bills, dunning letters
and balance sheets in growing unbalance. One day the radio
announced the government’s decision to compensate uninsured victims
of the bombing outrages. It had to come soon. But no date was
mentioned.
So the prospect of bankruptcy did afford a
certain relief from the image. But concern about money matters
couldn’t be indefinitely kept up. In the interstices of disastrous
calculations, without warning, wall and face would loom. This even
happened during one of his assistant’s visits.
She came often and stayed long, even after
business matters had been disposed of. On the fourth day of his
return to the world, at what they called “dinner-time” (five
o’clock) the new nurse, mistaking their relationship, had offered
her a tray. She’d eagerly accepted it, a deadly precedent. When
bed-ridden he’d had the space of the bed as a buffer. Now he had to
sit at angles at the narrow wheeled formica table like a crazy
modern painting, his legs jack-knifed out of harm’s way, his torso
twisted to make room for their foreheads when they leaned forward
for soup.
For the first time he understood the
expression tête-à-tête .
Since the death of his mother, he’d lost the habit of being in a
confined space with another person. In addition, she never failed
to bring flowers and potted plants. He always thanked her. But
didn’t they compete for oxygen or emit dangerous gas at night? He
didn’t remember which. Perhaps both?
He didn’t realize it but he had a reason for
being thankful to her. She proved to be a counter-fire to the
obsessive image, not just because of the alarming things she
brought over to the hospital from the office but because his mind
was kept busy combating the irritation her presence frequently
caused.
However, on the eighth day of his return, in
the very middle of a dictated sentence, the boy and the wall came
back with such force that he broke off helplessly. He tried the
trick of staring at her latest flowers. When that didn’t work he
again pictured her ferreting in his apartment. Since the death of
his mother, nobody had entered his flat except, once, a plumber,
strictly confined to the flooded bathroom, and, twice, a doctor,
not the same one. He imagined her using his toilet. He banished the
absurd, scandalous image. The wall and the boy returned. He blurted
out: “You had no business in my apartment.”
That worked. Now he was out of it but into
the consequences of his words as he could see by her face. Ever
since the inspector had told him about her intrusion, he’d been
trying to find the right approach to the subject: something firm
but certainly not brutal like that. She took things to heart as he
could see.
She flushed, sat up stiffly and began the
justification for perhaps the twentieth time. But now it was no
solitary rehearsal.
She’d managed to salvage his overcoat, she
explained. It had been in tatters. Naturally she’d emptied the
pockets. There’d been a few coins (she named the exact sum) and
three underground tickets and the keys. She immediately put them
all in an envelope, which she sealed. But the inspector was very
insistent about the missing letters of application. He wanted her
to give him the keys. She thought it would be better if she looked
herself. He might have broken things. The police hadn’t always
behaved well during the Events.
She’d spent no more than five minutes in his
apartment. She’d have seen it right away: a purple folder. “It
wasn’t there so I left. I was careful to lock up.”
This was largely the truth. She’d felt sure
the inspector would become nastily insistent if she didn’t
volunteer to have a look. Besides, there were probable plants to
water, a possible cat to feed, although by the way he reacted to
the cats in the building this was unlikely. She came with a tin of
sardines anyway.
She’d touched practically nothing there
unless you counted the closed windows and metal shutters of the
first room
and balance sheets in growing unbalance. One day the radio
announced the government’s decision to compensate uninsured victims
of the bombing outrages. It had to come soon. But no date was
mentioned.
So the prospect of bankruptcy did afford a
certain relief from the image. But concern about money matters
couldn’t be indefinitely kept up. In the interstices of disastrous
calculations, without warning, wall and face would loom. This even
happened during one of his assistant’s visits.
She came often and stayed long, even after
business matters had been disposed of. On the fourth day of his
return to the world, at what they called “dinner-time” (five
o’clock) the new nurse, mistaking their relationship, had offered
her a tray. She’d eagerly accepted it, a deadly precedent. When
bed-ridden he’d had the space of the bed as a buffer. Now he had to
sit at angles at the narrow wheeled formica table like a crazy
modern painting, his legs jack-knifed out of harm’s way, his torso
twisted to make room for their foreheads when they leaned forward
for soup.
For the first time he understood the
expression tête-à-tête .
Since the death of his mother, he’d lost the habit of being in a
confined space with another person. In addition, she never failed
to bring flowers and potted plants. He always thanked her. But
didn’t they compete for oxygen or emit dangerous gas at night? He
didn’t remember which. Perhaps both?
He didn’t realize it but he had a reason for
being thankful to her. She proved to be a counter-fire to the
obsessive image, not just because of the alarming things she
brought over to the hospital from the office but because his mind
was kept busy combating the irritation her presence frequently
caused.
However, on the eighth day of his return, in
the very middle of a dictated sentence, the boy and the wall came
back with such force that he broke off helplessly. He tried the
trick of staring at her latest flowers. When that didn’t work he
again pictured her ferreting in his apartment. Since the death of
his mother, nobody had entered his flat except, once, a plumber,
strictly confined to the flooded bathroom, and, twice, a doctor,
not the same one. He imagined her using his toilet. He banished the
absurd, scandalous image. The wall and the boy returned. He blurted
out: “You had no business in my apartment.”
That worked. Now he was out of it but into
the consequences of his words as he could see by her face. Ever
since the inspector had told him about her intrusion, he’d been
trying to find the right approach to the subject: something firm
but certainly not brutal like that. She took things to heart as he
could see.
She flushed, sat up stiffly and began the
justification for perhaps the twentieth time. But now it was no
solitary rehearsal.
She’d managed to salvage his overcoat, she
explained. It had been in tatters. Naturally she’d emptied the
pockets. There’d been a few coins (she named the exact sum) and
three underground tickets and the keys. She immediately put them
all in an envelope, which she sealed. But the inspector was very
insistent about the missing letters of application. He wanted her
to give him the keys. She thought it would be better if she looked
herself. He might have broken things. The police hadn’t always
behaved well during the Events.
She’d spent no more than five minutes in his
apartment. She’d have seen it right away: a purple folder. “It
wasn’t there so I left. I was careful to lock up.”
This was largely the truth. She’d felt sure
the inspector would become nastily insistent if she didn’t
volunteer to have a look. Besides, there were probable plants to
water, a possible cat to feed, although by the way he reacted to
the cats in the building this was unlikely. She came with a tin of
sardines anyway.
She’d touched practically nothing there
unless you counted the closed windows and metal shutters of the
first room
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