags.She disdained her clothes, she discarded them every day for others. Her beauty shone through thoseclothes…andyettheywerebeautifulclothes.Itwasautumn.Sheworecapesofdeeprussetbrowns,ortwirlingpeasantskirtsoforangeandgreen,orharshtrousersuitsofburntochre.Itwasspring.Sheworeskirtsofpassion-fruitgingham,whitecalicoshirtsor lavishdressesofceruleangreenandblue.Yes, Inoticed her clothes, for she understood, as only the great portrait painters of the eighteenth centuryunderstood, thesumptuouspossibilitiesof fabric, thesubtletiesof folds, thenuanceofcreaseandhem.Herbodyinitsripplingchangesofposture,adapteditselftotheuniquedemandsofeachcreation;withbreathlessgracethelinesofherperfectbodyplayedtendercounterpointwiththeshiftingarabesquesofsartorialartifice.

ButIdigress.Iboreyouwithlyricism.Thedayscameandpassed.Isawherthisdayandnotthat,andperhapstwiceonanotherday.Imperceptiblyseeingherandnotseeingherbecameafactorinmylife,andthenbeforeIknewit,itpassedfromfactortostructure.WouldIseehertoday?Wouldallmyhoursandminutesberedeemed?Wouldshelookatme?Didsheremembermefromonetimetoanother?Wasthereafutureforustogether…wouldIeverhavethecouragetoapproachher?Courage!Whatdidallmymillionsmeannow,whatnowofmywisdommaturedbytheravagesofthreemarriages?Ilovedher…Iwishedtopossessher.AndtopossessheritseemedIwouldhavetobuyher.

Imusttellyousomethingaboutmyself.Iamwealthy.PossiblytherearetenmenresidentinLondonwithmoremoneythanI.Probablythereareonlyfiveorsix.Whocares?IamrichandImademymoneyonthetelephone.Ishallbeforty-fiveonChristmasDay.Ihavebeenmarriedthreetimes,eachmarriagelasting,inchronologicalorder,eight,fiveandtwoyears.TheselastthreeyearsIhavenotbeenmarriedandyetIhavenotbeenidle.Ihavenotpaused.Amanofforty-fourhasnotimetopause.Iamamaninahurry.Eachthrobofjismfromtheseminalvesicles,orwhereveritoriginates,lessensthetotalallowanceofmy life-spanbyone. Ihaveno timefor theanalysis, theself-searchingof frenzied relationships, theunspokenaccusation,thesilentdefense.Idonotwishtobewithwomenwhohaveanurgetotalkwhenwe’vefinishedourcoupling.Iwanttoliestillinpeaceandclarity.ThenIwanttoputmyshoesandsockson and combmy hair and go aboutmy business. I prefer silent womenwho take their pleasure withapparentindifference.Alldaylongtherearevoicesaroundme,onthetelephone,atlunches,atbusinessconferences. Idonotwantvoices inmybed. Iamnota simpleman, I repeat,and this isnota simpleworld.Butinthisrespectat leastmyrequisitesaresimple,perhapsevenfacile.Mypredilectionisforpleasureunmitigatedbytheyappingsandwhiningsofthesoul.

Orratheritwas,forthatwasallbefore…beforeIlovedher,beforeIknewthesickeningelationoftotal self-destruction for a meaningless cause.What do I, now, forty-five on Christmas Day, care formeaning?Most days I passed by her shop and looked in at her. Those early dayswhen a glancewassufficientandIhurriedontomeetthisbusinessfriendorthatlover…IcanpickoutnotimewhenIknewmyselftobeinlove.Ihavedescribedhowafactorinmylifebecameastructure,itmergedasorangetoredintherainbow.OnceIwasamanhurryingbyashopwindowandglancingcarelesslyin.ThenIwasamaninlovewith…simply,Iwasamaninlove.Ithappenedovermanymonths.Ibegantolingerbythewindow.Theothers…theotherwomenintheshop-windowdisplaymeantnothingtome.WherevermyHelenstoodIcouldpickheroutataglance.Theyweremeredummies(ohmylove)beneathcontempt.Lifewasgeneratedinherbythesheerchargeofherbeauty.Thedelicatemoldofhereyebrow,theperfectlineofhernose,thesmile,theeyeshalfclosedwithboredomorpleasure(howcouldItell?).ForalongtimeIwascontenttolookatherthroughtheglass,happytobewithinafewfeetofher.InmymadnessIwroteherletters,yes,IevendidthatandIstillhavethem.IcalledherHelen(“DearHelen,givemeasign.Iknowyouknow”etc.).ButsoonIlovedhercompletelyandwishedtopossessher,ownher,absorbher,eather.Iwantedherinmyarmsandinmybed,Ilongedthatsheshouldopenherlegstome.IcouldnotresttillIwasbetweenherpalethighs,tillmytonguehadprisedthoselips.IknewthatsoonIwouldhavetoentertheshopandasktobuyher.

Simple,Ihearyousay.You’rearichman.Youcouldbuytheshopifyouwanted.Youcouldbuythestreet.OfcourseIcouldbuythestreet,andmanyotherstreetstoo.Butlisten.Thiswasnomerebusinesstransaction. Iwasnotabout toacquirea site for redevelopment. Inbusinessyoumakeoffers,you takerisks.ButinthismatterIcouldnotriskfailure,forIwantedmyHelen,IneededmyHelen.Myprofoundfearwasthatmydesperationwouldgivemeaway.IcouldnotbesurethatinnegotiatingthesaleIcouldkeepasteadyhand.IfIblurtedouttoohighapricetheshopmanagerwouldwanttoknowwhy.Ifitwasvaluable tome,why then,hewouldnaturallyconclude (forwashenotabusinessman too?) itmustbevaluabletosomeoneelse.Helenhadbeeninthatshopmanymonths.Perhaps,andthisthoughtbegantotormentmyeverywakingminute,theywouldtakeherawayanddestroyher.

IknewImustactsoonandIwasafraid.IchoseMonday,aquietdayinanyshop.Iwasnotsurewhetherquietnesswasonmyside.Icould

havehadSaturday,abusyday,butthen,aquietday…abusyday…mydecisionscounteredeachotherlikeparallelmirrors.Ihadlostmanyhoursofsleep,Iwasrudetomyfriends,virtuallyimpotentwithmylovers,my business skillswere beginning to deteriorate, I had to choose and I choseMonday. ItwasOctober,rainingafine,bitterdrizzle.Idismissedmychauffeurforthedayanddrovetotheshop.ShallIslavishlyfollowthefoolishconventionsanddescribeittoyou,thefirsthomeofmytenderHelen?Idonot really care to. Itwas a large shop, a store, a department store and it dealt seriously and solely inclothesandrelateditemsforwomen.Ithadmovingstaircasesandamuffledairofboredom.Enough.Ihadaplan.Iwalkedin.

HowmanydetailsofthisnegotiationmustbesetdownbeforethatmomentwhenIheldmypreciousinmyarms?Afewandquickly.Ispoketoanassistant.Sheconsultedwithanother.Theyfetchedathird,and the third sent a fourth for a fifthwho turnedout to be the under-manageress in charge ofwindowdesign. They clustered aroundme like inquisitive children, sensingmywealth and power but not myanxiety.IwarnedthemallIhadastrangerequestandtheyshifteduneasilyfromonefoottotheotherandavoidedmyeye.Iaddressedthesefivewomenurgently.Iwantedtobuyoneofthecoatsinthewindowdisplay,Itoldthem.Itwasformywife,Itoldthem,andIalsowantedthebootsandscarfthatwentwiththecoat. Itwasmywife’sbirthday, I said. Iwanted thedummy (ahmyHelen)onwhich theseclotheswere displayed in order to show off the clothes to their best advantage. I confided in themmy littlebirthday trick. My wife would open the bedroom door lured there by some trivial domestic matterinventedbymyself,andtherewouldstand…couldtheynotseeit?Irecreatedthescenevividlyforthem.

I watched them closely. I brought them on. They lived through the thrill of a birthday surprise. Theysmiled,theyglancedateachother.Theyriskedglancingintomyeyes.Whatakindhusbandwasthis!Theybecame, each one, my wife. And of course I was willing to pay a little extra… but no, the under-manageresswouldnothearofit.Pleaseacceptitwiththecomplimentsoftheshop.Theunder-manageressled me towards the window display. She led, and I followed through a blood-red mist. Perspirationdribbledfromthepalmsofmyhands.Myeloquencehaddrainedaway,mytonguegluedtomyteethandallIcoulddowasfeeblyliftmyhandinthedirectionofHelen.“Thatone,”Iwhispered.

OnceIwasamanhurryingbyashopwindowandglancingcarelesslyin…thenIwasamaninlove,amancarryinghisloveinhisarmsthroughtheraintoawaitingcar.True,theyhadofferedintheshoptofoldandpacktheclothestosavethemfromcreasing.ButshowmethemanwhowillcarryhistruelovenakedthroughthestreetsinanOctoberrain.HowIblabberedwithjoyasIboreHelenthroughthestreets.Andhowshehungclosetome,clingingtightlytomylapelslikeanewbornmonkey.Oh,mysweetness.GentlyIlaidheracrossthebackseatofmycarandgentlydroveherhome.

AthomeIhadeverythingprepared.Iknewshewouldwanttorestassoonaswecamein.Ibroughtherintothebedroom,removedherbootsandsettledherdownbetweenthecrispwhitebedlinen.Ikissedhersoftlyonthecheekandbeforemyeyesshefellintoadeepslumber.ForacoupleofhoursIbusiedmyselfinthelibrary,catchinguponimportantbusiness.Ifeltserenenow,Iwasilluminatedbyasteadyinnerglow.Iwascapableofintenseconcentration.Itiptoedintothebedroomwhereshelay.Insleepherfeaturesdissolvedintoanexpressionofgreattendernessandunderstanding.Herlipswereslightlyapart.Ikneltdownandkissedthem.BackinthelibraryIsatinfrontofalogfirewithaglassofportinmyhand.Ireflectedonmylife,mymarriages,myrecentdesperation.Alltheunhappinessofthepastseemednowtohavebeennecessarytomakethepresentpossible.IhadmyHelennow.Shelaysleepinginmybed,inmyhouse.Shecaredfornooneelse.Shewasmine.

Teno’clockcameandIslippedintobedbesideher.Ididitquietly,butIknewshewasawake.Itistouchingnowtorecallthatwedidnotimmediatelymakelove.No,welaysidebyside(howwarmshewas)andwetalked.ItoldherofthetimeIhadfirstseenher,ofhowmyloveforherhadgrownandofhowIhadschemedtosecureherreleasefromtheshop.Itoldherofmythreemarriages,mybusinessandmyloveaffairs.Iwasdeterminedtokeepnosecretsfromher.ItoldherofthethingsIhadbeenthinkingaboutasIsatinfrontofthefirewithmyglassofport.Ispokeofthefuture,ourfuturetogether.ItoldherIlovedher,yes I think I toldher thatmany times.She listenedwith thequiet intensity Iwas to learn torespectinher.Shestrokedmyhand,shegazedwonderinglyintomyeyes.Iundressedher.Poorgirl.Shehadnoclothesonunderhercoat,shehadnothingintheworldbutme.Idrewherclosetome,hernakedbodyagainstmine,andasIdidsoIsawherwide-eyedlookoffear…shewasavirgin.Imurmuredinherear. I assured her ofmy gentleness,my expertise,my control. Between her thighs I caressedwithmytonguethefetidwarmthofhervirginlust.I tookherhandandsetherpliantfingersaboutmythrobbingmanhood(ohhercoolhands).“Donotbeafraid,”Iwhispered,“donotbeafraid.”Islidintohereasily,quietlylikeagiantshipintonightberth.ThequickflameofpainIsawinhereyeswassnuffedbylongagilefingersofpleasure.Ihaveneverknownsuchpleasure,suchtotalaccord…almosttotal,forImustconfess that therewasa shadow I couldnotdispel.Shehadbeenavirgin,nowshewasademandinglover.ShedemandedtheorgasmIcouldnotgiveher,shewouldnotletmego,shewouldnotpermitmetorest.Onandonthroughthenight,sheforeverteeteringontheedgeofthatcliff,releaseinthatmostgentledeath…butnothingIdid,andIdideverything, Igaveeverything,couldbringher to it.At last, itmusthavebeenfiveo’clockinthemorning,Ibrokeawayfromher,deliriouswithfatigue,anguishedandhurtbymyfailure.Onceagainwelaysidebyside,andthistimeIfeltinhersilenceinarticulaterebuke.HadInotbroughtherfromtheshopwhereshehadlivedinrelativepeace,hadInotbroughthertothisbedandboastedtoherofmyexpertise?Itookherhand.Itwasstiffandunfriendly.Itcametomeinapanic-filled

momentthatHelenmightleaveme.Itwasafearthatwastoreturnmuchlater.Therewasnothingtostopher.Shehadnomoney,virtuallynoskills.Noclothes.Butshecouldleavemeallthesame.Therewereothermen.Shecouldgobackandworkintheshop.“Helen,”Isaidurgently.“Helen…”Shelayperfectlystill, seeming toholdherbreath. “Itwill come,you see, itwill come,”andwith that Iwas insideheragain,movingslowly,imperceptibly,bringingherwithmeeverystepoftheway.Ittookanhourofslowacceleration,andasthegrayOctoberdawnpiercedthebroodingLondoncloudsshedied,shecame,sheleft this sublunaryworld…her firstorgasm.Her limbswent rigid,hereyesstared intonowhereandadeepinnerspasmsweptthroughherlikeanoceanwave.Thenshesleptinmyarms.

Iwokelate thefollowingmorning.Helenstill layacrossmyarmbutImanagedtoslipoutofbedwithoutwakingher.Iputonaparticularlyresplendentdressinggown,apresentfrommysecondwife,andwent into thekitchen tomakemyselfcoffee. I feltmyself tobeadifferentman. I lookedat theobjectsaroundme,theUtrilloonthekitchenwall,afamousforgeryofaRodinstatuette,yesterday’snewspapers.They radiated originality, unfamiliarity. Iwanted to touch things. I ranmy hands over the grain of thekitchentabletop.Itookdelightinpouringmycoffeebeansintothegrinderandintakingfromthefridgearipegrapefruit.Iwasinlovewiththeworld,forIhadfoundmyperfectmate.IlovedHelenandIknewmyselftobeloved.Ifeltfree.Ireadthemorningpaperatgreatspeedandlaterinthesamedaycouldstillremembernamesof foreignministersand thecountries they represented. Idictatedhalf adozen lettersoverthephone,shaved,showeredanddressed.WhenIlookedinonHelenshewasstillasleep,exhaustedbypleasure.Evenwhenshewokeshewouldnotwanttogetuptillshehadsomeclothestowear.IhadmychauffeurdrivemetotheWestEndandIspenttheafternoontherebuyingclothes.ItwouldbecrudeofmetomentionhowmuchIspent,butletmesaythatfewmenearnasmuchinayear.However,Ididnotbuyherabra.Ihavealwaysdespisedthemasobjects,andyetonlystudentgirlsandNewGuineanativesseemtodowithoutthem.FurthermoremyHelendidnotlikethemeither,whichwasfortunate.

ShewasawakewhenIreturned.IhadmychauffeurcarrytheparcelsintothediningroomandthenIdismissedhim.Imyselfcarriedtheparcelsfromthediningroomtothebedroom.Helenwasdelighted.Hereyesgleamedandshewasbreathlessforjoy.Togetherwechosewhatshewastowearthatevening,along, pure-silk evening dress of pale blue. Leaving her to contemplate what amounted to over twohundredseparateitems,Ihurriedintothekitchentopreparealavishmeal.AssoonasIhadasparefewminutesIreturnedtohelpHelendress.Shestoodquitestill,quiterelaxedwhileIstoodbacktoadmireher.Itwasofcourseaperfectfit.ButmorethanthatIsawoncemorehergeniusforwearingclothes, Isawbeautyinanotherbeingasnomanhadeverseenit,Isaw…itwasart,itwasthetotalconsummationoflineandformthatartalonecanrealize.Sheseemedluminescent.Westoodinsilenceandgazedintoeachother’seyes.ThenIaskedherifshewouldlikemetoshowheraroundthehouse.

