takeher standing up against the wall of the room. At the height of her orgasm, he had put a hand over her mouth to prevent the sound of her pleasure spreading through the unreal emptiness of that icy cellar.
Letting him have sex with her had been much less of a bother than taking him up to her apartment and introducing him to her parents.
It’s too late to go up, The Writer had thought. From now on, the only way is down.
From the moment they had met in a bar, and he had thought he had caught in her a naturalness that betrayed nervousness, to a few moments later, at the car hire company, when she had fiddled with her handbag, looking for her licence, feigning an abnormal nonchalance, because it was neither normal, nor appropriate, to be with him in a car hire office at that hour of the morning, especially after so many years of silence and mutual incomprehension , The Writer had realized that he had been wrong to accept her invitation. And he had also realized that his day—looking at it optimistically—or his life—looking at it pessimistically—would somehow be ruined. And it wasn’t just the excessive expenditure of ill humour that the extramural excursion with The Old Flame had already cost him, there was also the interest to be added: the unease that had been with him ever since he had closed his house door behind him, the unpleasant feeling that he had forgotten something, something important, not crucial, but important. And putting his hands in the pockets of his raincoat to pay the taxi driver and feeling how light and empty his pockets were, he at last realized what it was: his mobile.
“The President isn’t here…”
“He’s busy!”
The intern, urged on by a secretary with a hooked nose, had tried to repel The Master’s attack on the heart of The Academy: The President’s office. But with the determination and consummate cunning of a veteran, The Master had faked a retreat to his right, but then suddenly changed trajectory, charging straight down the centre of the room towards the door of The President’s office. By the time the intern and the secretary had thrown themselves at him and tried to tackle him, it was too late: The Master was already inside.
The President looked at him as you might look at a neighbour who comes down late at night in his pyjamas to complain about the racket you’re making in your apartment, where you’re having a party. Then he cast a glance pregnant with reproach at the secretary and the intern, and with a nod of his head indicated to them that they could leave him alone with the old goat: he had known him for ages, in one way or another, he would manage. The door closed behind them.
“What do you want? You shouldn’t be here!”
The Master dropped his threadbare shoulder bag on the chair.
“Did you meet anyone on your way here?”
The Master shook his battered head.
“You know competitors aren’t supposed to come to The Academy.”
The Master did not pay too much attention to what The President—an old comrade from avant-garde days evicted from the tables of taverns and welcomed as President in drawing rooms—was saying. He was too busy to search in his leather bag, so he simply tipped out the contents on The President’s desk. In order: a bunch of keys, a gas bill, a slip to pick up a jacket from the dry cleaner’s, the urination diary, a poetry booklet that had arrived by post, a bill from Glauco’s restaurant, a diary from the previous year, a not very original postcard with a view of Niceand the words “Greetings from Nice” (without signature), and finally, what he was looking for.
“What’s that?”
The Master waved the accused object in front of The President’s nose. “Look.”
The President looked, but saw only a faded black-and-white image that could have been a frame taken from stock footage of the moon landings.
“What is it?”
“A scan.”
“Male or female?”
“It’s a tumour of the prostate.”
The Master
Letting him have sex with her had been much less of a bother than taking him up to her apartment and introducing him to her parents.
It’s too late to go up, The Writer had thought. From now on, the only way is down.
From the moment they had met in a bar, and he had thought he had caught in her a naturalness that betrayed nervousness, to a few moments later, at the car hire company, when she had fiddled with her handbag, looking for her licence, feigning an abnormal nonchalance, because it was neither normal, nor appropriate, to be with him in a car hire office at that hour of the morning, especially after so many years of silence and mutual incomprehension , The Writer had realized that he had been wrong to accept her invitation. And he had also realized that his day—looking at it optimistically—or his life—looking at it pessimistically—would somehow be ruined. And it wasn’t just the excessive expenditure of ill humour that the extramural excursion with The Old Flame had already cost him, there was also the interest to be added: the unease that had been with him ever since he had closed his house door behind him, the unpleasant feeling that he had forgotten something, something important, not crucial, but important. And putting his hands in the pockets of his raincoat to pay the taxi driver and feeling how light and empty his pockets were, he at last realized what it was: his mobile.
“The President isn’t here…”
“He’s busy!”
The intern, urged on by a secretary with a hooked nose, had tried to repel The Master’s attack on the heart of The Academy: The President’s office. But with the determination and consummate cunning of a veteran, The Master had faked a retreat to his right, but then suddenly changed trajectory, charging straight down the centre of the room towards the door of The President’s office. By the time the intern and the secretary had thrown themselves at him and tried to tackle him, it was too late: The Master was already inside.
The President looked at him as you might look at a neighbour who comes down late at night in his pyjamas to complain about the racket you’re making in your apartment, where you’re having a party. Then he cast a glance pregnant with reproach at the secretary and the intern, and with a nod of his head indicated to them that they could leave him alone with the old goat: he had known him for ages, in one way or another, he would manage. The door closed behind them.
“What do you want? You shouldn’t be here!”
The Master dropped his threadbare shoulder bag on the chair.
“Did you meet anyone on your way here?”
The Master shook his battered head.
“You know competitors aren’t supposed to come to The Academy.”
The Master did not pay too much attention to what The President—an old comrade from avant-garde days evicted from the tables of taverns and welcomed as President in drawing rooms—was saying. He was too busy to search in his leather bag, so he simply tipped out the contents on The President’s desk. In order: a bunch of keys, a gas bill, a slip to pick up a jacket from the dry cleaner’s, the urination diary, a poetry booklet that had arrived by post, a bill from Glauco’s restaurant, a diary from the previous year, a not very original postcard with a view of Niceand the words “Greetings from Nice” (without signature), and finally, what he was looking for.
“What’s that?”
The Master waved the accused object in front of The President’s nose. “Look.”
The President looked, but saw only a faded black-and-white image that could have been a frame taken from stock footage of the moon landings.
“What is it?”
“A scan.”
“Male or female?”
“It’s a tumour of the prostate.”
The Master
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