Tremor of Intent by Anthony Burgess Page B

clenched and unclenched. They seized the sparkling hock and poured a sizeable tremulous measure. Then, panting, he said, loudly so that people looked at him, ‘On the bloody job. I saw them. His big bloody muscles all working away at it, enjoying it, and she was there underneath him crying out
Schnell schnell schnell
.’ The solitary waiter, a German, took this for a summons and started to come too. I waved him away. To Roper I said: ‘Oh no.’
    â€˜Oh bloody yes. And even he had the bloody grace to see this was all filthy and wrong and he didn’t grin this time, oh no. He slunk out, carrying half his clothes. You know, it was as though he expected me to hit him.’
    â€˜You should have knocked the daylights out of him,’ I said. An improbable idea. ‘And so that’s the end of that. I never thought that marriage would work, somehow.’
    He looked at me wet-lipped. Part of his dithering now seemed out of shame. ‘But it did, you know,’ he mumbled. ‘It took me a long time to forgive her. But, you see, seeing them like that – I don’t quite know how to put this. Well, it gave us a new lease of life, in a way.’
    I understood. Horrible, but life remains life. A new lease of. ‘You mean, even though you were tired coming back home at night, you were able to –’
    â€˜And she was sort of penitent.’
    â€˜So she should be. If I ever caught any wife of mine –’
    â€˜You wouldn’t understand.’ A flash of drunken sweetness peered, then went. ‘You’re not married.’
    â€˜All right. So now what’s your trouble?’
    â€˜It didn’t last all that long,’ he mumbled. ‘It was working late and not eating enough, I suppose. I’ve been having this bit of tummy trouble, canteen food.’
    â€˜This was all right, though, was it?’
    â€˜Oh yes.’ We’d had
Kalbsbraten
followed by
Obsttorte
. Roper, in a distracted kind of passion, as though waging a secondary war at threshold level, had cleaned my plates as well as his own. ‘She’s been going on at me as an effete Englander, no ink in my pen, no pen at all, only a little
Bleistift
. Now I’ve become one of those who encouraged the Jews to engineer Germany’s downfall.’
    â€˜Well, you always were, weren’t you? As an Englishman, I mean?’
    â€˜I’d seen the light,’ said Roper in dark gloom. ‘That’s what she used to say. Now she’s brought this bloody big blond beast back again.’
    â€˜So there was a sort of interim, was there?’
    â€˜He was on the Continent, doing a kind of tour. Now he’s in London, wrestling in the suburbs.’
    â€˜Has he been back in the house?’
    â€˜For a late supper. Not for anything else. But I can’t vouch for what happens in the afternoons.’
    â€˜You condoned it, you bloody fool. They’ve both got you now.’
    â€˜He’s not abashed any more. He grins and goes to the fridge to get more beer. She calls him Willi. But the name he wrestles under is Wurzel. On the posters it says
Wurzel der Westdeutsche Teufel
.’
    â€˜Wurzel the mangle.’
    â€˜The West German Devil is what it means.’
    â€˜I know, I know. What do you want me to do about it? I can’t see that there’s anything I
can
do.’ But then – and they should have done this before – my professional ears pricked. ‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘do you discuss your work with her at all? Does she know the sort of thing you’re doing?’
    â€˜Never.’
    â€˜Does she ever ask?’
    He thought for a moment. ‘Only in the most general terms. She doesn’t really understand what sort of work a scientist does. She didn’t get much schooling, what with the war.’
    â€˜Do you bring papers home?’
    â€˜Well –’ I’d made him just a little uneasy. ‘She wouldn’t