everything, you want nothing. To me, it’s a matter of convenience, what the hell. And the same with her."
"Convenience, like your calling me Miss P. because you are lazy?"
"Yes," he said. "That’s it. I’m kind of lazy."
"Yes," I said, "and it’s dreadful."
"It isn’t dreadful," he said. "It’s just not in your nature."
For a while, we were silent. Then he said, "What are you going to do with yourself? Will you go back to your husband?"
I was bewildered. Just as he had never mentioned his marriage before or after that time when he had shown me the photographs, I had never talked about my marital situation. "Sergeant Parsons must have been yapping at you," I said. "He did it to me, too. I told him he should go and drown himself in his iodine."
"But I can’t drown myself," he said, "because I don’t hold with iodine," and I waited till his laughter had ceased.
"Well?" he asked. He bent his head. He was fondling his key ring and caressing his bunch of keys. I watched his massive broad hand with the thick fingers, smoothly pale and showing no bones, and thought how curious it was that his hands were not pink like the rest of his body, and how I had never yet seen a surgeon fulfilling the myth of possessing long, sensitive, tapering fingers. And then I thought of how my husband had asked me every day, "Do you love me? Are you glad you married me?" and how I had always answered yes, though it had not been true, and how, despite these words, my husband in all of our married life had never so much as fetched me a glass of water or brought me a cup of tea when I was not feeling well or had a cold, and how this man, this stranger, to whom I meant no more than the value of some amusing talks, had washed me and nursed me and cleaned me, good-humoredly and without disgust, and taught me the meaning of love in the course of one night, which I had not learned in those four years from my husband. The Japanese picture came swimming before my eyes, in moonlit tints of white and gray and green, and I closed my eyes for an instant and passed my hand over them.
"No," I said, "I’ll definitely not go back to my husband."
"And where do I come in?" he asked.
"Nowhere," I said, "because to you I was just someone in your bed one night. And by mere chance, too."
He said, "You are on my mind all day long and all the time."
I forced myself to laugh. "Did you think this up by yourself, or did somebody help you?" I asked.
"You know it is true," he said, "and you know it was true from the first minute I saw you."
"Yes, I know," I said.
"And with you, too," he said.
"Yes, with me, too," I said. "And now that I’ve told you, you can go to hell."
"You are making it very difficult for me," he said, "because yesterday when you told me to go to hell I went to the office. Now I’m here anyhow. So where am I to go?"
I watched him in silence.
He said, "I will go to hell if you will come to hell with me. Will you?"
"I don’t know," I said.
"You do know, and you are afraid," he said. "But it’s useless being afraid. It’s got to be."
He did not come in for the next two days. Upon his return to the office, he called me as usual: "Come here to me."
"Where have you been?" I asked, trying to sound friendly.
"London," he said, "and I’ve moved back to the hotel. I’ve given up the flat."
"And Constance?" I asked.
"She’s gone and joined a girlfriend of hers, in an apartment. High time she did anyway."
"It’s all such a pity," I said.
"I didn’t turn her out because of you, if that’s what’s worrying you," he said.
I did not speak.
"You are not talkative today, are you?" he said.
"No," I said.
"That suits me fine," he said, "because I have a lot of work to get through."
"Yes, I know—on the mattress," I said, and watched him laughing.
On the following day, he did not come in till late in the afternoon—half an hour before it was time to leave. He put his briefcase on the desk and called Sergeant Parsons, and talked
"Convenience, like your calling me Miss P. because you are lazy?"
"Yes," he said. "That’s it. I’m kind of lazy."
"Yes," I said, "and it’s dreadful."
"It isn’t dreadful," he said. "It’s just not in your nature."
For a while, we were silent. Then he said, "What are you going to do with yourself? Will you go back to your husband?"
I was bewildered. Just as he had never mentioned his marriage before or after that time when he had shown me the photographs, I had never talked about my marital situation. "Sergeant Parsons must have been yapping at you," I said. "He did it to me, too. I told him he should go and drown himself in his iodine."
"But I can’t drown myself," he said, "because I don’t hold with iodine," and I waited till his laughter had ceased.
"Well?" he asked. He bent his head. He was fondling his key ring and caressing his bunch of keys. I watched his massive broad hand with the thick fingers, smoothly pale and showing no bones, and thought how curious it was that his hands were not pink like the rest of his body, and how I had never yet seen a surgeon fulfilling the myth of possessing long, sensitive, tapering fingers. And then I thought of how my husband had asked me every day, "Do you love me? Are you glad you married me?" and how I had always answered yes, though it had not been true, and how, despite these words, my husband in all of our married life had never so much as fetched me a glass of water or brought me a cup of tea when I was not feeling well or had a cold, and how this man, this stranger, to whom I meant no more than the value of some amusing talks, had washed me and nursed me and cleaned me, good-humoredly and without disgust, and taught me the meaning of love in the course of one night, which I had not learned in those four years from my husband. The Japanese picture came swimming before my eyes, in moonlit tints of white and gray and green, and I closed my eyes for an instant and passed my hand over them.
"No," I said, "I’ll definitely not go back to my husband."
"And where do I come in?" he asked.
"Nowhere," I said, "because to you I was just someone in your bed one night. And by mere chance, too."
He said, "You are on my mind all day long and all the time."
I forced myself to laugh. "Did you think this up by yourself, or did somebody help you?" I asked.
"You know it is true," he said, "and you know it was true from the first minute I saw you."
"Yes, I know," I said.
"And with you, too," he said.
"Yes, with me, too," I said. "And now that I’ve told you, you can go to hell."
"You are making it very difficult for me," he said, "because yesterday when you told me to go to hell I went to the office. Now I’m here anyhow. So where am I to go?"
I watched him in silence.
He said, "I will go to hell if you will come to hell with me. Will you?"
"I don’t know," I said.
"You do know, and you are afraid," he said. "But it’s useless being afraid. It’s got to be."
He did not come in for the next two days. Upon his return to the office, he called me as usual: "Come here to me."
"Where have you been?" I asked, trying to sound friendly.
"London," he said, "and I’ve moved back to the hotel. I’ve given up the flat."
"And Constance?" I asked.
"She’s gone and joined a girlfriend of hers, in an apartment. High time she did anyway."
"It’s all such a pity," I said.
"I didn’t turn her out because of you, if that’s what’s worrying you," he said.
I did not speak.
"You are not talkative today, are you?" he said.
"No," I said.
"That suits me fine," he said, "because I have a lot of work to get through."
"Yes, I know—on the mattress," I said, and watched him laughing.
On the following day, he did not come in till late in the afternoon—half an hour before it was time to leave. He put his briefcase on the desk and called Sergeant Parsons, and talked
Similar Books
