A Spy in the House of Love by Anaïs Nin Page A

house, holding her cape tightly around her against the morning
sharpness, her hair not smoothly combed, and her eyes not fully opened.
    Any other street but this one.
    Once in the early summer, she had been awakened
by a painful tension of the nerves. All the windows were open. It was near
dawn. The little street was absolutely silent. She could hear the leaves
shivering on the trees. Then a cat wailing. Why had she awakened? Was there any
danger? Was Alan watching at the gate?
    She heard a woman’s voice call out distinctly:
“Betty! Betty!” And a voice answered in the muffled tones of half-sleep: “What’s
the matter?”
    “Betty! There’s a man hiding in one of the
doorways. I saw him sneak in.”
    “Well…what do you want me to do about it? He’s
just a drunk getting home.”
    “No, Betty. He was trying to hide when I leaned
out of the window. Ask Tom to go and see. I’m frightened.”
    “Oh, don’t be childish. Go to sleep. Tom worked
late last night. I can’t wake him. The man can’t get in anyhow, unless you
press the button and let him in!”
    “But he’ll be there when I go to work. He’ll
wait there. Call Tom.”
    “Go to sleep.”
    Sabina began to tremble. She was certain it was
Alan. Alan was waiting down below, to see her come out. For her this was the
end of the world. Alan was the core of her life. These other moments of fever
were moments in a dream: insubstantial and vanishing as quickly as they came.
But if Alan repudiated her, it was the death of Sabina. Her existence in Alan’s
eyes was her only true existence. To say to herself “Alan cast me off,” was
like saying: “Alan killed me.”
    The caresses of the night before were acutely
marvelous, like all the multicolored flames from an artful fireworks, bursts of
exploded suns and neons within the body, flying
comets aimed at all the centers of delight, shooting stars of piercing joys,
and yet if she said: “I will stay here and live with Mambo forever,” it was
like the children she had seen trying to stand under the showers of sparks from
the fireworks lasting one instant and covering them with ashes.
    She saw two scenes before her eyes: Alan
sobbing as he had sobbed at the death of his father, and this image caused her
an intolerable pain. And the second image was Alan angry, as he had never shown
himself to her but to others, and this was equally intolerable; both equally
annihilating.
    It was not dawn yet. What could she do? Her
anxiety was so great she could not continue to lie there in silence. How would
she explain to Mambo her leaving so early in the morning? Nevertheless she rose
quietly after sliding gradually out of bed, and dressed. She was trembling and
her clothes slipped awkwardly between her fingers.
    She must go and see who was the man hiding in
the doorway. She could not bear the suspense.
    She left the apartment slowly, noiselessly. She
walked barefoot down the stairs, carrying her sandals. When one step creaked,
she stopped. Perspiration showed on her eyebrows. A feeling of utter weakness
kept her hands trembling. She finally o others, ed the door and saw a man’s outline behind the frosted glass of the door. He stood
there smoking a pipe as Alan smoked it. Sabina’s heart was paralyzed. She knew
why she had always hated this street without issue. She stood there fully ten
minutes, paralyzed by terror and guilt, by regrets for what she was losing.
    “It’s the end of the world,” she whispered.
    As if she were about to die, she summarized her
existence: the heightened moments of passion dissolved as unimportant in the
face of the loss of Alan as if this love were the core of her existence.
    Formulating this, the anguish increased to the
point where she could no longer stand still. She pushed the door open
violently.
    A stranger stood there, with red, blood-shot
eyes and unsteady legs. He was frightened by her sudden appearance and
muttered, leaning backwards: “Can’t find my name on the doorbell, lady,