The 1st Deadly Sin

“Are you shocked, darling?”

“Not really. I guess I suspected it. But she comes back so weary. Sometimes she’s been hurt. Does she want to be? I mean, does she deliberately seek it?”

“I thought you knew. You saw those bandages on her wrists. I saw you staring at them. She tried to slash her veins.”

“My God.”

“She tried it before and will probably try it again. Pills or driving too fast or a razor.”

“Oh sweetheart, why does she do it?”

“Why? She really doesn’t know. Except life has no value for her. No real value. She said that once.”

He kissed those soft lips and with his fingertips touched the closed eyes gently. The limpid body moved to him, pressed sweetly; he smelled again that precious flesh, skin as thin, as smooth as watered silk.

“I thought I made her happy.”

“Oh you did, Dan. As much as any man can. But it’s not enough for her. She’s seen everything, done everything, and still nothing has meaning for her. She’s run through a dozen religions and faiths, tried alcohol and all kinds of drugs, done things with men and women and children you wouldn’t believe. She’s burned out now. Isn’t it obvious? Celia Montfort. Poor twit.”

“I love her.”

“Do you? I think it’s too late for her, Dan. She’s-she’s beyond love. All she wants now is release.”

“Release from what?”

“From living, I suppose. Since she’s trying so hard to kill herself. Perhaps her problem is that she’s too intelligent. She’s painted and written poetry. She was very good but couldn’t endure the thought of being just ‘very good.’ If she didn’t have the talent of a genius, she couldn’t settle for second-best. Always, she wants the best, the most, the final. I think her problem is that she wants to be sure. Of something, anything. She wants final answers. I think that’s why she was attracted to you, darling. She felt you were searching for the same thing.”

“You’re so old for your age.”

“Am I? I’m ancient. I was born ancient.”

They laughed gently, together, and moved together, holding each other. Then kissing, kissing, with love but without passion, wet lips clinging. Blank stroked webbed hair and with a fingertip traced convolution of delicate ear, slender throat, thrust of rib beneath satin skin.

Finally they drew apart, lay on their backs, side by side, inside hands clasped loosely.

“What about Valenter?”

“What about him?”

“What is his role in your home?”

“His role? He’s a servant, a houseman.”

“He seems so-so sinister.”

Mocking: “Do you think he’s sleeping with brother or sister? Or both?”

“I don’t know. It’s a strange house.”

“It may be a strange house, but I assure you Valenter is only a servant. It’s your imagination, Dan.”

“I suppose so. That room upstairs. Are there peepholes where other people can watch? Or is the place wired to pick up conversation?”

“Now you’re being ridiculous.”

“I suppose so. Perhaps I was believing what I wanted to believe. But why that room?”

“Why did I take you there? Because it’s at the top of the house. No one ever goes there. It’s private, and I knew we wouldn’t be interrupted. It’s shabby, I know, but it was fun, wasn’t it? Didn’t you think it was fun? Why are you laughing?”

“I don’t know. Because I read so much into it that doesn’t exist. Perhaps.”

“Like what?”

“Well, this woman-”

“I know, ‘this Celia Montfort.’”

“Yes. Well, I thought this Celia Montfort might be manipulating me, using me.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know. But I feel she wants something from me. She’s waiting for something. From me. Is she?”

“I don’t know, Dan. I just don’t know. She is a very complex woman. I don’t know too much about women; most of my experience has been with men, as you very well know. But I don’t think Celia Montfort knows exactly what she wants. I think she senses it and is fumbling toward it, making all kinds of false starts and wrong turnings. She’s always having accidents. Slipping, upsetting things. Knocking things over, falling and breaking this or that. But she’s moving toward something. Do you have that feeling?”

“Yes. Oh yes. Are you rested now?”

“Yes, darling, I’m rested.”

“Can we make love again?”

“Please. Slowly.”

“Tony, Tony, I love you.”

“Oh pooh,” Tony Montfort said.

7

The strange thing, the strange thing, Daniel Blank decided, was that the world, his world, was expanding at the same time he, himself, was contracting. That is, Tony and Mrs. Cleek and Valenter and the Mortons-everyone he knew and everyone he saw on the streets-well, he loved them all. So sad. They were all so sad. But then, just as he had told Celia that night at the Erotica, he felt apart from them. But still he could love them. That was curious and insolvable.

At the same time his love and understanding were going out to encompass all living things-people, animals, rocks, the whirling skies-he pulled in within himself, chuckling, to nibble on his own heart and hug his secret life. He was condensing, coiling in upon himself, penetrating deeper and deeper. It was a closed life of shadow, scent, and gasps. And yet, and yet there were stars keening their courses, a music in the treacherous world.

Well, it came to this: should he or should he not be a hermit? He could twirl naked before a mirrored wall and embrace himself in golden chains. That was one answer. Or he could go out into the clotted life of the streets, and mingle. Join. Penetrate, and know them all. Loving.

He opted for the streets, the evil streets, and openness. The answer, he decided, was there. It was not in AMROK II; it was in Charles Lipsky, and all the other striving, defeated clods. He hated them for their weaknesses and vices, and loved them for their weaknesses and vices. Was he a Christ? It was a vagrant thought. Still, he acknowledged, he could be. He had Christ’s love. But, of course, he was not a religious man.

So. Daniel Blank on the prowl. Grinning at the dull winter sky, determined to solve the mystery of life.

This night he had bathed, oiled and scented his slender body, dressed slowly and carefully in black suit, black turtle-neck sweater, crepe-soled shoes, the slit-pocket topcoat with the ice ax looped over his left wrist within. He sauntered out to search for his demon lover, a Mongol of a man, so happy, so happy. It was eleven days after the murder of Detective third grade Roger Kope.

It had become increasingly difficult, he acknowledged. Since the death of the detective, the neighborhood streets at night were not only patrolled by plain-clothes decoys, but two-man teams of uniformed officers appeared on almost every block and corner, wary and not at all relaxed after what happened to Kope. In addition, the assignment of more squad cars to the area was evident, and Daniel Blank supposed that unmarked police cars were also being used.

Under the circumstances he would have been justified in seeking another hunting ground, perhaps another borough. But he considered it more challenge than risk. Did you reject a difficult climb because of the danger? If you did, why climb at all? The point, the whole point, was to stretch yourself, probe new limits of your talent and courage. Resolution was like a muscle: exercised it grew larger and firmer; unused it became pale and flabby.