Ibroughtherintothekitchenfirst.Idemonstrateditsmanygadgets.IpointedouttheUtrilloonthewall (shewasnotveryfond, I foundout later,ofpainting). Ishowedher theRodinforgeryandIevenofferedtoletherholditinherhandbutshedemurred.NextItookherintothebathroomandshowedherthesunkenmarblebathandhowtooperatethetapsthatmadethewaterspewfromthemouthsofalabasterlions.Iwonderedifshethoughtthatalittlevulgar.Shesaidnothing.Iusheredherintothediningroom…onceagainpaintingswhichIratherboredherwith.Ishowedhermystudy,myfirstfolioShakespeares,assorted rarities andmany telephones.Then the conference room.Therewasnoneed for her to see itreally.PerhapsbythistimeIwasbeginningtoshowoffalittle.FinallythevastlivingspaceIsimplycallthe room. Here I spendmy leisure hours. I shall not hurl more details at you like so many overripetomatoes…itiscomfortableandnotalittleexotic.

IsensedimmediatelythatHelenlikedtheroom.Shestoodinthedoorway,handsbyhersides,takingit all in. I brought her over to a large soft chair, sat her down and poured her the drink she somuchneeded,adrymartini.ThenIleftherandforthenexthourdevotedmyfullattentiontothecookingofour

meal.WhatpassedthateveningwasquitecertainlythemostcivilizedfewhoursIhaveeversharedwithawomanor,forthatmatter,withanotherperson.Ihavecookedmanymealsinmyhomeforladyfriends.WithouthesitationIdescribedmyselfasanexcellentcook.OneoftheverybestButuntilthisparticularoccasion these evenings had always been dogged bymy guest’s conditioned guilt that it was I in thekitchen and not she, that it was I who carried in the dishes and carried them away at the end. Andthroughout my guest would express continual surprise that I, thrice divorced and a man to boot, wascapableofsuchtriumphsofcuisine.NotsoHelen.Shewasmyguestandthatwastheendofit.Shedidnotattempttoinvademykitchen,shedidnotperpetuallycoo,“IstheresomethingIcando?”Shesatbackasaguestshouldandletherselfbeservedbyme.Yes,andtheconversation.Withthoseotherguestsofmine I always felt conversation to be an obstacle course over ditches and fences of contradiction,competition,misunderstandingandsoon.Myidealconversationisonewhichallowsbothparticipantstodevelop their thoughts to their fullest extent, uninhibitedly, without endlessly defining and refiningpremises and defending conclusions.Without ever reaching conclusions.WithHelen I could converseideally,Icouldtalktoher.Shesatquitestill,hereyesfixedatapointseveralinchesinfrontofherplate,and listened. I toldhermany things I hadnever spokenout loudbefore.Ofmychildhood,my father’sdeathrattle,mymother’sterrorofsexuality,myownsexualinitiationwithaneldercousin;Ispokeofthestateoftheworld,ofthenation,ofdecadence,liberalism,contemporarynovels,ofmarriage,ecstasyanddisease.Beforeweknewitfivehourshadpassedandwehaddrunkfourbottlesofwineandhalfabottleofport.PoorHelen.Ihadtocarryhertobedandundressher.Welaydown,ourlimbsentwinedandwecoulddonothingmorethanfallintothedeepest,mostcontentedsleep.

Soendedourfirstdaytogether,andthuswasthepatternsetformanyhappymonthstofollow.Iwasahappy man. I divided my time between Helen and making money. The latter I carried through witheffortlesssuccess.InfactsorichdidIbecomeoverthisperiodthatthegovernmentofthedayfeltitwasdangerousformenot tohavean influentialpost. Iaccepted theknighthood,ofcourse,andHelenandIcelebrated in grand style. But I refused to serve the government in any capacity, so thoroughly did Iassociateitwithmysecondwife,whoappearedtowieldgreatinfluenceamongitsfrontbench.Autumnturnedtowinterandthensoontherewasblossomonthealmondtreesinmygarden,soonthefirsttendergreenleaveswereappearingonmyavenueofoaks.HelenandIlivedinperfectharmonywhichnothingcoulddisturb.Imademoney,Imadelove,Italked,Helenlistened.

ButIwasafool.Nothinglasts.Everyoneknowsthat,butnoonebelievestherearenotexceptions.Thetimehascome,Iregret,totellyouofmychauffeur,Brian.

Brianwastheperfectchauffeur.Hedidnotspeakunlessspokento,andthenonlytoconcur.Hekepthispast,hisambitions,hischaracterasecret,andIwasgladbecauseIdidnotwishtoknowwherehecamefrom,wherehewasgoingorwhohethoughthewas.Hedrovecompetentlyandoutrageouslyfast.Healwaysknewwheretopark.Hewasalwaysatthefrontofanyqueueoftraffic,andhewasrarelyinaqueue.HekneweveryshortcuteverystreetinLondon.Hewastireless.Hewouldwaitupformeallnightatanaddress,withoutrecoursetocigarettesorpornographicliterature.Hekeptthecar,hisbootsandhisuniformspotless.Hewaspale,thinandneatandIguessedhisagetobesomewherebetweeneighteenandthirty-five.

Now itmight surprise you to know that, proud as Iwas of her, I did not introduceHelen tomyfriends. I introducedher to noone.Shedidnot seem toneed any companyother thanmine and Iwascontent to letmatters rest.Whyshould Ibegin todragheraround the tedious social circuitofwealthyLondon?And,furthermore,shewasrathershy,evenofmeatfirst.Brianwasnotmadeanexceptionof.Withoutmakingtooobviousasecretofit,IdidnotlethimenteraroomifHelenwasinthere.AndifIwantedHelentotravelwithmethenIdismissedBrianfortheday(helivedoverthegarage)anddrovethecarmyself.

Allveryclearandsimple.ButthingsbegantogowrongandIcanremembervividlythedayitall

began.Towards themiddleofMayIcamehomefromauniquely tiringandexasperatingday. Ididnotknow it then (but I suspected it) but I had lost almost half amillion pounds due to an error thatwascompletelymyown.Helenwas sitting in her favorite chair doing nothing in particular, and therewassomethinginherlookasIcamethroughthedoor,somethingsoelusive,soindefinablycoolthatIhadtopretendtoignoreit.IdrankacoupleofScotchesandfeltbetter.Isatdownbesideherandbegantotellherofmyday,ofwhathadgonewrong,howithadbeenmyfault,howIhadimpulsivelyblamedsomeoneelseandhadtoapologizelater…andsoon,thecaresofabaddaywhichonehastherighttodisplayonlytoone’smate.ButIhadbeenspeakingforalittlelessthanthirty-fiveminuteswhenIrealizedthatHelenwasnotlisteningatall.Shewasgazingwoodenlyatherhandswhichlayacrossherknees.Shewasfar,faraway.ItwassuchadreadfulrealizationthatIcoulddonothingforthemoment(Iwasparalyzed)butcarryontalking.AndthenIcouldstanditnomore.Istoppedmid-sentenceandstoodup.Iwalkedoutoftheroom,slammingthedoorbehindme.AtnopointdidHelenlookupfromherhands.Iwasfurious,toofurioustotalktoher.IsatoutinthekitchendrinkingfromthebottleofScotchIhadrememberedtobringwithme.ThenIhadashower.

By the time Iwentback into the room I felt considerablybetter. Iwas relaxed, a littledrunkandreadytoforgetthewholematter.Helentooseemedmoreamenable.AtfirstIwasgoingtoaskherwhatthetroublehadbeen,butwestartedtalkingaboutmydayagainandinnotimewewereouroldselvesagain. It seemedpointlessgoingbackover thingswhenweweregettingon sowell.But anhour afterdinnerthefrontdoorbellrang—arareoccurrenceintheevening.AsIgotupfrommychairIhappenedtoglanceacrossatHelenandIsawpassacrossherfacethatsamelookoffearshehadthenightwefirstmade love. ItwasBrianat thedoor.Hehad inhishandapieceofpaper forme tosign.Something inconnectionwiththecar,somethingthatcouldhavewaitedtillthemorning.AsIglancedoverwhatitwasIwassupposedtosign,IsawoutofthecornerofmyeyethatBrianwassurreptitiouslypeeringovermyshoulderintothehallway.“Lookingforsomething?”Isaidsharply.“No,sir,”hesaid.Isignedandclosedthedoor.IrememberedthatbecausethecarwasatthegarageforservicingBrianhadbeenathomeallday.Ihadtakenataxitomyoffices.ThisfactandHelen’sstrangeness…suchasicknesscameovermewhenIassociatedthetwothatIthoughtforamomentIwasgoingtovomitandIhurriedintothebathroom.

However,Ididnotvomit.InsteadIlookedintothemirror.Isawthereamanwhoinlessthansevenmonthswouldbeforty-five,amanwiththreemarriagesetchedabouthiseyes,thecornerofwhosemouthdroopeddownwardsfromalifetimetalkingonthephone.IsplashedcoldwateronmyfaceandjoinedHelenintheroom.“ThatwasBrian,”Isaid.Shesaidnothing,shecouldnotlookatme.Myownvoicesoundednasalandtoneless.“Hedoesn’tusuallycallintheevenings…”Andstillshesaidnothing.WhatdidIexpect?Thatshesuddenlybeofamindtoconfessanaffairwithmychauffeur?Helenwasasilentwoman,shedidnotfindithardtoconcealherfeelings.NorcouldIconfesswhatIfelt.Iwastooafraidofbeingright.Icouldnotbeartohearherconfirmtheveryideathatthreatenedagaintomakemevomit.Imerelythrewoutmyremarkstomakehershoreupherpretense…Isobadlywantedtohearitalldeniedevenwhileknowingthedenialtobefalse.Inshort,IunderstoodmyselftobeinHelen’spower.

Thatnightwedidnotsleeptogether.Imademyselfupabedinoneoftheguestrooms.Ididnotwantto sleep alone, in fact the ideawas hateful tome. I suppose (Iwas so confused) that Iwanted to gothroughthemotionssothatHelenwouldaskmewhatIwasdoing.IwantedtohearherexpresssurprisethatafterallthesehappymonthstogetherIwassuddenly,withoutonewordbeingsaid,makingmybedinanother room. I wanted to be told not to be foolish, to come to bed, our bed. But she said nothing,absolutelynothing.Shetookitallforgranted…thiswasthesituationnowandnolongercouldweshareabed.Her silencewasdeadlyconfirmation.Orwas therea slenderpossibility (I layawake inmynewbed)thatshewassimplyangryatmymoodiness.NowIwasreallyconfused.OnandonintothenightIturnedthematteroverinmymind.PerhapsshehadneverevenseenBrian.Couldtheentirematterbeofmyownimagining?Afterall, Ihadhadabadday.But thatwasabsurd, forherewas therealityof the

situation…separate beds…andyetwhat should I have done?What should I have said? I consideredeverypossibility, good lines, cunning silences, terse aphoristic remarks that ripped away at the flimsyveilofappearance.Wassheawakenowlikeme, thinkingaboutall this?Orwasshefastasleep?HowcouldIfindoutwithoutappearingtobeawake?Whatwouldhappenifsheleftme?Iwascompletelyathermercy.

IshouldbankruptlanguageifItriedtoconveythetextureofmyexistenceoverthefollowingweeks.Ithadthearbitraryhorrorofanightmare,IseemedaroastonaspitwhichHelenturnedslowlywithafreehand.Itwouldbewrongofmetoattempttoargueinretrospectthatthesituationwasofmyownmaking;but Idoknownow that I couldhaveendedmymisery sooner. Itbecameestablished that I slept in theguestroom.Mypridepreventedmefromreturningtoournuptialbed.IwantedHelentotaketheinitiativeonthat.Itwassheafterallwhohadsomuchexplainingtodo.Iwasadamantonthispoint,itwasmyonlycertainty in a timeofbleak confusion. I had tohangon tightly to something…andyou see I survived.Helen and I barely talked.Wewere cold and distant. Each avoided the other’s eye.My follywas inthinking that if I remainedsilent longenough itwouldsomehowbreakherdownandmakeherwant tospeaktome,totellmewhatshethoughtwashappeningtous.AndsoIroasted.AtnightIwokefrombaddreamsshoutingandIsulkedin theafternoonsandtriedto thinkitalloutclearly.Ihadtocarryonmybusiness.Often Ihad tobeoutof thehouse, sometimeshundredsofmilesaway,certain thatBrianandHelenwerecelebratingmyabsence.Sometimes Iphonedhomefromhotelsorairport lounges.Nooneeveranswered,andyetIheardbetweeneachthroboftheelectronictonesHeleninthebedroomgaspingwithmountingpleasure.Ilivedinablackvalleyonthevergeoftears.Thesightofasmallchildplayingwith her dog, the setting sun reflected in a river, a poignant line of advertising copywere enough todissolveme.WhenIreturnedhomefrombusinesstrips,desolate,cravingfriendshipandlove,IsensedfromthemomentIsteppedthroughthedoorthatBrianhadbeentherenotlongbeforeme.Nothingtangiblebeyond the feel of him in the air, something in the arrangement of the bed, somedifferent smell in thebathroom,thepositionofthedecanterofScotchonitstray.HelenpretendednottoseemeasIprowledinanguishfromroomtoroom,shepretendednottohearmysobsinthebathroom.ItmightbeaskedwhyIdidnotdismissmychauffeur.Theanswerissimple.IfearedthatifBrianleftHelenwouldfollow.Igavemy chauffeur no indications ofmy feelings. I gavehimhis orders andhe droveme,maintaining as healwayshadhisfacelessobsequiousness.Iobservednothingdifferentinhisbehavior,thoughIdidnotcareto regardhim tooclosely. It ismybelief thatheneverknew that Iknew,and thisat leastgaveme theillusionofpoweroverhim.

Buttheseareshadowy,peripheralsubtleties.EssentiallyIwasadisintegratingman,Iwascomingapart.Iwasfallingasleepatthetelephone.Myhairbegantolooseitselffrommyscalp.Mymouthfilledwithcankersandmybreathhadaboutitthestenchofadecayingcarcass.IobservedmybusinessfriendstakeastepbackwardswhenIspoke.Inurturedaviciousboilinmyanus.Iwaslosing.IwasbeginningtounderstandthefutilityofmysilentwaitinggameswithHelen.Inrealitytherewasnosituationbetweenustoplaywith.AlldaylongshesatinherchairifIwasinthehouse.Sometimesshesatthereallnight.OnmanyoccasionsIwouldhavetoleavethehouseearlyinthemorning,leavehersittinginherchairgazingatthefiguresinthecarpet;andwhenIreturnedhomelateatnightshewouldbestillthere.HeavenknowsIwantedtohelpher.Ilovedher.ButIcoulddonothingtillshehelpedme.Iwaslockedinthemiserabledungeon ofmymind and the situation seemed utterly hopeless.Once Iwas aman hurrying by a shopwindowandglancingcarelesslyin,nowIwasamanwithbadbreath,boilsandcankers.Iwascomingapart.

Inthethirdweekofthisnightmare,whenthereseemednothingelseIcoulddo,Ibrokethesilence.Itwasallornothing.Throughout thatday Iwalked inHydePark summoning the remainingshredsofmyreason,mywillpower,mysuavenessfortheconfrontationIhaddecidedwouldtakeplacethatevening.IdrankalittlelessthanathirdofabottleofScotch,andtowardseveno’clockItiptoedtoherbedroom

whereshehadbeenlyingforthepasttwodays.Iknockedsoftly,then,hearingnoreply,entered.Shelayfullydressedonthebed,armsbyhersides.Sheworeapalecottonsmock.Herlegswerewellapartandherheadinclinedagainstapillow.TherewasbarelyagleamofrecognitionwhenIstoodbeforeher.Myheartwaspoundingwildlyandthestenchofmybreathfilledtheroomlikepoisonoussmoke.“Helen,”Isaid,andhadtostoptoclearmythroat.“Helen,wecan’tgoonlikethis.It’stimewetalked.”Andthen,withoutgivingherachancetoreply,I toldhereverything.I toldherIknewaboutheraffair. I toldheraboutmyboil.Ikneltatherbedside.“Helen,”Icried,“It’smeantsomuchtobothofus.Wemustfighttosaveit.”Therewassilence.MyeyeswereclosedandIthoughtIsawmyownsoulrecedefrommeacrossavastblackvoidtillitwasapinprickofredlight.Ilookedup,Ilookedintohereyesandsawtherequiet,nakedcontempt.Itwasallover,andIconceivedinthatfrenziedinstanttwosavageandrelateddesires.Torapeanddestroyher.WithonesuddensweepofmyhandIrippedthesmockcleanoffherbody.Shehadnothingonunderneath.BeforeshehadtimetoevendrawbreathIwasonher,Iwasinher,rammeddeepinsidewhilemyrighthandclosedabouthertenderwhitethroat.WithmylifeIsmotheredherfacewiththepillow.

