waist and bestowed a paternal hug; later, when she and Bech were inspecting together(the glaze of alcohol intervening so that he felt he was bending above a glass museum case) a collector’s edition of the Canadian’s most famous lyric,
Pines
, Glenda, as if to “rub off” on the American the venerable poet’s blessing, caressed him somehow with her entire body, while two of their four hands held the booklet. Her thigh rustled against his, a breast gently tucked itself into the crook of his arm, his entire skin went blissfully porous, he felt as if he were toppling forward. “Time to go?” he asked her.
“Soon,” Glenda answered.
Peter was not inside the girls’ house, though the door was open and his dirty dishes were stacked in the sink. Bech asked, “Does he
live
here?”
“He eats here,” Hannah said.
“He lives right around the corner,” Moira elaborated. “Shall I go fetch him?”
“Not to please me,” Bech said; but she was gone, and the rain recommenced. The sound drew the little house snug into itself—the worn Oriental rugs, the rows of books about capital and underdevelopment, the New Guinean and Afghan artifacts on the wall, all the frail bric-a-brac of women living alone, in nests without eggs.
Hannah poured them two Scotches and tried to roll a joint. “Peter usually does this,” she said, fumbling, spilling. Bech as a child had watched Westerns in which cowpokes rolled cigarettes with one hand and a debonair lick. But his efforts at imitation were so clumsy that Hannah took the paper and the marijuana back from him and made of these elements a plump-tongued packet, a little white dribbling piece of pie, which they managed to smoke, amid many sparks. Bech’s throat burned, between sips of liquor. Hannah put on a record. The music went through its grooves, over and over. The rain continuedsteady, though his consciousness of it was intermittent. At some point in the rumpled stretches of time, she cooked an omelet. She talked about her career, her life, the man she had left to live with Moira, Moira, herself. Her parents were from Budapest; they had been refugees in Portugal during World War II, and when it was over, only Australia would let them in.
An Australian Jewess
, Bech thought, swallowing Scotch to ease his burned throat. The concept seemed unappraisably near and far, like that of Australia itself. He was here, but Australia was there, a world’s fatness away from his empty, sour, friendly apartment at Riverside and 99th. He embraced Hannah and they seemed to bump together like two clappers in the same bell. She was fat, solid. Her body felt in his arms hingeless; she was one of those wooden peasant dolls, containing congruent dolls, for sale in Slavic Europe, where he had once been, and where she had been born. He asked her among their kisses, which came and went in his consciousness like the sound of the rain, which traveled circularly in grooves like the music, if they should wait up for Peter and Moira.
“No,” Hannah said.
If Moira had been there, she would have elaborated, but she wasn’t and therefore didn’t.
“Shall I come up?” Bech asked. For Glenda lived on the top floor of a Toronto castle a few blocks’ walk—a swim, through shadows and leaves—from the house they had left.
“All I can give you,” she said, “is coffee.”
“Just what I need, fortuitously,” he said. “Or should I say lambently? Jubilantly?”
“You poor dear,” Glenda said. “Was it so awful for you? Do you have to go to parties like that every night?”
“Most nights,” he told her, “I’m scared to go out. I sit home reading Dickens and watching Nixon. And nibbling pickles. And picking quibbles. Recurrently.”
“You do need the coffee, don’t you?” she said, still dubious. Bech wondered why. Surely she was a sure thing: that shimmering full-body touch.
Her apartment snuggled under the roof, bookcases and lean lamps looking easy to tip between the slanting
Pines
, Glenda, as if to “rub off” on the American the venerable poet’s blessing, caressed him somehow with her entire body, while two of their four hands held the booklet. Her thigh rustled against his, a breast gently tucked itself into the crook of his arm, his entire skin went blissfully porous, he felt as if he were toppling forward. “Time to go?” he asked her.
“Soon,” Glenda answered.
Peter was not inside the girls’ house, though the door was open and his dirty dishes were stacked in the sink. Bech asked, “Does he
live
here?”
“He eats here,” Hannah said.
“He lives right around the corner,” Moira elaborated. “Shall I go fetch him?”
“Not to please me,” Bech said; but she was gone, and the rain recommenced. The sound drew the little house snug into itself—the worn Oriental rugs, the rows of books about capital and underdevelopment, the New Guinean and Afghan artifacts on the wall, all the frail bric-a-brac of women living alone, in nests without eggs.
Hannah poured them two Scotches and tried to roll a joint. “Peter usually does this,” she said, fumbling, spilling. Bech as a child had watched Westerns in which cowpokes rolled cigarettes with one hand and a debonair lick. But his efforts at imitation were so clumsy that Hannah took the paper and the marijuana back from him and made of these elements a plump-tongued packet, a little white dribbling piece of pie, which they managed to smoke, amid many sparks. Bech’s throat burned, between sips of liquor. Hannah put on a record. The music went through its grooves, over and over. The rain continuedsteady, though his consciousness of it was intermittent. At some point in the rumpled stretches of time, she cooked an omelet. She talked about her career, her life, the man she had left to live with Moira, Moira, herself. Her parents were from Budapest; they had been refugees in Portugal during World War II, and when it was over, only Australia would let them in.
An Australian Jewess
, Bech thought, swallowing Scotch to ease his burned throat. The concept seemed unappraisably near and far, like that of Australia itself. He was here, but Australia was there, a world’s fatness away from his empty, sour, friendly apartment at Riverside and 99th. He embraced Hannah and they seemed to bump together like two clappers in the same bell. She was fat, solid. Her body felt in his arms hingeless; she was one of those wooden peasant dolls, containing congruent dolls, for sale in Slavic Europe, where he had once been, and where she had been born. He asked her among their kisses, which came and went in his consciousness like the sound of the rain, which traveled circularly in grooves like the music, if they should wait up for Peter and Moira.
“No,” Hannah said.
If Moira had been there, she would have elaborated, but she wasn’t and therefore didn’t.
“Shall I come up?” Bech asked. For Glenda lived on the top floor of a Toronto castle a few blocks’ walk—a swim, through shadows and leaves—from the house they had left.
“All I can give you,” she said, “is coffee.”
“Just what I need, fortuitously,” he said. “Or should I say lambently? Jubilantly?”
“You poor dear,” Glenda said. “Was it so awful for you? Do you have to go to parties like that every night?”
“Most nights,” he told her, “I’m scared to go out. I sit home reading Dickens and watching Nixon. And nibbling pickles. And picking quibbles. Recurrently.”
“You do need the coffee, don’t you?” she said, still dubious. Bech wondered why. Surely she was a sure thing: that shimmering full-body touch.
Her apartment snuggled under the roof, bookcases and lean lamps looking easy to tip between the slanting
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