A Sport and a Pastime

swims in the light. She is drenched with it.

Great lovers lie in hell, the poet says. Even now, long afterwards, I cannot destroy the images. They remain within me like the yearnings of an addict. I need only hear certain words, see certain gestures, and my thoughts begin to tumble. I despise myself for thinking of her. Even if she were dead, I would feel the same. Her existence blackens my life.

Solitude. One knows instinctively it has benefits that must be more deeply satisfying than those of other conditions, but still it is difficult. And besides, how is one to distinguish between conditions which are valuable, which despite their hatefulness give us strength or impel us to great things and others we would be far better free of? Which are precious and which are not? Why is it so hard to be happy alone? Why is it impossible? Why, whenever I am idle, sometimes even before, in the midst of doing something, do I slowly but inevitably become subject to the power of their acts.

Silence. I listen to it, the silence of that room which leaves me faint. Those calm phrases to which she knows so well how to respond as barefoot now, unhurried, she crosses to him in the dark.

I have not gone deep enough, that’s the thing. In solitude one must penetrate, one must endure. The icy beginning is where it is worst. One must pass all that. One must go forward all the way, through bitterness, through righteous feelings, advancing upon it like a holy city, sensing the true joy. I try to summon it to me, to make it appear. I am certain it is there, but it does not come easily. Of course not. One must waver. One must struggle. Beliefs are meant to cleave us to the bone.

“There was a lot,” she says.

She glistens with it. The inside of her thighs is wet.

“How long does it take to make again?” she asks.

Dean tries to think. He is remembering biology.

“Two or three days,” he guesses.

“Non, non!” she cries. That is not what she meant.

She begins to make him hard again. In a few minutes he rolls her over and puts it in as if the intermission were ended. This time she is wild. The great bed begins creaking. Her breath becomes short. Dean has to brace his hands on the wall. He hooks his knees outside her legs and drives himself deeper.

“Oh,” she breathes, “that’s the best.”

When he comes, it downs them both. They crumble like sand. He returns from the bathroom and picks up the covers from the floor. She has not moved. She lies just where she has fallen.

They always drive somewhere the following day. They rise late and plan a journey. These are the first mild weekends. It’s good to be outside. They put their things in the car: her small plastic suitcase, the radio, a copy of Elle. She gets in and slams the door.

“Do you have to do that?” he says.

“Sorry.”

“One of these times it’s going to come right off the damn car.”

“I am sorry,” she repeats.

“It’s all right,” he says and really, he is content. Her period started that morning. Everything is fine.

They leave town through a long corridor of trees. The country opens to receive them. Squares of warm sunlight drift across their laps. The rich murmur of the engine flows beneath them. They talk about her friends, Danielle, whose parents own the grocery. And Dominique, who went to live six months with a German family. She liked it very much. Better than France. Anne-Marie would like to go there herself. What about Italy? Oh, yes, of course, Italy. Perhaps they can go to Italy together, she suddenly suggests. In the summer. They could drive.

“Sure,” he says. It’s all vague and far off.

After a while she begins to move about on the seat.

“Oh, Phillip,” she says, “my Tampax is not good. You must stop in Saulieu.”

“All right.”

“Is it far?”

“Not very,” he says.

She gives a faint hiss of dismay. It’s really just like her. He admires that. Sometimes she will go into the woods to pee.

[18]

SLOWLY THE LIGHT CHANGES, day by day, reflected from countless old surfaces of the town. A new quality appears in it, an intensity that means death for the season. The winter months have grown weary. They are ready to be over-thrown. In the streets one can sense the imminence of this. The skies have grown bright, have freshened. The past is melting like ice.

Dean sits waiting while she makes herself up. It’s still fairly light outside. People are strolling after work, happy to have days that end before darkness. He looks through a cheap magazine while she makes the last touches. Her face is close to the mirror.

“You know, you shouldn’t read this junk,” he says, leafing through it.

She turns to see. Then she continues with the mirror.

“It’s just stories,” she says.

“They’re terrible. What do you see in them?”

She shrugs. He tosses it aside.

“I should read more books,” she says, as if to her reflection.

“That’s right, you should.”

“I like Montherlant,” she says. “And Proust.”

“You haven’t read Proust.”

“Of course,” she says.

“Really?”

Turning, she asks,

“How do you find me?”

“Too much lipstick,” he says.

She turns her head this way and that before the mirror, considering herself.

“I find it good,” she says.

“No, it’s not.”

“Si,” she insists. Nevertheless she wipes a little from the corners.

Dean sits on the bed, his head leaning back against the wall. He looks around the room. Everything seems ordinary, everything seems poor. Sometimes he is depressed by her imperfections. They should not be important, perhaps, but they often become so real, so ready to take control of her, these plain qualities hidden by the brilliance of a language and life the taste of which he has only just begun to grasp. He waits for her to put on her coat. She avoids his eyes. In silence they descend to the street. He is waiting for her to say something.

“We go to the shops?”

Dean doesn’t reply. He merely stares at her.

“Come,” she insists.

It’s chilly at this hour, the end of the day. Her cheeks are reddened, like an urchin’s. The tiny slits in her earlobes seem a mark of low caste. They walk towards the center of town. She has linked her arm in his. He seems not to notice. He has turned into lead.

“Tu es fache avec moi?” she asks.

He shrugs. They walk along cheerlessly. Her face has the helplessness of someone who is no longer believed in.

“Phillip, tu es fache?” she repeats.

“No.”

There are only women in the shop, mothers and daughters, wives. The owner moves among the flutter of merchandise. She is waiting on two or three customers at once. She reaches for boxes on various shelves and lays