I came as she died. Thatmuch I can saywith pride. I know her deathwas amoment of intensepleasure toher. Iheardher shouts through thepillow. Iwillnotboreyouwith rhapsodiesonmyownpleasure. It was a transfiguration. And now she lay dead in my arms. It was some minutes before Icomprehended the enormityofmydeed.Mydear, sweet, tenderHelen laydead inmyarms,deadandpitifullynaked.Ifainted.Iawokewhatseemedmanyhourslater,IsawthecorpseandbeforeIhadtimetoturnmyheadIvomitedoverit.LikeasleepwalkerIdriftedintothekitchen,ImadestraightfortheUtrilloand tore it toshreds. Idropped theRodin forgery into thegarbagedisposal.NowIwas running likeanakedmadmanfromroomtoroomdestroyingwhateverIcouldlaymyhandson.IstoppedonlytofinishtheScotch.Vermeer,Blake,RichardDadd,PaulNash,Rothke,Itore,trampled,mangled,kicked,spatandurinatedon…mypreciouspossessions…ohmyprecious…Idanced,Isang,Ilaughed…Iweptlongintothenight.

InBetweentheSheetsThatnightStephenCookehadawetdream,thefirstinmanyyears.Afterwardshelayawakeonhis

back,handsbehindhishead,whileitslastimagesrecededinthedarknessandhiscum,strangelylocatedacrossthesmallofhisback,turnedcold.Helaystilltillthelightwasbluishgray,andthenhetookabath.Helaytherealongtimetoo,staringsleepilyathisbrightbodyunderwater.

Thatprecedingdayhehadkeptanappointmentwithhiswifeinafluorescentcaféwithredformicatabletops.Itwasfiveo’clockwhenhearrivedandalmostdark.Asheexpectedhewastherebeforeher.ThewaitresswasanItaliangirl,nineortenyearsoldperhaps,hereyesheavyanddullwithadultcares.Laboriouslyshewroteouttheword“coffee”twiceonhernotepad,torethepageinhalfandcarefullylaidonepieceonhistable,facedownwards.ThensheshuffledawaytooperatethevastandgleamingGaggiamachine.Hewasthecafe’sonlycustomer.

Hiswifewasobservinghim from thepavementoutside.Shedisliked cheap cafés and shewouldmakesurehewastherebeforeshecamein.Henoticedherasheturnedinhisseattotakehiscoffeefromthe child. She stood behind the shoulder of his own reflected image, like a ghost, half-hidden in adoorwayacrossthestreet.Nodoubtshebelievedhecouldnotseeoutofabrightcaféintothedarkness.Toreassureherhemovedhischairtogiveheramorecompleteviewofhisface.Hestirredhiscoffeeandwatched thewaitresswho leanedagainst thecounter ina trance,andwhonowdrewa longsilverthreadfromhernose.Thethreadsnappedandsettledontheendofherforefinger,acolorlesspearl.Sheglaredatitbrieflyandspreaditacrossherthighs,sofinelythatitdisappeared.

Whenhiswifecameinshedidnotlookathimatfirst.Shewentstraighttothecounterandorderedacoffeefromthegirlandcarriedittothetableherself.

“Iwish,”shehissedassheunwrappedhersugar,“youwouldn’tpickplaces like this.”Hesmiledindulgentlyanddownedhiscoffee inoneswallow.Shefinishedhers incareful,poutingsips.Thenshetookasmallmirrorandsometissuesfromherbag.Sheblottedherredlipsandswabbedfromanincisoraredstain.Shecrumpledthetissueintohersaucerandsnappedherbagshut.Stephenwatchedthetissueabsorbthecoffeeslopandturngray.Hesaid,“HaveyougotanotheroneofthoseIcanhave?”Shegavehimtwo.

“You’renotgoingtocryareyou?”Atonesuchmeetinghehadcried.Hesmiled.“Iwanttoblowmynose.”TheItaliangirlsatdownatatableneartheirsandspreadoutseveralsheetsofpaper.Sheglanced

across at them, and then leaned forwards till her nosewas inches from the table. She began to fill incolumnsofnumbers.Stephenmurmured,“She’sdoingtheaccounts.”

His wife whispered, “It shouldn’t be allowed, a child of that age.” Finding themselves in rareagreement,theylookedawayfromeachother’sfaces.

“How’sMiranda?”Stephensaidatlast.“She’sallright.”“I’llbeovertoseeherthisSunday.”“Ifthat’swhatyouwant.”“Andtheotherthing…”Stephenkepthiseyesonthegirlwhodangledherlegsnowanddaydreamed.

Orperhapsshewaslistening.“Yes?”“TheotherthingisthatwhentheholidaysstartIwantMirandatocomeandspendafewdayswith

me.”“Shedoesn’twantto.”“I’dratherhearthatfromher.”

“Shewon’ttellyouherself.You’llmakeherfeelguiltyifyouaskher.”Hebangedthetablehardwithhisopenhand.“Listen!”Healmostshouted.Thechildlookedupand

Stephenfeltherreproach.“Listen,”hesaidquietly,“I’llspeaktoheronSundayandjudgeformyself.”“Shewon’tcome,”saidhiswife,andsnappedshutherbagoncemoreasiftheirdaughterlaycurled

upinside.Theybothstoodup.ThegirlstooduptooandcameovertotakeStephen’smoney,acceptingalarge tip without acknowledgment. Outside the café Stephen said, “Sunday then.” But his wife wasalreadywalkingawayanddidnothear.

That night he had the wet dream. The dream itself concerned the café, the girl and the coffeemachine.Itendedinsuddenandintensepleasure,butforthemomentthedetailswerebeyondrecall.Hegotoutofthebathhotanddizzy,ontheedge,hethought,ofanhallucination.Balancedonthesideofthebath,hewaitedforittowearoff,acertainwarpingofthespacebetweenobjects.Hedressedandwentoutside, into thesmallgardenofdying treeshesharedwithother residents in thesquare. Itwasseveno’clock.AlreadyDrake, self-appointed custodianof thegarden,wasdownonhis kneesbyoneof thebenches.Paintscraperinonehand,abottleofcolorlessliquidintheother.

“Pigeoncrap,”DrakebarkedatStephen.“Pigeonscrapandnoonecansitdown.Noone.”Stephenstoodbehind theoldman,hishandsdeep inhispockets, andwatchedhimworkat thegray-and-whitestains.Hefeltcomforted.Aroundtheedgeofthegardenrananarrowpathworntoatroughbythedailytrafficofdogwalkers,writerswithblocksandmarriedcouplesincrisis.

WalkingtherenowStephenthought,asheoftendid,ofMirandahisdaughter.OnSundayshewouldbefourteen,todayheshouldfindherapresent.Twomonthsagoshehadsenthimaletter.“DearDaddy,areyoulookingafteryourself?CanIhavetwenty-fivepoundspleasetobuyarecord-player?Withallmylove,Miranda.” He replied by return post and regretted it the instant the letter left his hands. “DearMiranda,Iamlookingaftermyself,butnotsufficientlytocomplywith…etc.”Ineffectitwashiswifehehadaddressed.At the sortingofficehehad spoken to a sympatheticofficialwho ledhimawayby theelbow.Youwishtoretrievealetter?Thiswayplease.Theypassedthroughaglassdoorandsteppedoutontoasmallbalcony.Thekindlyofficialindicatedwithasweepofhishandthespectacularview,twoacresofmen,women,machineryandmovingconveyorbelts.Nowwherewouldyoulikeustostart?

ReturningtohispointofdepartureforthethirdtimehenoticedthatDrakewasgone.Thebenchwasspotless and smellingof spirit.He sat down.Hehad sentMiranda thirtypounds, threenew ten-poundnotesinaregisteredletter.Heregrettedthattoo.Theextrafivesoclearlyspelledouthisguilt.Hespenttwodaysoveralettertoher,fumbling,withreferencetonothinginparticular,maudlin.“DearMiranda,IheardsomepopmusicontheradiotheotherdayandIcouldn’thelpwonderingatthewordswhich…”Tosuchaletterhecouldconceiveofnoreply.Butitcameabouttendayslater.“DearDaddy,Thanksforthemoney.IboughtaMusivoxJuniorthesameasmyfriendCharmian.Withallmylove,Miranda.P.S.It’sgottwospeakers.”

Backindoorshemadecoffee,tookitintohisstudyandfellintothemildtrancewhichallowedhimtoworkthreeandahalfhourswithoutabreak.HereviewedapamphletonVictorianattitudestowardsmenstruation,hecompletedanother threepagesofashortstoryhewaswriting,hewrotea little inhisrandomjournal.He typed,“nocturnalemission likeanoldman’s lastgasp”andcrossed itout.Fromadrawerhe tooka thick ledgerandentered in thecredit column“Review…1500words.Short story…1020words. Journal…60words.”Taking a redbiro fromaboxmarked “pens”he ruledoff theday,closedthebookandreturnedittoitsdrawer.Hereplacedthedustcoveronhistypewriter,returnedthetelephonetoitscradle,gatheredupthecoffeethingsontoatrayandcarriedthemout, lockingthestudydoorbehindhim,thusterminatingthemorning’srite,unchangedfortwenty-threeyears.

HemovedquicklyupOxfortStreetgatheringpresentsforhisdaughter’sbirthday.Heboughtapairofjeans,apairofcoloredcanvasrunningshoessuggestiveoftheStarsandStripes.Heboughtthreecolored

T-shirts with funny slogans… It’s Raining inMyHeart, Still a Virgin, and Ohio State University. Heboughtapomanderandagameofdicefromawomaninthestreetandanecklaceofplasticbeads.Heboughtabookaboutwomenheroes,agamewithmirrors,arecordgiftcertificatefor£5,asilkscarfandaglasspony.Thesilkscarfputtinghiminmindofunderwear,hereturnedtotheshopdetermined.

Theerotic,pastelhushofthelingeriefloorarousedinhimasenseoftaboo,helongedtoliedownsomewhere.Hehesitatedattheentrancetothedepartmentthenturnedback.Heboughtabottleofcologneonanotherfloorandcamehomeinamoodofgloomyexcitement.Hearrangedhispresentsonthekitchentable and surveyed themwith loathing, their sickly excess and condescension. For severalminutes hestoodinfrontofthekitchentablestaringateachobjectinturn,tryingtorelivethecertaintywithwhichhehadboughtit.Thegiftcertificateheputtooneside,theresthesweptintoacarrierbagandthrewitintothecupboardinthehallway.Thenhetookoffhisshoesandsocks,laydownonhisunmadebed,examinedwithhisfingerthecolorlessstainthathadhardenedonthesheet,andthenslepttillitwasdark.

Naked from the waistMiranda Cooke lay across her bed, arms spread, face buried deep in thepillow,andthepillowburieddeepunderheryellowhair.Fromachairbythebedapinktransistorradioplayedmethodicallythroughthetoptwenty.Thelate-afternoonsunshonethroughclosedcurtainsandcasttheroomintheceruleangreenofatropicalaquarium.LittleCharmiansatastrideMiranda’sbuttocks,tinyCharmian, Miranda’s friend, plied her fingernails backwards and forwards across Miranda’s paleunblemishedback.

Charmian toowasnaked, and time seemed to stand still.Rangedalong themirrorof thedressingtable, their feet concealed by cosmetic jars and tubes, their hands raised in perpetual surprise, sat thediscardeddollsofMiranda’schildhood.

Charmian’scaressesslowedtonothing,herhandscametorestinthesmallofherfriend’sback.Shestaredatthewallinfrontofher,swayingabstractedly.Listening.

…They’realllockedinthenursery,Theygotearphoneheads,theygotdirtynecks,They’resotwentiethcentury.

“Ididn’tknowthatwasin,”shesaid.Mirandatwistedherheadandspokefromunderherhair.“It’scomeback,”sheexplained.“TheRollingStonesusedtosingit.”

Don’chathinkthere’saplaceforyouInbetweenthesheets?

WhenitwasoverMirandaspokepeevishlyovertheD.J.’shystericalroutine.“You’vestopped.Whyhaveyoustopped?”

“I’vebeendoingitforages.”“Yousaidhalfanhourformybirthday.Youpromised.”Charmianbeganagain.Miranda,sighingas

one who only receives her due, sank her mouth into the pillow. Outside the room the traffic dronedsoothingly,thepitchofanambulancesirenroseandfell,abirdbegantosing,brokeoff,startedagain,abellrangsomewheredownstairsandlateravoicecalledout,overandoveragain,anothersirenpassed,this timemore distant… itwas all so remote from the aquatic gloomwhere time had stopped,whereCharmiangentlydrewhernailsacrossherfriend’sbackforherbirthday.Thevoicereachedthemagain.Mirandastirredandsaid,“Ithinkthat’smymumcallingme.Mydadmust’vecome.”

Whenherangthefrontdoorbellofthishousewherehehadlivedsixteenyears,Stephenassumedhisdaughterwould answer.Sheusuallydid.But itwashiswife.Shehad the advantageof three concretestepsandsheglareddownathim,waitingforhimtospeak.Hehadnothingreadyforher.

“Is… is Miranda there?” he said finally. “I’m a little late,” he added, and taking his chance,advancedupthesteps.Attheverylastmomentshesteppedasideandopenedthedoorwider.

“She’supstairs,”shesaidtonelesslyasStephentriedtosqueezebywithouttouchingher.“We’llgointhebigroom.”Stephenfollowedherintothecomfortable,unchangingroom,linedfromfloortoceilingwithbookshehadleftbehind.Inonecorner,underitscanvascover,washisgrandpiano.Stephenranhishandalongitscurvingedge.Indicatingthebookshesaid,“Imusttakealltheseoffyourhands.”

“Inyourowngood time,” she said as shepoured sherry for him. “There’s nohurry.”Stephen satdownatthepianoandliftedthecover.“Doeitherofyouplayitnow?”

Shecrossedtheroomwithhisglassandstoodbehindhim.“Ineverhavethetime.AndMirandaisn’tinterestednow.”

Hespreadhishandsoverasoft, spaciouschord,sustained itwith thepedaland listened to itdieaway.

“Stillintunethen?”“Yes.”Heplayedmorechords,hebegantoimproviseamelody,almostamelody.Hecouldhappily

forgetwhathehadcomeforandbeleftalonetoplayforanhourorso,hispiano.“Ihaven’tplayedforoverayear,”hesaidbywayofexplanation.

Hiswifewasoverby thedoornowabout tocallout toMiranda,andshehad to snatchbackherbreathtosay,“Really?Itsoundsfinetome.Miranda,”shecalled,“Miranda,Miranda,”risingandfallingon three notes, the third note higher than the first, and trailing away inquisitively. Stephen played thethree-notetuneback,andhiswifebrokeoffabruptly.Shelookedsharplyinhisdirection.“Veryclever.”

“Youknowyouhaveamusicalvoice,”saidStephenwithoutirony.Sheadvancedfartherintotheroom.“AreyoustillintendingtoaskMirandatostaywithyou?”Stephenclosedthepianoandresignedhimselftohostilities.“Haveyoubeenworkingonherthen?”Shefoldedherarms.“Shewon’tgowithyou.Notaloneanyway.”“Thereisn’troomintheflatforyouaswell.”“AndthankGodthereisn’t.”Stephen stood up and raised his hand like an Indian chief. “Let’s not,” he said. “Let’s not.” She

noddedand returned to thedoorandcalledout to theirdaughter inasteady tone, immune to imitation.Thenshesaidquietly,“I’mtalkingaboutCharmian.Miranda’sfriend.”

“What’sshelike?”Shehesitated.“She’supstairs.You’llseeher.”“Ah…”Theysatinsilence.FromupstairsStephenheardgiggling,thefamiliar,distanthissoftheplumbing,a

bedroomdooropeningandclosing.Fromhis shelveshepickedoutabookaboutdreamsand thumbedthroughit.Hewasawareofhiswifeleavingtheroom,buthedidnotlookup.Thesettingafternoonsunlittheroom.“Anemissionduringadreamindicatesthesexualnatureofthewholedream,howeverobscureand unlikely the contents are.Dreams culminating in emissionmay reveal the object of the dreamer’sdesireaswellashisinnerconflicts.Anorgasmcannotlie.”

“HelloDaddy,”saidMiranda.“ThisisCharmian,myfriend.”Thelightwasinhiseyesandatfirsthethoughttheyheldhands,likemotherandchildsidebysidebeforehim,illuminatedfrombehindbytheorangedyingsun,waitingtobegreeted.Theirrecentlaughterseemedconcealedintheirsilence.Stephenstood up and embraced his daughter. She felt different to the touch, stronger perhaps. She smelledunfamiliar,shehadaprivatelifeatlast,accountabletonoone.Herbarearmswereverywarm.

