“A woman with your potentialities,” he proclaims wide-eyed, his arms outthrown to illustrate her far-flung positions. “You are not one but many women. You’ve got a fantastic problem between Spinoza and being a playgirl in Acapulco,” he exclaims. “How will you resolve this?”
She senses her peril. In a minute he will make the initial move to resolve this conflict for her which she cannot, which no woman alone can resolve for herself.
“It’s no problem. I told you I am writing a novel. The truth of the matter is that I’ve never read Spinoza.”
“Baby, I saw your publications on display in the lobby, but it’s understandable that you should want to deny it; the conflict between your intellectual passion and your femininity, just as I was telling you. It’s obvious you’re worried I’m less attracted to you because you read Spinoza.”
“I swear to God I’ve never read Spinoza. As for my degrees and publications—ancient history. If you must know, my husband made me do it.”
“How?”
“I was in a state of physical bondage.”
“He screwed you so silly you wrote a dissertation?”
“That’s right; I didn’t care. I wanted to live in a kibbutz and pick oranges. So he made me read Marx. I didn’t agree with Marx so he made me read Kierkegaard and all the German romantics and mystics—that’s how I got involved in philosophy. I know I was a fool; I should have said Eckhart fits me to a ‘T’ and I would have had my peace. Look, I’ll admit Kant turned my head as a freshman in college, but already in my junior year—”
“Darling, stop trying so hard. You realize all this talk is very sexy.”
“The point is I find a woman who can take philosophy seriously after twenty-five pathetic.”
“Then you’re saying that women are intrinsically superior to men.”
“Not at all. Men are superior to women in practically any field you can name—philosophy, military science, music. But every sensible woman knows au fond that the things men do are stupid; she can’t take them seriously; part of men’s charm is that they pursue these things seriously, so we encourage them, then men call us a civilizing influence.”
“Baby, culture stinks. Let’s screw.”
“No, you’re too cynical.”
“I hope you know you’re crazy, darling,” he remarks kindly. “I’ve been listening to you for ten hours and it’s obvious from every word you say. Don’t look so unhappy—it’s not your fault,” he continues pleasantly, rolling a cigaret. “My wife is crazy, did I tell you that?”
“You talk exactly like my father and my husband. It’s the one thing I can’t stand.”
“Of course, you told me you had a Freudian papa—forgive me darling—that must really be hard. You realize you’ve really had it, baby?”
“All joking aside, I want to know where I am.”
“Darling, you’re in a state. You haven’t been screwed in the last ten hours; you’re in a state, that’s all. My dear, it must be this hashish. Suddenly I can’t think of your name. Don’t tell me. I know it. It will come back in a minute. Sarah!”
“That’s interesting, a few days before I died someone said that ought to be my name.”
“I told you this hash is fantastic. Let me guess again. Ridiculous. Your husband’s name is Blind—and you’re going to keep it?”
“A souvenir,” she shrugs, smiling. “Like from the war. Call it a misadventure. Still a ten-year stretch of my life.”
“Blind. Blind. Miriam. I got it! That’s it, isn’t it Miriam.”
“No, the name of the heroine of my first novel.”
“I have one more guess. Of course: Sophie. Sophie Blind.”
“That’s really strange.”
“True?”
“No, but it’s just the right name for the character I want to write about in my new novel.”
“Listen there is nothing like this hash—I told you. Darling, take me to your room and I’ll screw you.”
“I can’t. I’m not in love with you. But I’m sure there are a lot of pretty girls who want to be screwed. Why don’t you try the ballroom?”
“Darling, I’m too tired for that. I can’t be bothered with girls—it’s a whole operation; they want to dance, they want a Big Thing—please stop giving me the old nonsense. I just want to screw you and go to sleep. Look, we got to get out of here, the chars are coming.”
“I can’t imagine making love the way things are.”
“I know you’re in a mess. We’re all in a mess,” he sighs, his arm around her shoulder, leaning on her unsteadily as they walk down the thickly carpeted corridor. She stops to look at a bulletin board announcing the events of the week.
“You’re worried about missing something important?” he asks, drawing her away. “I’m telling you everybody important will be at the party. We have time to screw—one hour exactly. I need three hours sleep, five hours to wake up, I can prepare my speech on the way. I’ve got to speak to an audience of five thousand; televised, of course. Haven’t even begun to think about it. Stop worrying and take my advice. We go to bed and to the party, O.K.? And don’t tell me you’re tired. I haven’t slept for three nights.”
“I’m involved in litigations; I have to face a jury,” she protests.
“You’ll tell me all about it in bed.”
“How do I know you’re not one of the jury or a witness for the prosecution?”
“All the more reason you should take me to your room. You realize you’re being very selfish. It doesn’t occur to you to think of the risks I’m running. Don’t you know everything is forgiven a woman?”
“It’s this room,” she says turning on the light.
“You don’t mind if I lean my head on you. I must sleep a little.”
“Johann, listen.”
“Baby, I’ve been listening eleven hours now.”
“I don’t care what you think, I want to know what’s going to happen.”
“If we don’t go to bed, nothing will happen. Darling, you think
