instinctive for Matthew. He turned the cold tap on, raised himself on tiptoe and urinated into the basin.
Back in the corridor he retraced his steps. The air in the house had turned to stone. Straight ahead was a doorway underlined by a narrow filament of light. He padded soundlessly towards it. With a final glance at the corridor, he opened the door.
It was Théo’s room, not his own. A pink bedside lamp, left on, threw a pallid spotlight over the bed. What did he see? Théo and Isabelle.
Isabelle was a Balthus. Sprawled out asleep on the bed, half under the covers, half on top, her whole body askew in a pose of rapturous lassitude, her dishevelled head cast back on its pillow, a strand of hair grazing her lips, she was wearing a plain white vest and white panties and looked about fourteen years old.
Beside her, Théo lay naked. He too slept, one leg under the covers, the other free, like Harlequin in parti-coloured pantaloons, the left leg dark, the right one light. He lay on his back, his ankle dangling over the end of the bed, his head resting on the palms of hishands, like that of someone stretched out in a field. Two curly shadows were visible in the cups of his armpits; the third, that which in the male body forms the apex of an inverted triangle, was concealed by the bedclothes where one exposed thigh emerged from beneath them.
What made them such an extraordinary sight was that the limbs of one seemed also to belong to the other.
For a long, long time Matthew stood stock still on the threshold of the room, transfixed not by the entanglement of bodies in a motor accident but by the enigma of the Androgyne.
Then at last he softly closed the door and tiptoed away.
When he opened his eyes next morning
When he opened his eyes next morning after a fretful night, it was to see Isabelle, as though ready to pounce, crouched on his bedclothes, on all fours, peering into his face. Over her shoulders she had on an old-fashioned woollen dressing gown of a dark maroon hue with, on its sleeves and lapels, corded braiding as convoluted as that which loops the loop on the uniforms of operetta hussars. Just a flash of pastel-pale thigh intimated that, underneath the robe, she was still wearing the plain white vest and panties of the night before.
Matthew had no idea how long she had been crouching in front of him. Nor did she give him time to put the question to her, for she immediately raised her forefinger to his lips and, in a hypnotist’s voice, whispered, ‘Don’t speak. I command it.’
Her tongue protruding, her hand unshaking, half schoolgirl, half surgeon, Isabelle inserted her finger into the soft crevice at the corner of his left eye and slowly excavated the brittle stalactite of sleep that was lodged there. After she had subjected it to a thorough examination on the tip of her finger, she flicked it off, then drew another scabby, yellowish fragment from the right one. If, on her finger, these two incrustations looked quite minute, it felt to Matthew as though a pair of dice had been extracted from his eyes.
When the operation was complete she gracefully slid back into a kneeling posture.
‘Good morning!’
Matthew eased himself up on to his pillow. He continued to shield himself with the bedclothes as he was wearing only his underpants.
‘What was that all about?’
‘Why, my little Matthew,’ she replied, ‘I was removing the sleep from your eyes. You have beautiful eyes, youknow. Théo lets me do his every morning but I wasn’t going to pass up the chance of a second helping.’
‘What a strange thing to want to do.’
‘You think so?’ said Isabelle, leaping to the floor. ‘Didn’t you enjoy it?’
‘Was I supposed to?’
‘Naturally,’ she answered. Then, clapping her hands, ‘Up, up, up! The house is alive and awaits Monsieur’s pleasure.’
Manoeuvring the train of her robe, she lingered in the room, picking up objects at random and weighing them in her two hands, as though
Back in the corridor he retraced his steps. The air in the house had turned to stone. Straight ahead was a doorway underlined by a narrow filament of light. He padded soundlessly towards it. With a final glance at the corridor, he opened the door.
It was Théo’s room, not his own. A pink bedside lamp, left on, threw a pallid spotlight over the bed. What did he see? Théo and Isabelle.
Isabelle was a Balthus. Sprawled out asleep on the bed, half under the covers, half on top, her whole body askew in a pose of rapturous lassitude, her dishevelled head cast back on its pillow, a strand of hair grazing her lips, she was wearing a plain white vest and white panties and looked about fourteen years old.
Beside her, Théo lay naked. He too slept, one leg under the covers, the other free, like Harlequin in parti-coloured pantaloons, the left leg dark, the right one light. He lay on his back, his ankle dangling over the end of the bed, his head resting on the palms of hishands, like that of someone stretched out in a field. Two curly shadows were visible in the cups of his armpits; the third, that which in the male body forms the apex of an inverted triangle, was concealed by the bedclothes where one exposed thigh emerged from beneath them.
What made them such an extraordinary sight was that the limbs of one seemed also to belong to the other.
For a long, long time Matthew stood stock still on the threshold of the room, transfixed not by the entanglement of bodies in a motor accident but by the enigma of the Androgyne.
Then at last he softly closed the door and tiptoed away.
When he opened his eyes next morning
When he opened his eyes next morning after a fretful night, it was to see Isabelle, as though ready to pounce, crouched on his bedclothes, on all fours, peering into his face. Over her shoulders she had on an old-fashioned woollen dressing gown of a dark maroon hue with, on its sleeves and lapels, corded braiding as convoluted as that which loops the loop on the uniforms of operetta hussars. Just a flash of pastel-pale thigh intimated that, underneath the robe, she was still wearing the plain white vest and panties of the night before.
Matthew had no idea how long she had been crouching in front of him. Nor did she give him time to put the question to her, for she immediately raised her forefinger to his lips and, in a hypnotist’s voice, whispered, ‘Don’t speak. I command it.’
Her tongue protruding, her hand unshaking, half schoolgirl, half surgeon, Isabelle inserted her finger into the soft crevice at the corner of his left eye and slowly excavated the brittle stalactite of sleep that was lodged there. After she had subjected it to a thorough examination on the tip of her finger, she flicked it off, then drew another scabby, yellowish fragment from the right one. If, on her finger, these two incrustations looked quite minute, it felt to Matthew as though a pair of dice had been extracted from his eyes.
When the operation was complete she gracefully slid back into a kneeling posture.
‘Good morning!’
Matthew eased himself up on to his pillow. He continued to shield himself with the bedclothes as he was wearing only his underpants.
‘What was that all about?’
‘Why, my little Matthew,’ she replied, ‘I was removing the sleep from your eyes. You have beautiful eyes, youknow. Théo lets me do his every morning but I wasn’t going to pass up the chance of a second helping.’
‘What a strange thing to want to do.’
‘You think so?’ said Isabelle, leaping to the floor. ‘Didn’t you enjoy it?’
‘Was I supposed to?’
‘Naturally,’ she answered. Then, clapping her hands, ‘Up, up, up! The house is alive and awaits Monsieur’s pleasure.’
Manoeuvring the train of her robe, she lingered in the room, picking up objects at random and weighing them in her two hands, as though
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