“Happy birthday,” Stephen said, closing his eyes as he squeezed her and preparing to greet the

minutefigureatherside.Hesteppedbacksmilingandvirtuallykneltbeforeheronthecarpet toshakehands, this doll-like figurinewho stood nomore than 3 foot 6 at his daughter’s side,whosewooden,oversizedfacesmiledsteadilybackathim.

“I’vereadoneofyourbooks”washercalmfirstremark.Stephensatbackinhischair.Thetwogirlsstill stoodbeforehimas though theywished tobedescribed and compared.Miranda’sT-shirt didnotreachherwaistbyseveralinchesandhergrowingbreastsliftedtheedgeoftheshirtclearofherbelly.Herhandrestedonherfriend’sshoulderprotectively.

“Really?”saidStephenaftersomepause.“Whichone?”“Theoneaboutevolution.”“Ah…”Stephentookfromhispockettheenvelopecontainingtherecordgiftcertificateandgaveit

toMiranda.“It’snotmuch,”hesaid,rememberingthebagfullofgifts.Mirandaretiredtoachairtoopenherenvelope.Thedwarfhoweverremainedstandinginfrontofhim,regardinghimfixedly.Shefingeredthehemofherchild’sdress.

“Mirandatoldmealotaboutyou,”shesaidpolitely.Mirandalookedupandgiggled.“No,Ididn’t,”sheprotested.Charmianwenton.“She’sveryproudofyou.”Mirandablushed.StephenwonderedatCharmian’s

age.“I haven’t given her much reason to be,” he found himself saying, and gestured at the room to

indicatethenatureofhisdomesticsituation.Thetinygirlgazedpatientlyintohiseyesandhefeltforamoment poised on the edge of total confession. I never satisfied my wife in marriage, you see. Herorgasmsterrifiedme.

Mirandahaddiscoveredherpresent.Withalittlecrysheleftherchair,cradledhisheadbetweenherhandsandstoopingdownkissedhisear.

“Thank you,” shemurmured hotly and loudly, “thank you, thank you.”Charmian took a couple ofpacesnearertillshewasalmoststandingbetweenhisopenknees.Mirandasettledonthearmofhischair.Itgrewdarker.

HefeltthewarmthofMiranda’sbodyonhisneck.Sheslippeddownalittlefartherandrestedherheadonhis shoulder.Charmianstirred.Mirandasaid,“I’mgladyoucame,”anddrewherkneesup tomakeherselfsmaller.FromoutsideStephenheardhiswifemovingfromoneroomtoanother.Heliftedhisarmaroundhisdaughter’sshoulder,carefulnottotouchherbreasts,andhuggedhertohim.

“Areyoucomingtostaywithmewhentheholidaysbegin?”“Charmiantoo…”Shespokechildishly,butherwordsweredelicatelypitchedbetweeninquiryand

stipulation.“Charmiantoo,”Stephenagreed.“Ifshewantsto.”Charmianlethergazedropandsaiddemurely,

“Thankyou.”

DuringthefollowingweekStephenmadepreparations.Hesweptthefloorofhisonlyspareroom,hecleanedthewindowsthereandhungnewcurtains.Herentedatelevision.Inthemorningsheworkedwithcustomarynumbnessandenteredhisachievementsintheledgerbook.Hebroughthimselfatlasttosetoutwhathecouldrememberofhisdream.Thedetailsseemedtobeaccumulatingsatisfactorily.Hiswifewasinthecafé.Itwasforherthathewasbuyingcoffee.Ayounggirltookacupandheldittothemachine.But nowhewas themachine, nowhe filled the cup.This sequence, laid out neatly, cryptically in hisjournal,worriedhimlessnow.Ithad,asfarashewasconcerned,acertainliterarypotential.Itneededfleshing out, and since he could remember no more he would have to invent the rest. He thought ofCharmian,ofhowsmall shewas, andheexaminedcarefully thechairs rangedaround thedining-roomtable. She was small enough for a baby’s high chair. In a department store he carefully chose twocushions.Theimpulsetobuythegirlspresentshedistrustedandresisted.Butstillhewantedtodothings

forthem.Whatcouldhedo?Herakedoutgobsofancientfilthfromunderthekitchensink,poureddeadfliesandspidersfromthelampfixtures,boiledfetiddishcloths;heboughtatoiletbrushandscrubbedthecrustybowl.Things theywouldnevernotice.Hadhereallybecomesuchanoldfool?Hespoke tohiswifeonthephone.

“YounevermentionedCharmianbefore.”“No,”sheagreed.“It’safairlyrecentthing.”“Well…”hestruggled,“howdoyoufeelaboutit?”“It’sfinebyme,”shesaid,veryrelaxed.“They’regoodfriends.”Shewastryinghimout,hethought.

Shehatedhimforhis fearfulness,hispassivityand forall thewastedhoursbetween the sheets. Ithadtakenhermanyyearsofmarriagetosayso.Theexperimentationinhiswriting,thelackofitinhislife.Shehatedhim.Andnowshehada lover, avigorous lover.And still hewanted to say, Is it right, ourlovelydaughterwithafriendwhobelongsbyrights inacircusorasilk-hungbrothelservingtea?Ourflaxen-haired,perfectlyformeddaughter,ourtenderbud,isitnotperverse?

“ExpectthemThursdayevening,”saidhiswifebywayofgoodbye.

When Stephen answered the door he saw only Charmian at first, and then hemade outMirandaoutsidethetightcircleoflightfromthehall,strugglingwithbothsetsofluggage.Charmianstoodwithherhandsonherhips,herheavyheadtippedslightlytooneside.Withoutgreetingshesaid,“Wehadtotakeataxiandhe’sdownstairswaiting.”

Stephenkissedhisdaughter,helpedherinwiththecasesandwentdownstairstopaythetaxi.Whenhereturned,alittleoutofbreathfromthetwoflightsofstairs,thefrontdoorofhisflatwasclosed.Heknockedandhadtowait.ItwasCharmianwhoopenedthedoorandstoodinhispath.

“Youcan’t come in,” she said solemnly. “You’ll have to comeback later,” and shemadeas if toclosethedoor.Laughinginhisnasal,unconvincingway,Stephenlungedforwards,caughtherunderherarmsandscoopedherintotheair.Atthesametimehesteppedintotheflatandclosedthedoorbehindhimwithhisfoot.Hemeanttoliftherhighintheairlikeachild,butshewasheavy,heavylikeanadult,andherfeettrailedafewinchesabovetheground,itwasallhecouldmanage.Shethumpedhishandwithherfistsandshouted.

“Putme…”Herlastwordwascutoffbythecrashofthedoor.Stephenreleasedherinstantly.“…down,”shesaidsoftly.

Theystoodinthebrighthallway,bothalittleoutofbreath.ForthefirsttimehesawCharmian’sfaceclearly.Herheadwasbulletshapedandponderous,herlowerlipcurledpermanentlyoutwardsandshehad the beginnings of a double chin. Her nose was squat and she had the faint downy grayness of amoustache.Herneckwas thickandbullish.Hereyeswere largeandcalm, set far apart,brown likeadog’s.Shewasnotugly,notwiththoseeyes.Mirandawasatthefarendofthelonghall.Sheworeready-fadedjeansandayellowshirt.Herhairwasinplaitsandtiedattheendswithscrapsofbluedenim.Shecameandstoodbyherfriend’sside.

“Charmiandoesn’tlikebeingliftedabout,”sheexplained.Stephenguidedthemtowardshissittingroom.

“I’msorry,”he said toCharmianand laidhishandonher shoulder foran instant. “Ididn’tknowthat.”

“IwasonlyjokingwhenIcametothedoor,”shesaidevenly.“Yesofcourse,”Stephensaidhurriedly.“Ididn’tthinkanythingelse.”During dinner, which Stephen had bought ready-cooked from a local Italian restaurant, the girls

talkedtohimabouttheirschool.Heallowedthemalittlewineandtheygiggledalotandclutchedateachotherwhentheyfellabout.Theypromptedeachotherthroughastoryabouttheirheadmasterwholookedupgirls’skirts.Herememberedsomeanecdotesofhisowntimeatschool,orperhaps theywereother

people’s time, but he told them well and they laughed delightedly. They became very excited. Theypleadedformorewine.Hetoldthemoneglasswasenough.

CharmianandMirandasaidtheywantedtodothedishes.Stephensprawledinanarmchairwithalarge brandy, soothedby the blur of their voices and the homely clatter of dishes.Thiswaswhere helived, this was his home. Miranda brought him coffee. She set it down on the table with the mockdeferenceofawaitress.

“Coffee,sir?”shesaid.Stephenmovedoverinhischairandshesatinclosebesidehim.Shemovedeasilybetweenwomanandchild.Shedrewher legsupasbeforeandpressedherselfagainsther largeshaggy father.Shehadunloosenedherplaits andherhair spread acrossStephen’s chest, golden in theelectriclight.

“Haveyoufoundaboyfriendatschool?”heasked.Sheshookherheadandkeptitpressedagainsthisshoulder.“Can’tfindaboyfriend,eh?”Stepheninsisted.Shesatupsuddenlyandliftedherhairclearofher

face.“Thereareloadsofboys,”shesaidangrily,“loadsofthem,butthey’resostupid,they’resuchshow-

offs.”Neverbeforehadtheresemblancebetweenhiswifeanddaughterseemedsostrong.Sheglaredathim.Sheincludedhimwiththeboysatschool.“They’realwaysdoingthings.”

“Whatsortofthings?”Sheshookherheadimpatiently.“Idon’tknow…thewaytheycombtheirhairandbendtheirknees.”“Bendtheirknees?”“Yes.Whentheythinkyou’rewatchingthem.Theystandinfrontofourwindowandpretendthey’re

combingtheirhairwhenthey’rejustlookinginatus,showingoff.Likethis.”Shesprangoutofthechairand crouched in the center of the room in front of an imaginarymirror, bent low like a singer over amicrophone,herheadtiltedgrotesquely,combingwithlong,elaboratestrokes;shesteppedback,preenedand then combed again. It was a furious imitation. Charmian was watching it too. She stood in thedoorwaywithcoffeeineachhand.

“Whataboutyou,Charmian,”Stephensaidcarelessly,“doyouhaveaboyfriend?”Charmiansetthecoffee cupsdownand said, “Of course I don’t,” and then lookedup and smiled at thembothwith thetoleranceofawiseoldwoman.

Lateronheshowedthemtheirbedroom.“There’sonlyonebed,”hetoldthem.“Ithoughtyouwouldn’tmindsharingit.”Itwasanenormous

bed,sevenfootbyseven,oneof thefewlargeobjectshehadbroughtwithhimfromhismarriage.Thesheetsweredeep redandveryold, froma timewhenall sheetswerewhite.Hedidnot care to sleepbetween themnow, theyhadbeenaweddingpresent.Charmian layacross thebed, shehardly tookupmoreroomthanoneofthepillows.Stephensaidgoodnight.Mirandafollowedhimintothehall,stoodontiptoetokisshimonthecheek.

“You’re not a show-off,” shewhispered and clung to him. Stephen stood perfectly still. “I wishyou’dcomehome,”shesaid.

Hekissedthetopofherhead.“Thisishome,”hesaid.“You’vegottwohomesnow.”Hebrokeherholdandledherbacktotheentranceofthebedroom.Hesqueezedherhand.“Seeyouinthemorning,”hemurmured, left her there andhurried intohis study.He sat down,horrified at his erection, elated.Tenminutespassed.Hethoughtheshouldbesomber,analytical,thiswasaseriousmatter.Buthewantedtosing,hewantedtoplayhispiano,hewantedtogoforawalk.Hedidnoneofthosethings.Hesatstill,staringahead,thinkingofnothinginparticular,andwaitedforthechillofexcitementtoleavehisbelly.

Whenitdidhewenttobed.Hesleptbadly.Formanyhourshewastormentedbythethoughtthathewasstillawake.Heawokecompletelyfromfragmentaryfrightfuldreamsintototaldarkness.Itseemedto

himthenthatforsometimehehadbeenhearingasound.Hecouldnotrememberwhatthesoundwas,onlythathehadnotlikedit.Itwassilentnow,thedarknesshissedabouthisears.Hewantedtopiss,andforamomenthewasafraidtoleavehisbed.Thecertaintyofhisowndeathcametohimnowasitoccasionallydid,asasickrevelation,notthedreadofdying,butofdyingnow,3:15A.M., lyingstillwiththesheetdrawnuparoundhisneckandwanting,likeallmortalanimals,tourinate.

Heturnedthelightonandwentintothebathroom.Hiscockwassmallinhishands,nutbrownandwrinkledbythecold,orperhapsthefear.Hefeltsorryfor it.Ashepissedhisstreamsplit in two.Hepulledhisforeskinalittleandthestreamsconverged.Hefeltsorryforhimself.Hesteppedbackintothehallway,andasheclosedthebathroomdoorbehindhimandcutofftherumbleofthecisternheheardthatsoundagain,thesoundhehadlistenedtoinhissleep.Asoundsoforgotten,soutterlyfamiliarthatonlynowasheadvancedverycautiouslyalongthehallwaydidheknowittobethebackgroundforallothersounds,theframeofallanxieties.Thesoundofhiswifein,orapproaching,orgasm.Hestoppedseveralyardsshortofthegirls’bedroom.Itwasalowmoanthroughthemediumofaharsh,barkingcough,itroseimperceptiblyinpitchthroughfractionsofatone,thenfellawayattheend,downbutnotveryfar,stillhigherthanthestartingpoint.Hedidnotdaregonearerthedoor.Hestrainedtolisten.Theendcameandheheardthebedcreakalittle,andfootstepsacrossthefloor.Hesawthedoorhandleturn.Likeadreamerheaskednoquestions,heforgothisnakedness,hehadnoexpectations.

Miranda screwed up her eyes in the brightness. Her yellow hair was loose. Her white cottonnightdress reachedheranklesand its foldsconcealed the linesofherbody.Shecouldbeanyage.Shehuggedherarmsaroundherbody.Herfatherstood infrontofher,verystill,verymassive,onefoot infrontoftheotherasthoughfrozenmid-step,armslimpbyhisside,hisnakedblackhairs,hiswrinkled,nut-brown naked self. She could be a child or awoman, she could be any age. She took a little stepforward.

“Daddy,” shemoaned, “I can’t get to sleep.”She tookhis hand andhe ledher into thebedroom.Charmianlaycurleduponthefarsideofthebed,herbacktothem.Wassheawake,wassheinnocent?StephenheldbackthebedclothesandMirandaclimbedbetweenthesheets.Hetuckedherinandsatontheedgeofthebed.Shearrangedherhair.

“SometimesIgetfrightenedwhenIwakeupinthemiddleofthenight,”shetoldhim.“SodoI,”hesaid,andbentoverandkissedherlightlyonthelips.“Butthere’snothingtobefrightenedofreally,isthere?”“No,”hesaid,“Nothing.”Shesettledherselfdeeperintothedeepredsheetsandgazedintohisface.“Tellmesomethingthough,tellmesomethingtomakemegotosleep.”HelookedacrossatCharmian.“Tomorrowyoucanlookinthecupboardinthehall.There’sawholebagofpresentsinthere.”“ForCharmiantoo?”“Yes.”Hestudiedherfacebythelightfromthehall.Hewasbeginningtofeel thecold.“Ibought

them for your birthday,” he added. But she was asleep and almost smiling, and in the pallor of herupturnedthroathethoughthesawfromonebrightmorninginhischildhoodafieldofdazzlingwhitesnowwhichhe,asmallboyofeight,hadnotdaredscarwithfootprints.

ToandFroNowLeechpusheshislegsoutstraighttilltheytremblewiththeeffort,lockshisfingersbehindhis

head, cracks themat the joints, chuckleshisdeliberate,dirtychuckleatwhathepretends to see in themiddledistanceandbatsmegentlybehindtheheadwithhiselbow.Lookslikeit’sover,whatwouldyousay?

Isittrue?Ilieinthedark.Itistrue,Ithinktheoldtoandfrorockedhertosleep.Theancienttoandfrohadnoendandthesuspensioncameunnoticedlikesleepitself.Riseandfall,riseandfall,riseandfall,betweenthefallandrisetheperiloussilentgap,thedecisionshemakestogoon.

The sky a blank yellow-white, the canal odor reduced by distance to the smell of sweet ripecherries, themelancholy of airliners turning in the stack and here in the office others cut up the day’spapers,thisistheirwork.Pastecolumnstoindexcards.

