situation all the more ludicrous.
What is it with her? he thought looking at Gail as she stood facing him, her face slightly puffy from tears and worry, and wearing a goofy housedress which totally obscured her body. She’s a great lay, but so are most of the women I fuck. She’s not any more intelligent, or interesting or amusing. What is it about her that can make me put up with this kind of scene?
It was then that he saw the truth of his feelings. The thing that made Gail special was that he was, in his way, in love with her. It was a word that ordinary caused him to wrinkle his nose. He had seen too deeply into the human heart and known too clearly precisely what money could do even in relation to that supposedly most sublime of human feelings. Although, once, when he was in his early twenties, there had been a woman and he had laid his heart at her hands, surrendering himself to her, only to realize that it was to his own emotions that he was yielding, and that what she responded to in him was not what he gave her but the spectacle of a man vulnerable. At once he had frozen and retreated, not wanting to act the part of a freak in a circus sideshow. When he broke off the relationship, she wept. His final words to her had been, “You’re crying for yourself. Please have the decency to do it in private.”
Maybe I should just get dressed and tell Gail to fuck herself, he thought. Instead of going through this whole tedious repentant husband routine. But again, he stopped himself. He had acted badly, and he did feel guilty, and he looked forward to his punishment. If Gail had tied him to the bed and whipped him with a belt, he would have been the happiest man in the world. And she the most exultant woman. But they were not in touch with the authentic needs of the psychic organism; they did not even entertain the possibility of direct action, and so drifted off into the great arcane verbal substitute, the big waste of time.
“Don’t give me that ‘now, now’ shit,” she said, her voice already rising. “Where the fuck were you?”
“I was at a meeting,” he said, checking his levels of truth and duplicity like a person testing the safety bar of the roller coaster car before it takes the first enormous dive.
“How was she?” Gail retorted. By this time she had forgotten that she was basically amused at his having had another woman.
Eliot executed a sharp military turn and shifted his direction away from her and toward the kitchen. He now needed the drink he had previously asked for as a ruse. Also, he was still enough in control to understand that the best way to deal with accurate accusations is to allow them to glance off one’s mind. In that way, they are registered but don’t have to be acknowledged. It was a trick he had learned in Hong Kong when he had stayed in the same hotel as Jesuit priest there on some obscure church business. Eliot and the priest had become drinking buddies and had exchanged secrets of each other’s trade.
He moved into the kitchen and began fixing a second drink. His entire left side was tense, for he didn’t know whether she would follow him. When he saw that he would be alone, he called out, “Would you like a martini?” There was a long, a very long pause. Then Gail replied, her voice a bare croak.
“Yes,” she said.
Eliot smiled to himself. He had survived another round. He didn’t know how many there would be altogether, but it was like a judo match. She would come at him or try to get him to go at her again and again until they were both exhausted or until a clear victory had been won. He was willing for her to win, and even wanted that, because she was in the right and because it would remove the resentment. But he didn’t want to be battered or badly beaten, so he would fight as best he knew how. This could end in his attaining the final point, which would introduce a significantly weighty element into their relationship, something which might push them to
What is it with her? he thought looking at Gail as she stood facing him, her face slightly puffy from tears and worry, and wearing a goofy housedress which totally obscured her body. She’s a great lay, but so are most of the women I fuck. She’s not any more intelligent, or interesting or amusing. What is it about her that can make me put up with this kind of scene?
It was then that he saw the truth of his feelings. The thing that made Gail special was that he was, in his way, in love with her. It was a word that ordinary caused him to wrinkle his nose. He had seen too deeply into the human heart and known too clearly precisely what money could do even in relation to that supposedly most sublime of human feelings. Although, once, when he was in his early twenties, there had been a woman and he had laid his heart at her hands, surrendering himself to her, only to realize that it was to his own emotions that he was yielding, and that what she responded to in him was not what he gave her but the spectacle of a man vulnerable. At once he had frozen and retreated, not wanting to act the part of a freak in a circus sideshow. When he broke off the relationship, she wept. His final words to her had been, “You’re crying for yourself. Please have the decency to do it in private.”
Maybe I should just get dressed and tell Gail to fuck herself, he thought. Instead of going through this whole tedious repentant husband routine. But again, he stopped himself. He had acted badly, and he did feel guilty, and he looked forward to his punishment. If Gail had tied him to the bed and whipped him with a belt, he would have been the happiest man in the world. And she the most exultant woman. But they were not in touch with the authentic needs of the psychic organism; they did not even entertain the possibility of direct action, and so drifted off into the great arcane verbal substitute, the big waste of time.
“Don’t give me that ‘now, now’ shit,” she said, her voice already rising. “Where the fuck were you?”
“I was at a meeting,” he said, checking his levels of truth and duplicity like a person testing the safety bar of the roller coaster car before it takes the first enormous dive.
“How was she?” Gail retorted. By this time she had forgotten that she was basically amused at his having had another woman.
Eliot executed a sharp military turn and shifted his direction away from her and toward the kitchen. He now needed the drink he had previously asked for as a ruse. Also, he was still enough in control to understand that the best way to deal with accurate accusations is to allow them to glance off one’s mind. In that way, they are registered but don’t have to be acknowledged. It was a trick he had learned in Hong Kong when he had stayed in the same hotel as Jesuit priest there on some obscure church business. Eliot and the priest had become drinking buddies and had exchanged secrets of each other’s trade.
He moved into the kitchen and began fixing a second drink. His entire left side was tense, for he didn’t know whether she would follow him. When he saw that he would be alone, he called out, “Would you like a martini?” There was a long, a very long pause. Then Gail replied, her voice a bare croak.
“Yes,” she said.
Eliot smiled to himself. He had survived another round. He didn’t know how many there would be altogether, but it was like a judo match. She would come at him or try to get him to go at her again and again until they were both exhausted or until a clear victory had been won. He was willing for her to win, and even wanted that, because she was in the right and because it would remove the resentment. But he didn’t want to be battered or badly beaten, so he would fight as best he knew how. This could end in his attaining the final point, which would introduce a significantly weighty element into their relationship, something which might push them to
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