the extremities. I thought it was a joke, but it was not. When tensions mounted in her she could not wear shoes, rings, gloves. One evening, shortly after Castleton, I came in from the pub and discovered Gracia lying on the bed sobbing. The seam of her blouse, beneath the armpit, was torn apart, and my first thought was that someone must have attacked her in the street. I tried to console her, but she was hysterical. The zip fastener on her boot had jammed, the blouse had torn as she writhed on the bed, the boot was stuck fast on her foot. She had broken her fingernails, smashed a glass. It took me just a few seconds to free the fastener and remove the boot, but by then she had withdrawn completely into herself. For the rest of that evening she walked around the flat barefoot, the torn blouse flapping by her breast. A terror, blank and unapproachable, put silence in her swollen eyes.
Now Gracia stubbed out her cigarette and pressed herself to me.
'Peter, I don't want it like this. We both need it to work.'
'Then what's wrong? I've tried everything.'
'I want you to care for me. You're so distant. Sometimes it's as if I don't exist. You act . . . no, it doesn't matter.'
'It does. Go on.'
Gracia said nothing for several seconds, and the silence spread mistily around us. Then: 'Are you seeing someone else?'
'No, of course not.'
'Is that true?'
'Gracia, there's no one. I love _you_
why should I need someone
else?'
'You act as if you do. You always seem to be dreaming, and when I talk to you what you say comes out as if you've rehearsed it with someone else. Do you realize you're doing that?'
'Give me an example.'
'How can I? I don't take notes. But there's no spontaneity in you.
Everything has been made ready for me. It's as if you've worked me out in your mind, how you think I should be. As long as I do what you expect, I'm reading the script you wrote for me. And then I don't, because I'm upset or tired, or because I'm me . . and you can't cope with it. It's not fair, Peter. I can't just become what you imagine I am.'
'I'm sorry,' I said, and slipped my arm around her back and pulled her closer against me. 'I didn't know. I don't mean to do that. You're the only person I know, the only one I want to know. I went away last year because of you. There were other reasons, but it was mostly because we'd split up and I was upset. Now I've got you back, and everything I do and think is about you.
I don't want anything to go wrong again. Do you believe that?'
'Yes . . . but can you show it more?'
'I'm trying, and I'll try again. But I've got to do it my way, the only way I know.' At the end of the bed I could feel Seri's weight, pressing down the bedclothes over my feet.
'Kiss me, Peter.' Gracia drew my hand to her breast, and brought her leg across my thigh. The nervous energy in her was exciting; I responded to it, sensing the same charge in myself. So we made love, and Seri was not there.
Afterwards, drifting into sleep, I wanted to tell Gracia about her, explain that Seri was just a part of my orientation around her, remind her of the rapture of islands, but it was too late for that.
Later there was dawn light beyond the curtains. I was woken by Gracia moving. Her breath was quick. The bed shook as if trembling, and I heard her rings clatter lightly on to the bedside table.
17
The next day, while Gracia was at work, I felt listless. There were small cleaning jobs to do around the flat, and I did these with my usual lack of enthusiasm. Seri did not appear, and after I had been to the local pub for lunch, I found my manuscript and went through it, seeking references to Seri in the hope of separating her from Gracia. It seemed to me I was confusing Gracia in my mind; Seri distracted me. In the night I had learned that Gracia was more important than anything.
But I was tired, and the only tensions eased by sex were physical. Both Gracia and I were unsure of our identities, and in seeking them we were damaging each other. My manuscript was a danger. It contained Seri, but it also contained myself as protagonist. I needed it still, but it drove me inwards.
Inevitably, Seri appeared. She was real, independent, tanned from the islands.
'You didn't help me last night,' I said. 'I needed you then, to reassure Gracia of what I am trying to do.'
Seri said--I was upset and felt lonely. I couldn't interfere.
She was remote from me, drifting on the periphery. I said: 'But can't you help me?'
Seri said--I can he with you, and help restore you to yourself. I can't say anything to you about Gracia. You're in love with her, and that excludes me.
'If you came closer I might be able to love you both. I don't want to hurt Gracia. What shall I do?'
Seri said--Let's go out, Peter.
I left my manuscript scattered on the bed, and followed her to the streets.
It was spring in the city, and along the boulevards the cafes had put their tables out beneath the canopies. It was the time I liked best in Jethra, and to leave the flat to enjoy the mild air and sunshine was like a tonic to me. I bought a newspaper. We went to one of the cafes I liked best, situated on the corner of a large, busy intersection. Here there was a tram crossing, and I enjoyed the distinctive clang of the bells, the clatter of the wheels on the crossings and the overhead tracery of the power lines. The pavements were crowded with people, conveying a