IfIlieinthedarkIcanseeinthedarkpaleskinonthefragileridgeofcheekbone,itcarvesadoglegshapeinthedark.Thedeep-seteyesareopenandinvisible.Throughalmostpartedlipsapointoflightglintsonsalivaandtooth,thethickbeltofhairblackerthanthesurroundingnight.SometimesIlookatherandwonderwhowilldiefirst,whowilldiefirst,youorme?Thecolossalweightofstillness,howmanymorehours?

Leech. I see Leech in this same corridor in frequent consultation with the Director. I see them,togethertheypacethelongdoorlesscorridor.TheDirectorwalkserect,hishands,deepinhispockets,jinglewithgewgawsandLeechstoopssubordinately,headtwistedtowardshissuperior’sneck,hishandsclaspedbehindhisback,thefingersofonehandrolledaroundthewristoftheothertocheckscrupulouslyhisownpulse. Iseewhat theDirectorsees,our imagescombine—Leechandthisman; twist thebrightmetalringandtheyspringapart,onestanding,onesitting,bothposing.

Salivaglintsonapointoftooth.Listentoherbreathing,rhythmicsoaringandplunging,deepsleepair,notherown.Oneanimalneedtracksanotherthroughthenight,black-furredsleepsmotheredpleasurefromalowbranch, theoldtreecreaks,gone,memory, listentoher…housesmellssweet.Theancient,softtoandfrorockedhertosleep.Doyourememberthesmallwood,thegnarledandstuntedtrees,theleafless branches and twigs fused to one canopy,whatwe found there?Whatwe saw?Ah… the tiny,patient heroism of being awake, the Arctic hole bigger than the surrounding ice widens, too large toassumeashape,inclusiveoftheopticallimitsofsight.Ilieinthedarkandlookin,Ilieinitandgazeout,andfromanotherroomoneofherchildrencriesoutinhersleep,Abear!

First here comes Leech, no first here am I towards the end of one morning, reclining, sipping,private, and Leech comes by, salutes me, claps me on the back a cordial, vicious blow between theshoulder blades below the neck.He stands at the tea urn, legs apart like a public urinator, the brownliquid dribbling into his cup and he saying do I remember (this) or (that) conversation. No, no. Heapproacheswithhiscup.No,no,Itellhim,Iremembernothing,Itellhimashesettlesonthelongsettee,asclosetomeashecanwithoutactually…becomingme.Ah,thebittertangofastranger’sskinwrappedabouttoconcealtheremoterfecalcore.Hisrightlegtouchesmyleft.

In the cold hour before dawn her children will climb into the bed, first one and then the other,

sometimesonewithouttheother,theydropbetweenthespicyadultwarmth,attachthemselvestohersideslike the starfish (remember the starfish clinging to its rock) and make faint liquid noises with theirtongues.Outsideinthestreeturgentfootstepsapproachandrecededownthehill.Ilieontheedgeofthelitter, Robinson Crusoemaking his plans for stockades of finely sharpened stakes, guns that will firethemselvesatthefaintesttremorofanalienstep,hopeshisgoatsanddogswillprocreate,willnotfindanothersuchnestoftolerantcreatures.Whenoneofherdaughterscomestooearly,inthedeadofnightshewakesandcarriesherback,returnsandsleeps,herkneesdrawnuptoherbelly.Herhousesmellssweetlyofsleepingchildren.

In theslowmotionofonewhofeels theneed tobewatched,Leechunclipsapen fromhisbreastpocket,examinesit,replacesit,gripsmyextendedarmasIreachformybookwhichslidtotheflooratthemomentofLeech’sblow.AsignificantspacebythedoorindicatestheDirector,thepossibilityofhisarrival.

The colossal weight… do you remember, sleeper, the small wood of gnarled stunted trees, theleafless branches and twigs fused to one canopy, a dark roof leaking light onto the pungent soil?Wetiptoedontheabsorbentvegetablesilence, itmadeuswhisper,drewoursibilants throughhiddenrootsbeneathourfeet,averyoldandprivatewood.Aheadofusbrightness,thecanopyhadcollapsedasthougha heavyweight once crashed down from the sky. The bright semicircle, the trees’ branches and twigsdroopingtothegroundinabrilliantcascade,andtherelodgedhalfwayupthetorrent,pickedwhitebythesun and stark against the dull gray woodwere bones, white bones of a creature resting there, a flat,socketedskull,alongcurvingspinediminishingtothedelicatepoint,andatitssidesthemeticulousheapofotherbones,slenderwithbunch-fistedends.

Leech’sfingershave the tenacityofachicken’sclaw.WhenIprise thefingers loosefrommyarmtheycurlbackimpersonally.Isthisalonelyman?Towhom,havingtouchedhishand,Ifeelcompelledtospeak,asbright-eyedloversontheirbacksunderasheetbeginaconversation.Iholdmyownhandsinmylapandwatchmotesfallacrossaslabofsunlight.

SometimesIlookatherandwonderwhowilldiefirst…facetoface,winteringinthemessofdownandpatchwork,sheplacesahandovereachofmyears, takesmyheadbetweenherpalms,regardsmewith thick,blackeyesandpursedsmile thatdoesnotshowher teeth…thenI think, It’sme, Ishalldiefirst,andyoumightliveforever.

Leechsetsdownhiscup(howbrownhehasmadeitsrim),settlesback,pusheshislegsoutstraighttilltheytremblefromtheeffortandwatcheswithmemotesfallingacrossaslabofsunlight,andbeyondthattheicehole,up,out,whereIliebesidemysleepinglover,liestaringin,gazingback.Irecognizethedownandpatchwork,thecharmofthebed’swroughtiron…Leechsetsdownhiscup,settlesback,crackshisfingerjointsbehindhisheadwhichhemovestoindicatehisintentiontomove,anawarenessoftheemptyspacebythedoor,awishtobeaccompaniedontheway.

Avoicebreaksthestillness,abrilliantredflowerdroppedonthesnow,oneofherdaughterscallsoutinadream,Abear!…thesoundindistinctfromitssense.Silence,andthenagain,Abear,softerthistime, with a falling tone of disappointment… now, a silence dramatic for its absence of the succinctvoice…nowimperceptibly…now,habitualsilence,noexpectations,theweightofstillness,theluminousafter-imageofbearsinfadingorange.Iwatchthemgoandliewaitingbesidemysleepingfriend,turnmyheadonthepillowandlookintoheropeneyes.

IriseatlastandfollowLeechacrosstheemptyroomandalongthedoorlesscorridorwhereIhaveseenhiminfrequentconsultation,pacing,erectorstooping.TheDirectorandhissubordinate,wecannotbe toldapart from thosewe fear…. Idraw levelwithLeechandhe is feeling thematerialofhis suit,fingerandthumbrotateeithersideofhislapel,themotionslowingtonothingasheconsidershiswordswhichare,Whatdoyouthinkofit,mysuit?accompaniedbythefaintestsmile.Wecometoahaltinthecorridor,facetoface,belowusourstuntedreflectionsinthepolishedfloor.Weseeeachother’sbutnotourown.

The thick belt of hair is blacker than the surrounding night, and pale skin on the fragile ridge ofcheekbonecarvesadoglegshapeinthedark…Wasthatyou?shemurmurs,Orthechildren?Somefaintmovementwhere her eyes are says they are closed. The rhythm of her breathing strengthens, it is theimpendingautomationofasleepingbody.Itwasnothing,itwasadream,avoiceinthedarklikearedfloweron thesnow…she fallsbackwards, shedrifts to thebottomofadeepwelland lookingupcanwatchtherecedingcircleoflight,ofskybrokenbythesilhouetteofmywatchingheadandshouldersfaraway.Shedriftsdown,herwordsdriftup,passingheronthewayandreachmemutedbyechoes.Shecalls,ComeinsidemewhileIfallasleep,comeinside…

WithasimilarmaneuveroffingerandthumbIreachoutandtouchthelapelandthentouchmyown,thefamiliarfeelofeachmaterial,thebodywarmththeytransmit…thesmellofsweetripecherries,themelancholyofairliners turning in thestack; this is thework,wecannotbe toldapartby thosewefear.Leechgripsmyextendedarmandshakesit.Openyoureyes,openyoureyes.You’llseeit’snotlikeyoursatall.Herethelapelsarewider,thejackethastwoslitsbehindatmyrequestandwhiletheyarethesameshadeofblue,minehaslittleflecksofwhiteandthetotaleffectislighter.Atthesoundoffootstepsfarbehinduswecontinueonourway.

Asleepandsomoist?Thesynesthesiaoftheancienttoandfro,thesaltwaterandspicewarehouses,arisebeyondwhichthecontourssmoothandrollanddipagainsttheskylinelikeagianttreehingingonthe sky, a tongue of flesh. I kiss and suckwhere her daughters sucked.Come away, she said, leave italone.ThewhitebonesofsomecreatureIwantedtoapproachandtouch,theflat-socketedskull,thelongcurving spine diminishing to the delicate point…Leave it alone, she saidwhen I put outmy arm.Nomistakingtheterrorinthosewords,shesaiditwasanightmareandclutchedourpicnictoher—whenweembraced,abottlerattledagainstatin.Holdinghandsweranthroughthewoodandoutacrosstheslopes,aroundtheknotsofgorse,thebigvalleybelowus,thegoodbigclouds,thewoodaflatscaronthedullgreen.

Yes,itistheDirector’shabittoadvanceseveralfeetintotheroomandpausetosurveytheactivitiesofhis subordinates.But for a tightening in theair (thevery space theair inhabits compresses)nothingchanges, everyone looks, no one looks up… The Director’s look is sunk in fat bound by wonderfultranslucentskin,ithasaccumulatedontheridgeofhischeekboneandnow,likeaglacier,seepsdownintothehollowofhiseye.Thesunkenauthoritativeeyesweepstheroom,desk,faces,theopenwindow,andfixeslikeasluggishspinningbottleonme…AhLeech,hesays.

Inherhouseitsmellssweetlyofsleepingchildren,ofcatsdryinginthewarmth,ofdustwarminginthe tubesofanold radio—is this thenews, fewer injured,moredead?Howcan Ibe sure theearth isturningtowardsthemorning?InthemorningI’lltellheracrosstheemptycupsandstains,morememorythandream,Iclaimwakingstatusinmydreams.Nothingexaggeratedbutfinepointsofphysicaldisgust

andthoseexaggeratedonlyappropriately,andallseenthrough,soIshallclaim,aholesobigtherewasnoicetosurroundit.

Itistranquilhereatthetrestletablebythewindow.Thisisthework,nothappy,notunhappy,siftingthroughthereturnedcuttings.Thisisthework,findingthecategoriesappropriatetothefilingsystem.Thesky a blank yellow-white, the canal odor reduced by distance to the smell of sweet ripe cherries, themelancholy of airliners in the stack and elsewhere in the office others cut up the day’s papers, pastecolumnstoindexcards;pollution/air,pollution/noise,pollution/water,thegenteelsoundofscissors,theshuffleofglueonpots,ahandpushingopenthedoor.TheDirectoradvancesseveralfeetintotheroomandpausestosurveytheactivityofhissubordinates.

Iwilltellher…shesighsandstirs,sweepsherunbrushedhairclearofherwateryeyes,goestorisebutremainssitting,cupsherhandsaroundajug—ajunkshoppresenttoherself.Inhereyesthewindowmakessmallbrightsquares,underhereyescuspsofbluetwin-moonherwhiteface.Shepushesherhairclear,sighsandstirs.

Heiswalkingtowardsme.AhLeech,hesaysashecomes.HecallsmeLeech.AhLeech, there’ssomethingIwantyoutodoforme.SomethingIdonothear,mesmerizedwhereIsitbythemouthwhichformsitselfroundthesyllables.SomethingIwantyoutodoforme.Atthecasual,unworriedmomentherealizeshismistake,Leechoccursfrombehindabankofcabinets,effusivelyforgiving.TheDirectorisbrisklyapologetic.Asmycolleaguewill confirm, saysLeech,peoplearealwaysconfusingus, and sosaying he rests his hand onmy shoulder, forgivingme too. A very easymistake, colleague, to allowyourselftobeconfusedwithLeech.

Listen toherbreathing, rise and fall, rise and fall, between the rise and fall theperilousgap, thedecision shemakes togoon… theweightofhours. Iwill tellher andavoidconfusion.Hereyeswillbudge from left to right andback, study eachofmy eyes in turn, compare them for honesty or shift inintent,dipintermittentlytomymouthandroundandroundtomakeameaningofaface,andlikewisemyeyesinhers,roundandroundoureyeswilldanceandchase.

I sitwedged between the two standingmen and theDirector repeats his instructions, impatientlyleavesus,andwhenhereachesthedoorturnstolookbackandsmilesindulgently.Yes!Ihaveneverseenhim smile. I seewhat he sees—twins as posed for a formal photograph.One stands, his hand settledforeverontheshoulderoftheotherwhosits;possiblyaconfusion,atrickofthelens,forifweturnthisbrightmetalringtheirimagescoalesceandthereisonlyone.Nameof?Hopefulandwithgoodreason…anxious.

Toandfroismyclock,willmaketheearthturn,thedawncome,bringherdaughterstoherbed…toandfrolaughsatthestillness,toandfrodropsherchildrenbetweenthespicyadultwarmth,attachesthemtohersideslikestarfish,doyouremember…thethrillofseeingwhatyouarenot intendedtosee, thegreatrockthrustacrossthewet,striatedsand,thewater’sedgerecedingagainstitswill tothehorizon,andintherock-thrustthehungrypoolssuckedandsloppedandsucked.Afatblackboulderhungacrossapool and beneath it there it hung, and stretched its legs and arms, you saw it first, so orange, bright,beautiful,singular, itsdrippingwhitedots. Itclung to theblackrock itcommanded,andhowthewaterslappeditagainstitsrockwhilefarawaytheseareceded.Thestarfishdidnotthreatenlikethebonesforbeingdead,itthreatenedforbeingsoawake,likeachild’sshoutinthedeadofnight.

Thebodywarmth they transmit.Arewethesame?Leech,arewe?Leechstretches,answers,bats,pushes, pretends, consults, flatters, stoops, checks, poses, approaches, salutes, touches, examines,indicates, grips, murmurs, gazes, trembles, shakes, occurs, smiles, faintly, so very faintly, says, Openyour…thewarmth?…openyoureyes,openyoureyes.

Isittrue?Ilieinthedark…itistrue,Ithinkitisover.Shesleeps,therewasnoend,thesuspensioncameunnoticedlikesleepitself.Yes,theancienttoandfrorockedhertosleep,andinsleepshedrewmetohersideandplacedherlegovermine.ThedarkgrowsblueandgrayandIfeelonmytemple,beneathherbreast,theancienttreadofherhearttoandfro.

PsychopolisMaryworked in andpart-owned a feminist bookstore inVenice. Imet her there lunchtimeonmy

seconddayinLosAngeles.Thatsameeveningwewerelovers,andnotsolongafter that,friends.ThefollowingFridayIchainedherbythefoottomybedforthewholeweekend.Itwas,sheexplainedtome,somethingshe“had togo into tocomeoutof.” I rememberherextracting (later, inacrowdedbar)mysolemnpromisethatIwouldnotlistenifshedemandedtobesetfree.Anxioustopleasemynewfriend,Iboughtafinechainanddiminutivepadlock.WithbrassscrewsIsecuredasteelringtothewoodenbaseofthebedandallwasset.Withinhoursshewasinsistingonherfreedom,andthoughalittleconfusedIgotoutofbed,showered,dressed,putonmycarpetslippersandbroughtheralargefryingpantourinatein.Shetriedonafirm,sensiblevoice.

“Unlockthis,”shesaid.“I’vehadenough.”Iadmitshefrightenedme.Ipouredmyselfadrinkandhurriedoutontothebalconytowatchthesunset.Iwasnotatallexcited.Ithoughttomyself,IfIunlockthechainshewilldespisemeforbeingweak.IfIkeepherthereshemighthateme,butatleastIwillhavekeptmypromise.Thepaleorangesundippedintothehaze,andIheardhershouttomethroughtheclosedbedroomdoor.Iclosedmyeyesandconcentratedonbeingblameless.

Afriendofmineoncehadanalysiswithanelderlyman,aFreudianwithawell-establishedpracticeinNewYork.Ononeoccasionmyfriendspokeat lengthabouthisdoubtsconcerningFreud’s theories,their lack of scientific credibility, their cultural particularity and so on.Whenhe haddone the analystsmiledgeniallyandreplied,“Lookaroundyou!”Andindicatedwithhisopenpalmthecomfortablestudy,therubberplantandtheBegoniarex,thebook-linedwallsandfinally,withaninwardmovementofthewristwhichboth suggestedcandor andemphasized the lapelsofhis tasteful suit, said, “Doyou reallythinkIwouldhavegottowhereIamnowifFreudwaswrong?”

