Mortals

She said, “First, nothing is going to happen to us. Second, I’m going to go and be with Ellen and I’ll be back in six weeks and everything will be okay, I promise.”

“When did we say six weeks?” he asked, not calmly enough.

“Well six weeks at the outside.”

Do not resist, he thought, saying, “Well six weeks then, although… it wracks and harrows me.” He was surprised at himself. Somehow he had decided to be slightly poetic just then. It was insane. She was looking at him with a certain heightened interest, he thought, although it might be concern and not interest. There were still moments in his life when he felt capable of poetry. When the impulse was there he was normally afraid of it, for the simple reason that he wasn’t a poet. The Irish, or some of them, felt free to burst out with it. But even in the case of the Irish talking gorgeously he knew they were working from a fixed menu of tropes and images and not engaging in individual invention. What was he doing? He wanted to send her away with an absolute knowledge of how lovely she was to him, was all. But this had been like a deacon suddenly breaking into a juggling routine. You can’t just wrench yourself into some new and cuter state, he thought. He was embarrassed. They were both going to ignore it. He thanked God.

“I don’t think we should have sex tonight,” she said.

He couldn’t agree more. Having sex would dishonor their differences.

“I couldn’t agree more,” he said. His tone dissatisfied him and he added, “I mean that. I seriously do. And if you would slip into something less comfortable it would be a help.”

She was amused. He went to the closet and got out his favorite robe of hers, a blue and white yakuta they had bought in Paris. He draped it over her shoulders and she got properly into it in a rather piecemeal if not exactly teasing manner, he thought. He was a little surprised to realize that the blue elements in the pattern were winged seeds, on the order of locust seeds, and not the Horus eyes they had been in his mental picture of the garment for years. Lately he was looking too closely at everything around her. It was fear. It felt valedictory.

How could he tell that they weren’t, even now, through yet? It was in the eyes. What else there could be was beyond him. He was probably safe in assuming that they were down to odds and ends, that she’d started with the more offensive items and was working down, the way he would have. There was no guarantee about that, though. Now he was scaring himself.

He said, “Look, the best thing now would be if you would just tell me everything that’s still on your mind, if anything is, because… because here we are.” In hell, he thought.

“I don’t think there’s anything special,” she said. She was undecided, he could tell. Was she trying to gauge what he could take at one sitting?

“This is truly minor,” she said.

But it wasn’t. She could barely bring it out, which could mean that it was about what, their sex life, as in too much or too little…

“I think I want to take a break from reading novels… by men. I don’t know why. I just feel like it. Don’t be so stunned. You know how grateful I am to you for your help and effort getting me good books. I’ve depended on your recommendations and they’ve been wonderful. Maybe it’s that I want to take a break from novels per se in general.”

Injustice never sleeps, he thought. Finding decent and reasonably current reading for her in Africa had been a major task, a career. Help and effort was right, especially effort. It took work to develop literate social contacts, who inevitably got reassigned. Taste among the embassy people ran at the level of James Michener. The paperback leftovers that turned up in the jumble sales departing embassy officers gave were an embarrassment to the United States. The American Library had no budget and what it had it spent on Young Adult titles.

“Look, my function has been to cultivate my contacts to get you things that are current and good and that you wouldn’t be able to get very easily on your own. Or things that you asked for specifically. You know what the public library is like. I doubt I’ve been biasing my selections toward male authors. Have I? I get you every Iris Murdoch as it falls crashing from the press. I think the last novel I got you was by A. N. Wilson, a man, unfortunately, but you liked it a lot, I thought. I think you wanted more by him. I got you every Barbara Pym there is, somehow.”

“I love A. N. Wilson. But I think I don’t want to be worrying about the problems of male narrators anymore. I do not want to be worrying about the problems of men, sad as they may be. It’s similar to not wanting to read novels about the drug life or other kinds of self-destructiveness. I’ve read them. And I don’t care how sensitive they are, I don’t want to read about drunks.”

“Hey, fine,” he said. He could tell it was distressing her to do this. She was in the grip of something.

“You don’t think it’s fine.”

“I do. I guess maybe you’ve had enough of the Male Gaze, as they call it. I can understand that.”

“I have no idea what the Male Gaze you’re talking about is. I don’t know if…”

He interrupted. “It’s not complicated. It’s feminist. It’s a concept that says, sees, that in the arts, especially the movies but also books, everything, even by women, gets expressed in the male viewpoint, in what interests the male psyche.”

“That seems too simple. It may be the novel per se…”

But he knew what it was. He thought, So much for my syllabus: Her new one is from a darker hand.

She said, “I think all it may be is this. I think I’ve gotten too automatic when it comes to novels. I think I have a dependence. I get panicky when I don’t have a good one on hand. You know. Maybe it’s novels by anybody. Don’t stand over me like that. Come sit here.” She patted his place in the bed.

He took her hand. Why was it he was absolutely sure there was something more? There had to be, because her breathing was still tight.

“Ray, I love you and I want to be completely fair with you.

“About Davis, maybe you already know this. It’s a problem with you. I don’t know what you know.

“But I think I do need to mention this last thing. About him. I gather from things he says that a main reason he left the U.S. and came here is because of objections he has to the CIA. As a citizen.

“It seems like everything I’m saying to you tonight is causing you pain, and I am so sorry, but I can’t help it. He thinks the agency does terrible things and operates with impunity. Or has done them. It’s historical, but of course it would have to be historical because whatever the agency is doing now is secret. I sound stupid. You see what I’m saying.”

Beware, he thought. He spoke evenly. “Please. He knows nothing.”

“You’re probably right. It’s mainly the agency in Central America he objects to.”

Ray said, “He thinks he knows something he doesn’t.”

“Well. Guatemala and Nicaragua, specifically, if that’s any comfort.”

“I don’t need any comfort.”

“I know. It’s the contras, most of all, and the fact nobody cares that sixty thousand Nicaraguans died, paid for by us, and nobody was punished. He makes a case. It’s my fault for bringing it up, or causing it to be brought up, rather. I was naturally curious about why he came here and wants citizenship. He plans to be here forever, if he can, can you believe that? I got off the subject immediately when I saw what he was saying, believe me, Ray. I just listen and nod when the subject comes up, which is rare anyway. This is not something that’s going to get any kind of response from me. You know you can trust me about it. You do know that. I’m sorry it came up.”

“What he thinks he knows hardly matters, Iris. You know me and you know whether I would ever do anything dishonorable.” He felt false. He had said this before. Of course Nicaragua had been wrong and brutal and no way would he have been part of it. But this was Africa.

She said, “Don’t hate me.”

It was odd. Twice in the past when he was undertaking critical operations that had turned out to be mortally dangerous for him he had gotten a distinctive feeling in his hands and here it was again.

“What’s wrong?” He didn’t know what she meant.

“You’re wringing your hands,” she said. He stopped.

She was not the villain here. Nothing was her fault. He had to keep her from regretting doing this.

She said, “I never want to hurt you, Ray, my good love. I’m just so sorry if any of this has. Please don’t worry. And about my reading, I think I’m in a phase. Reading novels is… I feel like… it’s like waiting, a form of waiting.”

“I understand everything,” he said.