InthesamemannerIsaidtomyselfasIreturnedindoors(thesunnowsetandthebedroomsilent),thebaretruthofthematteristhatIamkeepingmypromise.

Allthesame,Ifeltbored.Iwanderedfromroomtoroomturningonthelights,leaningindoorwaysandstaringinatobjectsthatalreadywerefamiliar.Isetupthemusicstandandtookoutmyflute.Itaughtmyselftoplayyearsagoandtherearemanyerrors,strengthenedbyhabit,whichInolongerhavethewilltocorrect.IdonotpressthekeysasIshouldwiththeverytipsofmyfingers,andmyfingersflytoohighoffthekeysandsomakeitimpossibletoplayfastpassageswithanyfacility.Furthermoremyrightwristisnotrelaxed,anddoesnotfall,as itshould,ataneasyrightangle to the instrument. IdonotholdmybackstraightwhenIplay,insteadIslouchoverthemusic.Mybreathingisnotcontrolledbythemusclesofmystomach,Iblowcarelesslyfromthetopofmythroat.Myembouchureisill-formedandIrelytoooftenonasyrupyvibrato. I lack thecontrol toplayanydynamicsother thansoftor loud. Ihaveneverbothered to teachmyself thenotesabove topG.Mymusicianship ispoor,andslightlyunusual rhythmsperplexme.AboveallIhavenoambitiontoplayanyotherthanthesamehalf-dozenpiecesandImakethesamemistakeseachtime.

Several minutes into my first piece I thought of her listening from the bedroom and the phrase“captiveaudience”came intomymind.While IplayedIdevisedways inwhich thesewordscouldbeinsertedcasuallyintoasentencetomakeaweak,light-heartedpun,thehumorofwhichwouldsomehowcause the situation to be elucidated. I put the flute down andwalked towards the bedroom door. ButbeforeIhadmysentencearranged,myhand,withakindofinsensibleautomation,hadpushedthedooropen and Iwas standing in front ofMary. She sat on the edge of the bed brushing her hair, the chaindecentlyobscuredbyblankets.InEnglandawomanasarticulateasMarymighthavebeenregardedasanaggressor,buthermannerwasgentle.Shewasshortandquiteheavilybuilt.Herfacegaveanimpressionofredsandblacks,deepredlips,black,blackeyes,duskyapple-redcheeksandhairblackandsleeklike

tar.HergrandmotherwasIndian.“Whatdoyouwant?”shesaidsharplyandwithoutinterruptingthemotionofherhand.“Ah,”Isaid.“Captiveaudience!”“What?”WhenIdidnotrepeatmyselfshetoldmethatshewishedtobeleftalone.Isatdownonthe

bed and thought, If she asksme to set her free I’ll do it instantly.But she saidnothing.When shehadfinishedwithherhairshelaydownwithherhandsclaspedbehindherhead.Isatwatchingher,waiting.Theideaofaskingherifshewishedtobesetfreeseemedludicrous,andsimplysettingherfreewithouther permission was terrifying. I did not even knowwhether this was an ideological or psychosexualmatter.Ireturnedtomyflute,thistimecarryingthemusicstandtothefarendoftheapartmentandclosingtheinterveningdoors.Ihopedshecouldn’thearme.

OnSundaynight,aftermorethantwenty-fourhoursofunbrokensilencebetweenus,IsetMaryfree.As the lock sprang open I said, “I’ve been in Los Angeles less than a week and already I feel acompletelydifferentperson.”

Thoughpartiallytrue,theremarkwasdesignedtogivepleasure.Onehandrestingonmyshoulder,theothermassagingherfoot,Marysaid,“It’lldothat.It’sacityattheendofcities.”

“It’ssixtymilesacross!”Iagreed.“It’s a thousandmiles deep!” criedMarywildly and threw her brown arms aboutmy neck. She

seemedtohavefoundwhatshehadhopedfor.Butshewasnotinclinedtoexplanations.LateronweateoutinaMexicanrestaurantandIwaited

for her tomention herweekend in chains andwhen, finally, I began to ask her she interruptedwith aquestion.“IsitreallytruethatEnglandisinastateoftotalcollapse?”

IsaidyesandspokeatlengthwithoutbelievingwhatIwassaying.TheonlyexperienceIhadoftotalcollapsewasafriendwhokilledhimself.Atfirstheonlywantedtopunishhimself.Heatealittlegroundglasswasheddownwithgrapefruitjuice.Thenwhenthepainsbeganherantothetubestation,boughtthecheapestticketandthrewhimselfunderatrain.ThebrandnewVictorianline.Whatwouldthatbelikeonanationalscale?Wewalkedbackfromtherestaurantarminarmwithoutspeaking.Theairhotanddamparoundus,wekissedandclungtoeachotheronthepavementbesidehercar.

“SameagainnextFriday?”Isaidwrylyassheclimbedin,butthewordswerecutbytheslamofherdoor.Throughthewindowshewavedatmewithherfingersandsmiled.Ididn’tseeherforquiteawhile.

IwasstayinginSantaMonicainalarge,borrowedapartmentoverashopthatspecializedinrentingoutitemsforpartygiversand,strangely,equipmentfor“sickrooms.”Onesideoftheshopwasgivenovertowineglasses, cocktail shakers, spare easy chairs, a banqueting table and aportablediscotheque, theother towheelchairs, tiltingbeds, tweezersandbedpans,bright tubularsteelandcoloredrubberhoses.DuringmystayInoticedanumberofsimilarstoresthroughoutthecity.Themanagerwasimmaculatelydressedandinitiallyintimidatinginhisfriendliness.Onourfirstmeetinghetoldmehewas“onlytwenty-nine.”Hewasheavilybuiltandworeoneofthosethickdroopingmustachesgrownthroughout.AmericaandEngland by the ambitious young.Onmy first day he cameup the stairs and introduced himself asGeorgeMalone andpaidmeapleasant compliment. “TheBritish,”he said, “makedamngood invalidchairs.Theverybest.”

“ThatmustbeRolls-Royce,”Isaid.Malonegrippedmyarm.“Areyoushittingme?Rolls-Roycemake…”“No,no,”Isaidnervously.“A…ajoke.”Foramomenthisfacewasimmobilized,themouthopen

andblack,andIthought,He’sgoingtohitme.Buthelaughed.“Rolls-Royce!That’sneat!”AndthenexttimeIsawhimheindicatedthesickroomsideofhisshop

andcalledoutafterme,“WannabuyaRolls?”Occasionallywedranktogetheratlunchtimeinared-litbar off Colorado Avenue where George had introducedme to the barman as “a specialist in bizarre

remarks.”“What’llitbe?”saidthebarmantome.“Pigoilwithacherry,”Isaid,cordiallyhopingtoliveuptomyreputation.Butthebarmanscowled

andturningtoGeorgespokethroughasigh.“What’llitbe?”It was exhilarating, at least at first, to live in a city of narcissists. Onmy second or third day I

followedGeorge’sdirectionsandwalkedtothebeach.Itwasnoon.Amillionstark,primitivefigurineslayscatteredonthefine,pale,yellowsandtilltheywereswallowedup,northandsouth,inahazeofheatandpollution.Nothingmovedbutthesluggishgiantwavesinthedistance,andthesilencewasawesome.NearwhereIstoodontheveryedgeofthebeachweredifferentkindsofparallelbars,emptyandstark,their crude geometrymarked by silence.Not even the sound of thewaves reachedme, no voices, thewholecitylaydreaming.AsIbeganwalkingtowardstheoceanthereweresoftmurmursnearby,anditwasasifIoverheardasleep-talker.Isawamanmovehishand,spreadinghisfingersmorefirmlyagainstthesandtocatchthesun.Anicechestwithout its lidstoodlikeagravestoneat theheadofaprostratewoman.IpeepedinsideasIpassedandsawemptybeercans,andapacketoforangecheesefloatinginwater. Now that I was moving among them I noticed how far apart the solitary sun-bathers were. Itseemedtotakeminutestowalkfromonetoanother.Atrickofperspectivehadmademethinktheywerejammedtogether.Inoticedtoohowbeautifulthewomenwere,theirbrownlimbsspreadlikestarfish;andhowmanyhealthyoldmentherewerewithgnarledmuscularbodies.ThespectacleofthiscommonintentexhilaratedmeandforthefirsttimeinmylifeItoourgentlywishedtobebrown-skinned,brown-faced,sothatwhenIsmiledmyteethwouldflashwhite.Itookoffmytrousersandshirt,spreadmytowelandlaydownonmybackthinking,Ishallbefree,Ishallchangebeyondallrecognition.ButwithinminutesIwashotandrestless,Ilongedtoopenmyeyes.Iranintotheoceanandswamouttowhereafewpeopleweretreadingwaterandwaitingforanespeciallyhugewavetodashthemtotheshore.

ReturningfromthebeachonedayIfoundpinnedtomydooranotefrommyfriendTerenceLatterly.“Waitingforyou,”itsaid,“intheDoggieDineracrossthestreet.”IhadmetLatterlyyearsagoinEnglandwhen he was researching a still uncompleted thesis on George Orwell, and it was not till I came toAmericathatIrealizedhowrareanAmericanhewas.Slender,extraordinarilypallid,fineblackhairthatcurled, doe eyes like those of a Renaissance princess, long straight nose with narrow black slits fornostrils,Terencewasunwholesomelybeautiful.Hewasfrequentlyapproachedbygays,andonce,inPolkStreet, San Francisco, literally mobbed. He had a stammer, slight enough to be endearing to thoseendearedbysuch things,andhewas intense inhis friendships to thepointofoccasionally lapsing intoimpenetrablesulksaboutthem.IttookmesometimetoadmittomyselfIactuallydislikedTerenceandbythattimehewasinmylifeandIacceptedthefact.Likeallcompulsivemonologuistshelackedcuriosityaboutotherpeople’sminds,buthisstoriesweregoodandhenevertoldthesameonetwice.Heregularlybecameinfatuatedwithwomenwhomhedroveawaywithhislabyrinthineawkwardnessandconsumptivezeal, and who provided fresh material for his monologues. Two or three times now quiet, lonely,protective girls had fallen hopelessly for Terence and his ways, but, tellingly, he was not interested.Terencecaredforlong-legged,tough-minded,independentwomenwhowererapidlyboredbyTerence.Heoncetoldmehemasturbatedeveryday.

HewastheDoggieDiner’sonlycustomer,bentmoroselyoveranemptycoffeecup,hischinproppedinhispalms.

“InEngland,”Itoldhim,“adog’sdinnermeanssomekindofunpalatablemess.”“Sitdownthen,”saidTerence.“We’reintherightplace.I’vebeensohumiliated.”“Sylvie?”Iaskedobligingly.“Yes,yes.Grotesquelyhumiliated.”Thiswasnothingnew.Terencedinedoutfrequentlyonmorbid

accountsofblowsdealthimbyindifferentwomen.HehadbeeninlovewithSylvieformonthsnowand

hadfollowedherherefromSanFrancisco,whichwaswherehefirsttoldmeabouther.Shemadealivingsettinguphealthfoodrestaurantsandthensellingthem,andasfarasIknew,shewashardlyawareoftheexistenceofTerence.

“Ishouldnever’vecometoLosAngeles,”TerencewassayingastheDoggieDinerwaitressrefilledhis cup. “It’sOK for theBritish.You see everything here as a bizarre comedy of extremes, but that’sbecauseyou’reoutofitThetruthisit’spsychotic,totallypsychotic.”Terenceranhisfingersthroughhishairwhich looked lacquered and stiff and stared out into the street.Wrapped in a constant, faint bluecloud, cars drifted by at twentymiles an hour, their drivers tanned forearms propped on thewindowledges,theircarradiosandstereoswereon,theywereallgoinghomeortobarsforhappyhour.

Afterasuitablesilence,Isaid,“Well…?”FromthedayhearrivesinLosAngelesTerencepleadswithSylvieoverthephonetohaveameal

withhiminarestaurant,andfinally,wearily,sheconsents.Terencebuysanewshirt,visitsahairdresserandspendsanhourinthelateafternooninfrontofthemirror,staringathisface.HemeetsSylvieinabar,they drink bourbon. She is relaxed and friendly, and they talk easily of California politics, of whichTerenceknowsnexttonothing.SinceSylvieknowsLosAngelesshechoosestherestaurant.Astheyareleavingthebarshesays,“Shallwegoinyourcarormine?”

Terence,whohasnocarandcannotdrive,says,“Whynotyours?”Bytheendof thehorsd’oeuvres theyarestarting inon theirsecondbottleofwineand talkingof

books,andthenofmoney,andthenofbooksagain.LovelySylvieleadsTerencebythehandthroughhalfadozentopics;shesmilesandTerenceflusheswithloveandlove’swildestambitions.Helovessohardheknowshewillnotbeabletoresistdeclaringhimself.Hecanfeel itcomingon,amadconfession.Thewordstumbleout,adeclarationofloveworthyofthepagesofWalterScott, itsmainburdenbeingthatthere is nothing, absolutely nothing, in the world Terence would not do for Sylvie. In fact, drunk, hechallengeshernowtotesthisdevotion.Touchedbythebourbonandwine,intriguedbythiswan,findesiècle lunatic, Sylvie gazes warmly across the table and returns his little squeeze to the hand. In therarefiedairbetweenthemrunsachargeofgoodwillanddaredevilry.PropelledbymeresilenceTerencerepeats himself. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, in the etc. Sylvie’s gaze shiftsmomentarily fromTerence’s face to the door of the restaurant throughwhich a well-to-domiddle-aged couple are nowentering.Shefrowns,thensmiles.

“Anything?”shesays.“Yesyes,anything.”Terenceissolemnnow,sensingtherealchallengeinherquestion.Sylvieleans

forwardandgripshisforearm.“Youwon’tbackout?”“No,ifit’shumanlypossibleI’lldoit.”AgainSylvieislookingoveratthecouplewhowaitbythe

door tobeseatedby thehostess,anenergetic lady ina redsoldier-likeuniform.Terencewatches too.Sylvietightenshergriponhisarm.

“Iwantyou tourinate inyourpants,now.Goonnow!Quick!Do itnowbeforeyouhave time tothinkaboutit.”

Terence is about to protest, but his own promises still hang in the air, an accusing cloud.Withdrunkensway,andwiththesoundofanelectricbellringinginhisears,heurinatescopiously,soakinghisthighs,legsandbacksideandsendingasmall,steadytrickletothefloor.

“Haveyoudoneit?”saysSylvie.“Yes,” saysTerence, “Butwhy…?”Sylvie half-rises fromher seat andwaves prettily across the

restaurantatthecouplestandingbythedoor.“Iwantyoutomeetmyparents,”shesays.“I’vejustseenthemcomein.”Terenceremainsseatedfor

the introductions.Hewonders if he can be smelled. There is nothing hewill not say to dissuade thisaffable, graying couple from sittingdown at their daughter’s table.He talks desperately andwithout a

break (“as if Iwas somekindabore”), referring toLosAngeles as a “shithole” and its inhabitants as“greedydevourersofeachother’sprivacy.”Terencehintsatarecentprolongedmentalillnessfromwhichhe has hardly recovered, and he tells Sylvie’smother that all doctors, especiallywomen doctors, are“assholes” (arseholes). Sylvie says nothing. The father cocks an eyebrow at his wife and the couplewanderoffwithoutfarewelltotheirtableonthefarsideoftheroom.

Terenceappearedtohaveforgottenhewastellinghisstory.Hewascleaninghisnailswiththetoothof a comb. I said, “Well, you can’t stop there.What happened?What’s the explanation for all this?”Aroundusthedinerwasfillingup,butnooneelsewastalking.

Terencesaid,“Isatonanewspapertokeephercarseatfromgettingwet.Wedidn’tspeakmuchandshewouldn’tcomeinwhenwegottomyplace.Shetoldmeearliershedidn’tlikeherparentsmuch.Iguessshewasjustfoolingaround.”IwonderedifTerence’sstorywasinventedordreamedforitwastheparadigmofallhisrejections,theperfectformulationofhisfearsor,perhaps,ofhisprofoundestdesires.

“Peoplehere,”TerencesaidaswelefttheDoggieDiner,“livesofarfromeachother.Yourneighborissomeonefortyminutes’carrideaway,andwhenyoufinallygettogetheryou’reouttowreckeachotherwiththefrenzyofhavingbeenalone.”

SomethingaboutthatremarkappealedtomeandIinvitedTerenceuptomyplacetosmokeajointwithme.Westoodaboutonthepavementafewminuteswhilehetriedtodecidewhetherhewantedtoornot. We looked across the street through the passing traffic and into the store where George wasdemonstratingthediscoequipmenttoablackwoman.FinallyTerenceshookhisheadandsaidthatwhilehewasinthispartoftownhewouldgoandvisitagirlheknewinVenice.

“Takesomespareunderwear,”Isuggested.“Yeah,”hecalledoverhisshoulderashewalkedaway.“Seeyou!”

There were long pointless days when I thought, Everywhere on earth is the same. Los Angeles,California,thewholeoftheUnitedStatesseemedtomethenaveryfineandfrailcrustonthelimitless,subterraneanworldofmyownboredom.Icouldbeanywhere,Icouldhavesavedmyselftheeffortandthe fare. I wished in fact I were nowhere, beyond the responsibility of place. I woke in themorningstultifiedbyoversleep.AlthoughIwasneitherhungrynorthirsty,IatebreakfastbecauseIdarednotbewithouttheactivity.IspenttenminutescleaningmyteethknowingthatwhenIfinishedIwouldhavetochoosetodosomethingelse.Ireturnedtothekitchen,mademorecoffeeandverycarefullywashedthedishes.Caffeineaidedmygrowingpanic.Therewerebooksinthelivingroomthatneededtobestudied,therewaswritingthatneededcompletionbutthethoughtofitallmademeflushhotwithwearinessanddisgust.ForthatreasonItriednottothinkaboutit,Ididnottemptmyself.Ithardlyoccurredtometosetfootinsidethelivingroom.

InsteadIwenttothebedroomandmadethebedandtookgreatcareoverthe“hospitalcorners.”WasIsick?Ilaydownonthebedandstaredattheceilingwithoutathoughtinmyhead.ThenIstoodupandwithmyhandsinmypocketsstaredatthewall.PerhapsIshouldpaintitanothercolor—butofcourseIwasonly a temporary resident. I remembered Iwas in a foreigncity andhurried to thebalcony.Dull,white, box-shaped shops and houses, parked cars, two lawn sprinklers, festoons of telephone cableeverywhere,onepalmtreeteeteringagainstthesky,thewholelitbyacruelwhiteglowofasunblottedout by high cloud and pollution. It was as obvious and self-explanatory to me as a row of suburbanEnglish bungalows.What could I do about it? Go somewhere else? I almost laughed out loud at thethought.

Moretoconfirmmystateofmindthanchangeit,Ireturnedtothebedroomandgrimlypickedupmyflute.ThepieceIintendedtoplay,dog-earedandstained,wasalreadyonthemusicstand,Bach’sSonataNo.1inAminor.ThelovelyopeningAndante,aseriesofliltingarpeggios,requiresaflawlessbreathingtechniquetomakesenseofthephrasing,yetfromthebeginningIamsnatchingfurtivelyatbreathslikea

supermarket shoplifter, and the coherence of the piece becomes purely imaginary, remembered fromgramophonerecordingsandsuperimposedover thepresent.Atbarfifteen, fourandahalfbars into thePresto,IfumbleovertheoctaveleapsbutIpresson,adogged,failingathlete,tofinishthefirstmovementshortofbreathandunabletoholdthelastnoteitsfulllength.BecauseIcatchmostoftherightnotesintherightorder,IregardtheAllegroasmyshowpiece.Iplayitwithexpressionlessaggression.TheAdagio,asweetthoughtfulmelody,illustratestomeeverytimeIplayithowoutoftunemynotesare,somesharp,someflat,nonesweet,andthedemisemiquaversarealwaysmis-timed.AndsotothetwoMinuetsattheendwhichIplaywithdry,rigidpersistence,likeamechanicalorganturnedbyamonkey.ThiswasmyperformanceofBach’sSonata,unalterednowinitsdetailsforaslongasIcouldremember.

Isatdownontheedgeofthebedandalmostimmediatelystoodupagain.Iwenttothebalconytolook oncemore at the foreign city.Out on one of the lawns a small girl picked up a smaller girl andstaggeredafewstepswithher.Morefutility.Iwentinsideandlookedatthealarmclockinthebedroom.Eleven forty.Dosomething,quick! I stoodby theclock listening to its tick. Iwent fromroom to roomwithoutreallyintendingto,sometimessurprisedtofindthatIwasbackinthekitchenagainfiddlingwiththecrackedplastichandleofthewallcan-opener.Iwentintothelivingroomandspenttwentyminutesdrummingwithmyfingersonthebackofabook.TowardsthemiddleoftheafternoonIdialedthetimeandset theclockexactly.IsatonthetoiletalongtimeanddecidedthennottomovetillIhadplannedwhattodonext.Iremainedthereovertwohours,staringatmykneestilltheylosttheirmeaningaslimbs.Ithoughtofcuttingmyfingernails,thatwouldbeastart.ButIhadnoscissors!Icommencedtoprowlfromroom to room once more, and then, towards the middle of the evening, I fell asleep in an armchair,exhaustedwithmyself.

Georgeatleastappearedtoappreciatemyplaying.Hecameupstairsonce,havingheardmefromtheshop, andwanted to seemy flute.He toldmehe had never actually held one in his hands before.Hemarveledat the intricacyandprecisionof its leversandpads.Heaskedme toplaya fewnotes sohecouldseehowitwasheld,andthenhewantedmetoshowhimhowhecouldmakeanoteforhimself.Hepeeredatthemusiconthestandandsaidhethoughtitwas“brilliant”thewaymusicianscouldturnsuchamessoflinesanddotsintosounds.Thewaycomposerscouldthinkupwholesymphonieswithdozensofdifferentinstrumentsgoingatoncewastotallybeyondhim.Isaiditwasbeyondmetoo.

“Music,” George said with a large gesture of his arm, “is a sacred art.” Usually when I wasn’tplayingmy flute I left it lyingabout collectingdust, assembledand ready toplay.NowI foundmyselfpulling it into its threesectionsanddrying themcarefullyand layingeachsectiondown likea favoritedoll,inthefelt-linedcase.

GeorgelivedoutinSimiValleyonarecentlyreclaimedstretchofdesert.Hedescribedhishouseas“emptyandsmellingoffreshpaintstill.”Hewasseparatedfromhiswifeandtwoweekendsamonthhadhischildrenovertostay, twoboysagedsevenandeight.ImperceptiblyGeorgebecamemyhost inLosAngeles.Hehad arrivedherepenniless fromNewYorkCitywhenhewas twenty-two.Nowhemadealmostfortythousanddollarsayearandfeltresponsibleforthecityandmyexperienceinit.SometimesafterworkGeorgedrovemeformilesalongthefreewayinhisnewVolvo.

“Iwantyoutogetthefeelofit,theinsanityofitssize.”“What’sthatbuilding?”IwouldsaytohimaswespedpastanilluminatedThirdReichiancolossus

mountedonamanicuredgreenhill.Georgewouldglanceouthiswindow.“Idunno,abankortempleorsomething.”Wewenttobars,barsforstarlets,barsfor“intellectuals”

where screenwriters drank, lesbian bars and a barwhere thewaiters, lithe, smooth-faced youngmen,dressedasVictorianserving-maids.Weateinadinerfoundedin1947whichservedonlyhamburgersandapple pie, a renowned and fashionable placewherewaiting customers stood like hungry ghosts at thebacksofthoseseated.

Wewenttoaclubwheresingersandstand-upcomediansperformedinthehopeofbeingdiscovered.AthingirlwithbrightredhairandsequinedT-shirtreachedtheendofherpassionatelymurmuredsongonasuddenshrill,impossibletopnote.Allconversationceased.Someone,perhapsmaliciously,droppedaglass.Halfwaythrough, thenotebecameawarblingvibratoandthesingercollapsedonthestageinanabjectcurtsy,armsheldstifflyinfrontofher,fistsclenched.Thenshesprangtohertiptoesandheldherarmshighaboveherheadwiththepalmsflatasiftoforestallthesporadicandindifferentapplause.

“They allwant to beBarbraStreisand orLizaMinnelli,”George explained as he sucked a giantcocktailthroughapinkplasticstraw.“Butnoone’slookingforthatkindofstuffanymore.”

Amanwithstoopedshouldersandwildcurlyhairshuffledontothestage.Hetookthemicrophoneoutofitsrest,helditclosetohislipsandsaidnothing.Heseemedtobestuckforwords.Heworeatorn,muddieddenimjacketoverbareskin,hiseyeswereswollenalmosttothepointofclosingandundertheright thererana longscratchwhichendedat thecornerofhismouthandgavehimthe lookofapartlymade-up clown. His lower lip trembled and I thought he was going to weep. The hand that was notholdingthemicrophoneworriedacoinandlookingatthatInoticedthestainsdownhisjeans,yes,freshwetvomitclungthere.Hislipspartedbutnosoundscameout.Theaudiencewaitedpatiently.Somewhereatthebackoftheroomawinebottlewasopened.Whenhespokefinallyitwastohisfingernails,alow,crackedmurmur.

“I’msuchagoddamnmess!”The audience broke into fall-about laughter and cheering,which after aminute gaveway to foot

stampingandrhythmicclapping.GeorgeandI,perhapsconstrainedbyeachother’scompany,smiled.Themanreappearedbythemicrophonethemoment thelastclappingdiedaway.Nowhespokerapidly,hiseyesstillfixedonhisfingers.Sometimesheglancedworriedlytothebackoftheroomandwecaughttheflashofthewhitesofhiseyes.Hetoldushehadjustbrokenupwithhisgirlfriend,andhow,ashewasdrivingawayfromherhouse,hehadstartedtoweep,somuchsothathecouldnotseetodriveandhadtostophiscar.Hethoughthemightkillhimselfbutfirsthewantedtosaygoodbyetoher.Hedrovetoacallboxbutitwasoutoforderandthismadehimcryagain.Heretheaudience,silenttillnow,laughedalittle.Hereachedhisgirlfriendfromadrugstore.Assoonasshepickedupthephoneandheardhisvoice,shebegantocrytoo.Butshedidn’twanttoseehim.Shetoldhim,“It’suseless,there’snothingwecando.”Heputthephonedownandhowledwithgrief.Anassistantinthedrugstoretoldhimtoleavebecausehewasupsettingtheothercustomers.Hewalkedalongthestreetthinkingaboutlifeanddeath,itstartedtorain,hepoppedsomeamylnitrate,hetriedtosellhiswatch.Theaudiencewasgrowingrestless,alotofpeoplehad stopped listening.Hebummed fiftycentsoff abum.Throughhis tearshe thoughthe sawawomanabortingafetusinthegutterandwhenhegotcloserhesawitwascardboardboxesandalotofoldrags.Bynowthemanwastalkingoverasteadydroneofconversation.Waitresseswithsilvertrayscirculatedamongthetables.Suddenlythespeakerraisedhishandandsaid,“Well,seeyou,”andhewasgone.Afewpeopleclappedbutmostdidnotnoticehimleave.

NotlongbeforeIwasduetoleaveLosAngelesGeorgeinvitedmetospendSaturdayeveningathishouse.IwouldbeflyingtoNewYorklatethefollowingday.Hewantedmetobringalongacoupleoffriendstomakeasmallfarewellparty,andhewantedmetobringalongmyflute.

“Ireallywanttosit,”saidGeorge,“inmyownhomewithaglassofwineinmyhandandhearyouplaythatthing.”IphonedMaryfirst.Wehadbeenmeetingintermittentlysinceourweekend.Occasionallyshehadcomeandspenttheafternoonatmyapartment.Shehadanotherlovershemoreorlesslivedwith,butshehardlymentionedhimanditwasneveranissuebetweenus.Afteragreeingtocome,MarywantedtoknowifTerencewasgoing tobe there. Ihadrecounted toherTerence’sadventurewithSylvie,anddescribedmyownambivalentfeelingsabouthim.TerencehadnotreturnedtoSanFranciscoashehadintended.He hadmet someonewho had a friend “in screenwriting” and now hewaswaiting for an

introduction.When I phoned him he responded with an unconvincing parody of Semitic peevishness.“FiveweeksinthistownandI’minvitedoutalready?”IdecidedtotakeseriouslyGeorge’swishtohearmeplaytheflute.Ipractisedmyscalesandarpeggios,IworkedhardatthoseplacesintheSonataNo.1whereIalwaysfalteredandasIplayedIfantasizedaboutMary,GeorgeandTerencelisteningspellboundandalittledrunk,andmyheartraced.

Mary arrived in the early evening and before driving to pick up Terence we sat around on mybalconywatchingthesunandsmokedasmalljoint.Ithadbeenonmymindbeforeshecamethatwemightbe going to bed for one last time. But now that she was here and we were dressed for an eveningelsewhere,itseemedmoreappropriatetotalk.MaryaskedmewhatIhadbeendoingandItoldheraboutthenightclubact.Iwasnotsurewhethertopresentthemanasaperformerwithanactsocleveritwasnotfunny,orassomeonewhohadcomeinoffthestreetandtakenoverthestage.

“I’veseenactslikethathere,”saidMary.“Theidea,whenitworks,istomakeyourlaughterstickinyourthroat.Whatwasfunnysuddenlygetsnasty.”IaskedMaryifshethoughttherewasanytruthinmyman’sstory.Sheshookherhead.

“Everyone here,” she said, gesturing toward the setting sun, “has got somekind of act going likethat.”

“Youseemtosaythatwithsomepride,”Isaidaswestoodup.Shesmiledandweheldhandsforanemptymomentinwhichtherecametomefromnowhereavividimageoftheparallelbarsonthebeach;thenweturnedandwentinside.

Terencewaswaiting for us on the pavement outside the housewhere hewas staying.Hewore awhitesuitandaswepulleduphewasfixingapinkcarnationtohislapel.Mary’scarhadonlytwodoors.Ihad togetout to letTerence in,but throughacombinationof slymaneuveringonhispartandobtusepolitenessonmyown,Ifoundmyselfintroducingmytwofriendsfromthebackseat.AsweturnedontothefreewayTerencebegantoaskMaryaseriesofpolite,insistentquestionsanditwasclearfromwhereIsatdirectlybehindMary,thatasshewasansweringonequestionhewasformulatingthenextorfallingoverhimselftoagreewitheverythingshesaid.

“Yes,yes,”hewassaying,leaningforwardeagerly,claspingtogetherhislong,palefingers,“That’sareallygoodwayofputtingit.”Suchcondescension,Ithought,suchingratiation.WhydoesMaryputupwithit?MarysaidthatshethoughtLosAngeleswasthemostexcitingcityintheUnitedStates.BeforeshehadevenfinishedTerencewasoutdoingherwithextravagantpraise.

“Ithoughtyouhatedit.”Iinterjectedsourly.ButTerencewasadjustinghisseatbeltandaskingMaryanotherquestion.Isatbackandstaredoutthewindow,attemptingtocontrolmyirritation.

A little laterMarywas craningherneck trying to findme inhermirror. “You’reveryquiet backthere,”shesaidgaily.

Ifellintosudden,furiousmimicry.“That’sareallygoodwayofputtingit,yes,yes.”NeitherTerencenorMarymadeanyreply.Mywordshungoverusasthoughtheywerebeingutteredoverandoveragain.Iopenedmywindow.WearrivedatGeorge’shousewithtwenty-fiveminutesofunbrokensilencebehindus.

Theintroductionsover,thethreeofusheldthecenterofGeorge’shugelivingroomwhilehefixedourdrinksatthebar.Iheldmyflutecaseandmusicstandundermyarmlikeweapons.Apartfromthebartheonlyotherfurniturewastwoyellowplasticsagchairs,verybrightagainstthedesertexpanseofbrowncarpet.Slidingdoorstookupthelengthofonewallandgaveontoasmallbackyardofsandandstonesinthecenterofwhich,setinconcrete,stoodoneofthosetree-likecontraptionsfordryingclotheson.Inthecornerof theyardwasascrappysagebrushplant,survivorof therealdesert thathadbeenhereayearago.Terence,MaryandIaddressedremarkstoGeorgeandsaidnothingtoeachother.

“Well,” said George when the four of us stood looking at each other with drinks in our hands,“Followme and I’ll show you the kids.”Obedientlywe padded behindGeorge in single file along a

narrow, thicklycarpetedcorridor.Wepeered throughabedroomdoorwayat twosmallboys inabunkbedreadingcomics.Theyglancedatuswithoutinterestandwentonreading.

Back in the living room, I said,“They’reverysubdued,George.Whatdoyoudo,beat themup?”Georgetookmyquestionseriouslyandtherefollowedaconversationaboutcorporalpunishment.Georgesaidheoccasionallygavetheboysaslaponthebackofthelegsifthingsgotreallyoutofhand.Butitwasnot tohurt them,hesaid,somuchas toshowthemhemeantbusiness.Marysaidshewasdeadagainststrikingchildrenatall,andTerence,largelytocutafigureIthought,orperhapstodemonstratetomethathe coulddisagreewithMary, said that he thought a sound thrashingnever did anyone anyharm.Marylaughed,butGeorge,whoobviouslywasnottakingtothisfaintlyfoppish,languidguestsprawledacrosshiscarpet, seemedready tomoveonto theattack.Georgeworkedhard.Hekepthisbackstraightevenwhenhesatinthesagchair.

“Youwerethrashedwhenyouwereakid?”heaskedashehandedaroundtheScotch.Terencehesitatedandsaid,“Yes.”Thissurprisedme.Terence’sfatherhaddiedbeforehewasborn

andhehadgrownupwithhismotherinVermont.“Yourmotherbeatyou?”Isaidbeforehehadtimetoinventaswaggeringbullyofafather.“Yes.”“Andyoudon’tthinkitdidyouanyharm?”saidGeorge.“Idon’tbelieveit.”Terencestretchedhislegs.“Noharmdoneatall.”Hespokethroughayawnthatmighthavebeena

fake.Hegesturedtowardshispinkcarnation.“Afterall,hereIam.”Therewasamoment’spausethenGeorgesaid,“Forexample,youneverhadanyproblemmakingout

withwomen?”Icouldnothelpsmiling.Terence sat up. “Oh yes,” he said. “Our English friend here will verify that.” By this Terence

referredtomyoutburstinthecar.ButIsaidtoGeorge,“Terencelikestotellfunnystoriesabouthisownsexualfailures.”GeorgeleanedforwardstocatchTerence’sfullattention.“Howcanyoubesurethey’renotcaused

bybeingthrashedbyyourmother?”Terencespokeveryquickly.Iwasnotsurewhetherhewasveryexcitedorveryangry.“Therewill

alwaysbeproblemsbetweenmenandwomenandeveryone suffers in someway. I conceal less aboutmyselfthanotherpeopledo.Iguessyouneverhadyourbacksidetannedbyyourmotherwhenyouwereakid,butdoesthatmeanyouneverhaveanyhang-upswithwomen?Imean,where’syourwife…?”

Mary’sinterruptionhadtheprecisionofasurgeon’sknife.“Iwasonlyeverhitonceasakid,bymyfather,anddoyouknowwhythatwas?Iwastwelve.We

wereall sittingaround the tableat suppertime,all the family,andI toldeveryoneIwasbleedingfrombetweenmylegs.Iputsomebloodontheendofmyfingerandhelditupforthemalltosee.Myfatherleanedacrossthetableandslappedmyface.Hetoldmenottobedirtyandsentmeuptomyroom.”

Georgegotuptofetchmoreiceforourglassesandmuttered“Simplygrotesque”ashewent.Terencestretchedouton the floor,hiseyes fixedon theceiling likeadeadman’s.Fromthebedroomcame thesoundoftheboyssinging,orratherchanting,forthesongwasallononenote.IsaidtoMarysomethingtothe effect that between people who had just met, such a conversation could not have taken place inEngland.

“Isthatagoodthing,doyouthink?”Maryasked.Terencesaid,“TheEnglishtelleachothernothing.”Isaid,“Betweentellingnothingandtellingeverythingthereisverylittletochoose.”“Didyouheartheboys?”Georgesaidashecameback.“Weheardsomekindofsinging,”Marytoldhim.GeorgewaspouringmoreScotchandspooningice

intotheglasses.“Thatwasn’t singing.Thatwaspraying. I’vebeen teaching them theLord’sPrayer.”On the floor

TerencegroanedandGeorgelookedaroundsharply.“Ididn’tknowyouwereaChristian,George,”Isaid.“Oh,well,youknow…”Georgesank intohischair.Therewasapause,as ifall fourofuswere

gatheringourstrengthforanotherroundoffragmentarydissent.Marywasnowinthesecondsagchair,facingGeorge.Terencelaylikealowwallbetweenthem,

andIsatcross-leggedaboutayardfromTerence’sfeet.ItwasGeorgewhospokefirst,acrossTerencetoMary.

“I’veneverbeeninterestedinchurchgoingmuchbut…”Hetrailedoff,alittledrunkenly,Ithought.“ButIalwayswantedtheboystohaveasmuchofitaspossiblewhilethey’reyoung.Theycanrejectitlater,Iguess.Butatleastfornowtheyhaveacoherentsetofvaluesthatareasgoodasanyother,andtheyhavethiswholesetofstories,reallygoodstories,exoticstories,believablestories.”

NoonespokesoGeorgewenton.“TheyliketheideaofGod.Andheavenandhell,andangelsandtheDevil.TheytalkaboutthatstuffawholelotandI’mneversurequitewhatitmeanstothem.Iguessit’sabitlikeSantaClaus,theybelieveitandtheydon’tbelieveit.Theylikethebusinessofpraying,eveniftheydoaskforthecraziestthings.Prayingforthemisakindofextensionoftheir…theirinnerlives.Theyprayaboutwhattheywantandwhatthey’reafraidof.Theygotochurcheveryweek.It’sabouttheonlythingJeanandIagreeon.”

George addressed all this to Mary, who nodded as he spoke and stared back at him solemnly.Terencehadclosedhiseyes.Nowthathehadfinished,Georgelookedateachofusinturn,waitingtobechallenged.Westirred.Terenceliftedhimselfontohiselbow.Noonespoke.

“Idon’tseeit’sgoingtohurtthem,abitoftheoldreligion,”Georgereiterated.Mary spoke into the ground. “Well, I don’t know. There’s a lot of things you could object to in

Christianity.Andsinceyoudon’treallybelieveinityourselfweshouldtalkaboutthat.”“OK,”saidGeorge.“Let’shearit.”Mary spoke with deliberation at first. “Well, for a start, the Bible is a book written by men,

addressedtomenandfeaturesaverymaleGodwhoevenlookslikeamanbecausehemademaninhisownimage.Thatsoundsprettysuspicioustome,arealmalefantasy…”

“Waitaminute,”saidGeorge.“Next,”Marywenton,“womencomeoffprettybadlyinChristianity.ThroughOriginalSintheyare

held responsible for everything in the world since the Garden of Eden. Women are weak, unclean,condemnedtobearchildreninpainaspunishmentforthefailuresofEve,theyarethetemptresseswhoturnthemindsofmenawayfromGod,asifwomenweremoreresponsibleformen’ssexualfeelingsthanthementhemselves!LikeSimonedeBeauvoirsays,womenarealwaysthe‘other’, therealbusinessisbetweenamanintheskyandthemenontheground.Infactwomenonlyexistatallasakindofdivineafterthought,put togetheroutof a spare rib tokeepmencompanyand iron their shirts, and thebiggestfavortheycandoChristianityisnottogetdirtiedupwithsex,staychaste,andiftheycanmanagetohaveababyat thesame time, then they’remeasuringup to theChristianChurch’s idealofwomanhood—theVirginMary.”NowMarywasangry.SheglaredatGeorge.

“Waitaminute,”hewassaying,“youcan’timposeallthatWomen’sLibstuffontothesocietiesofthousandsofyearsago.Christianityexpresseditselfthroughavailable…”

AtroughlythesametimeTerencesaid,“AnotherobjectiontoChristianityisthatitleadstopassiveacceptanceofsocialinequalitiesbecausetherealrewardsarein…”

AndMarycutinacrossGeorgeinprotest.“Christianityhasprovidedanideologyforsexismnow,andcapitalism…”

“AreyouaCommunist?”Georgedemandedangrily,althoughIwasnotsurewhohewastalkingto.Terence was pressing on loudly with his own speech. I heard him mention the Crusades and theInquisition.

“ThishasnothingtodowithChristianity.”Georgewasalmostshouting.Hisfacewasflushed.“MoreevilperpetratedinthenameofChristthan…thishasnothingtodowith…tothepersecution

of women herbalists as witches… Bullshit. It’s irrelevant… corruption, graft, propping up tyrants,accumulatingwealth at thealtars…fertilitygoddess…bullshit…phallicworship… lookatGalileo…Thishasnothingto…”IheardlittleelsebecausenowIwasshoutingmyownpieceaboutChristianity.Itwasimpossibletostayquiet.GeorgewasjabbinghisfingerfuriouslyinTerence’sdirection.MarywasleaningforwardstryingtocatchGeorgebythesleeveandtellhimsomething.Thewhiskeybottlelayonitssideempty,someonehadupsettheice.ForthefirsttimeinmylifeIfoundmyselfwithurgentviewsonChristianity,onviolence,onAmerica,oneverything,andIdemandedprioritybeforemythoughtsslippedaway.

“…and starting to think objectively about this… their pulpits to put down theworkers and theirstrikesso…objective?Youmeanmale.Allrealitynowismalereal…alwaysaviolentGod…thegreatcapitalist in the sky…protective ideology of the dominant class denies the conflict betweenmen andwomen…bullshit,totalbullshit…”

Suddenly I heard another voice ringing in my ears. It was my own. I was talking into a brief,exhaustedsilence.

“…drivingacrosstheStatesIsawthissigninIllinoisalongInterstate70whichsaid,‘God,Guts,GunsmadeAmericagreat.Let’skeepallthree.’”

“Hah!”MaryandTerenceexclaimedintriumph.Georgewasonhisfeet,emptyglassinhand.“That’sright,”hecried.“That’sright.Youcanputitdownbutit’sright.Thiscountryhasaviolent

past,alotofbravemendiedmaking…”“Men!”echoedMary.“Allright,andalotofbravewomentoo.Americawasmadewiththegun.Youcan’tgetawayfrom

that.”Georgestrodeacrosstheroomtothebarinthecorneranddrewoutsomethingblackfrombehindthebottles.“Ikeepagunhere,”hesaid,holdingthethingupforustosee.

“Whatfor?”Maryasked.“Whenyouhavekidsyoubegintohaveaverydifferentattitudetowardslifeanddeath.Ineverkept

agunbeforethekidswerearound.NowIthinkI’dshootatanyonewhothreatenedtheirexistence.”“Isitarealgun?”Isaid.Georgecamebacktowardsuswiththeguninonehandandafreshbottleof

Scotchintheother.“Deadrightit’sarealgun!”ItwasverysmallanddidnotextendbeyondGeorge’sopenpalm.

“Letmeseethat,”saidTerence.“It’sloaded,”Georgewarnedashehandeditacross.Thegunappearedtohaveasoothingeffecton

usall.Wenolongershouted,wespokequietlyinitspresence.WhileTerenceexaminedthegunGeorgefilledourglasses.Ashe sat downhe remindedmeofmypromise toplay the flute.There followed ableary silenceof aminuteor two,brokenonlybyGeorge to tellus that after thisdrinkwe shouldeatdinner.Marywasfarawayinthought.Sherotatedherglassslowlybetweenherfingerandthumb.Ilayback on my elbows and began to piece together the conversation we had just had. I was trying torememberhowwehadarrivedatthissuddensilence.

ThenTerencesnappedthesafetycatchandleveledthegunatGeorge’shead.“Raiseyourhands,Christian,”hesaiddully.Georgedidnotmove.Hesaid,“Yououghtn’ttofoolaroundwithagun.”Terencetightenedhisgrip.

Ofcoursehewasfoolingaround,andyetIcouldseefromwhereIwasthathisfingerwascurledaboutthetrigger,andhewasbeginningtopullonit.

“Terence!”Marywhispered,andtouchedhisbackgentlywithherfoot.KeepinghiseyesonTerence,Georgesippedathisdrink.Terencebroughthisotherhanduptosteadythegun,whichwasaimedatthecenterofGeorge’sface.

“Deathtothegunowners.”Terencespokewithoutatraceofhumor.Itriedtosayhisnametoo,buthardlyasoundleftmythroat.WhenItriedagainIsaidsomethinginmyacceleratingpanicthatwasquiteirrelevant.“Whoisit?”

Terencepulledthetrigger.From that point on the evening collapsed into conventional, labyrinthine politenesses at which

Americans,when theywish,quiteoutstrip theEnglish.Georgewas theonlyone tohave seenTerenceremovethebulletsfromthegun,andthisunitedMaryandmeinastateofmildbutprolongedshock.Weatesaladandcoldcutsfromplatesbalancedonourknees.GeorgeaskedTerenceabouthisOrwellthesisand the prospects of teaching jobs. Terence asked George about his business, fun party rentals andsickroom requisites. Mary was questioned about her job in the feminist bookshop and she answeredblandly, carefully avoiding any statement that might provoke discussion. Finally I was called on toelaborateonmytravelplans,whichIdidingreatanddulldetail.IexplainedhowIwouldbespendingaweek in Amsterdam before returning to London. This caused Terence and George to spend severalminutesinpraiseofAmsterdam,althoughitwasquitecleartheyhadseenverydifferentcities.

Thenwhiletheothersdrankcoffeeandyawned,Iplayedmyflute.IplayedmyBachsonatanoworsethanusual,perhapsalittlemoreconfidentlyforbeingdrunk,butmymindranonagainstthemusic.ForIwaswearyofthismusicandofmyselfforplayingit.AsthenotestransferredthemselvesfromthepagetotheendsofmyfingersIthought,AmIstillplayingthis?Istillheardtheechoofourraisedvoices,Isawtheblackgun inGeorge’sopenpalm, thecomedian reappear fromthedarkness to take themicrophoneagain, I sawmyselfmanymonths ago setting out for San Francisco fromBuffalo in a driveaway car,shoutingoutforjoyovertheroarofthewindthroughtheopenwindows,It’sme,I’mhere,I’mcoming…wherewasthemusicforallthis?Whywasn’tIevenlookingforit?WhydidIgoondoingwhatIcouldn’tdo,musicfromanother timeandcivilization, itscertaintyandperfection tomeapretenseanda lie,asmuchastheyhadoncebeen,ormightstillbe,atruthtoothers.WhatshouldIlookfor?(Itooledthroughthesecondmovementlikeapianoroll.)Somethingdifficultandfree.IthoughtofTerence’sstoriesabouthimself,hisgamewiththegun,Mary’sexperimentwithherself,ofmyselfinanemptymomentdrummingmyfingersonthebackofabook,ofthevast,fragmentedcitywithoutacenter,withoutcitizens,acitythatexistedonly in themind, anexusof changeor stagnation in individual lives.Picture and idea crasheddrunkenlyoneaftertheother,discordbattenedtobarafterbarofimpliedharmonyandinexorablelogic.ForthepulseofonebeatIglancedpastthemusicatmyfriendswheretheysprawledonthefloor.Thentheirafterimageglowedbrieflyatme from thepageofmusic.Possible,even likely, that the fourofuswouldneverseeeachotheragain,andagainstsuchcommonplacetransiencemymusicwasinaneinitsrationality,paltryinitsover-determination.Leaveittoothers,toprofessionalswhocouldevoketheolddays of its truth. To me it was nothing, now that I knew what I wanted. This genteel escapism…crosswordwithitsanswerswrittenin,Icouldplaynomoreofit.

Ibrokeoffintheslowmovementandlookedup.Iwasabouttosay,“Ican’tgoonanymore,”butthethreeofthemwereontheirfeetclappingandsmilingbroadlyatme.Inparodyofconcert-goersGeorgeandTerence cupped their hands around theirmouths and called out “Bravo!Bravissimo!”Mary cameforward,kissedmeonthecheekandpresentedmewithanimaginarybouquet.OverwhelmedbynostalgiaforacountryIhadnotyetleft,Icoulddonomorethanputmyfeettogetherandmakeabow,claspingtheflowerstomychest.

ThenMarysaid,“Let’sgo.I’mtired.”

CopyrightInBetweentheSheetsCopyright©1978byIanMcEwanCoverarttotheelectroniceditioncopyright©2009byRosettaBooks,LLCAllrightsreservedunderInternationalandPan-AmericanCopyrightConventions.Publishedin the

UnitedStatesbyAnchorBooks,adivisionofRandomHouse, Inc.,NewYork.Originallypublished inhardcoverbySimonandSchuster,NewYork,in1978,andsubsequentlypublishedintradepaperbackbyVintageBooks,adivisionofRandomHouse,Inc.,NewYorkin1994.

FirstAnchorBooksEdition,March2003Firstelectroniceditionpublished2009byRosettaBooksLLC,NewYork.ISBNe-Pubedition:9780795301698

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