A Sport and a Pastime

“Yes.”

“Non,” she says flatly.

Well, then, he can’t explain it, he says. If she’s going to insist that she knows … She sits watching him, her mouth drawn down, her eyes suspicious. He will send for her, he says.

“When?”

“I don’t know exactly. I have to get the fare.”

“What?”

“The fare. The money for the ticket.”

A quick, bitter shrug.

“Will you just listen?” he says.

She says nothing.

“I don’t have it right now,” he explains.

Her face seems softer, but there is no understanding in it, or at least no agreement. She looks at the floor.

“Listen, I swear to you,” he says. He raises his hand.

She glances up.

“Really,” he says.

“On the head of your mother?”

“Yes.”

She motions with her chin.

“What?”

“Say it,” she says.

“On the head of my mother.”

She sighs. He is sitting beside her on the bed. He lies back and begins to talk of what it will be like. At first she resists, but then he can tell from the way the sound of his voice vanishes, from her very stillness, that she is listening. They will go all over the city, he will show her every part of it. They will walk the great avenues, look in all the stores. Saturday night they stay out very late and go dancing. She has only two kinds of clothes: slacks and a pull to five in—corduroys for him—and one marvelous dress to go out in. Two, he corrects, one for the afternoon, another for evening. And he has a single, fine suit, very dark, grey, black maybe. A bed. A table. A few chairs. Their windows look out on a bridge.

They lie still, breathing softly, their heads on the long bolster still enclosed in its flowered case. The shutters are drawn. Noon has fallen. There is the faint clatter of plates and beyond that, a ritual silence. A radio, perhaps. An occasional car. They sleep.

They awake in a different world. Dean’s eyes drift about vaguely, finally falling upon the clock. An hour has passed. He sits up and quietly begins to remove his clothes, shoes first, then socks. The floor is cool and pleasant beneath his feet.

They pose naked before the mirror. Dean is taller. His body is dark. He stands a bit to the side, like her shadow. The light enters in thin, level strips, gills, which cross the floor. He slips his prick between her legs from behind and she gives it a little hug. She reaches behind her to stroke his balls with her fingertips. He looks like a life-guard. There is a small roll of fat, a marble bannister, perched on his hip.

They make love slowly. He fixes her across the dark flowers and works it in as if wedging a log. Then he has her sit astride him. Her voice is invisible, a whisper from the street.

“It feels as if it’s touching my heart,” she says.

She raises herself slightly, her hands on his waist.

“I think it is,” she says.

Dean smiles. He forces her down a bit. She struggles softly. Then he turns her over and sounds her. It’s like a rain of love. Everywhere his mind turns he is drenched by it. As if in separate rooms, as if engaged in separate acts, they occupy themselves until the last instant and afterwards lie collapsed, the bedclothes scattered about them. Their voices are low, inconsequential. Outside the window, pigeons lurch across the tiles.

They drive to St. Leger, the sun splashing the depths of the car, hitting their knees. The streets vanish behind them. The last curve. They start down the long incline, through the tunnels brief and cool, descending further, under the viaduct its empty chambers blue with air, past the roadsigns and gone. The trees wash by them. The car accelerates, the great axles cracking, the road flying beneath.

Her mother is happy to see them. At the kitchen table they sit and talk, the cat passing rhythmically between Dean’s feet, reversing, leaning against his ankles. It is strangely silent, even with them talking. It’s like the corridor of a hospital or an empty ward. Dean feels the glances of her mother. She looks at him almost shyly. When their eyes meet, she smiles. Her husband is working. The chair in which he usually sits near the wall is empty, a wooden chair with a thin, soiled cushion. Anne-Marie says nothing to her mother about Dean leaving. They talk about the neighbors, the automobile accidents, clothes. The afternoon is homely with gossip. There is nothing to make one believe he is seeing this room for the last time.

It is late when they return. Cars are parked in the square; the birds arc making their last flights before dark. They have dinner at the hotel. The room is crowded. She is enormously affectionate. It infuses her smallest gestures, her smiles. The meal turns, quite by itself, into an occasion, a long intermingling of feelings broken by the arrival of courses. They talk of the past, remembering various places, difficulties, joys. She has a second glass of wine. Outside, a blue evening has fallen. I have eaten here many times, I know the sound of diners’ voices in this large room illuminated by the white of tablecloths, the slow discussions, an occasional laugh. Through it then, when all is finished, I hear the sound of her heels, unhurried, thin, as she finally walks to the door, pauses. The glances follow her like bows. She waits. He comes along after paying, and they go out together to the street. I am left alone at my table—I always imagine this—watching as they turn and pass through the domed room, among the lighted cases, and at last are gone. Unknown lovers. They disappear into the town. I shall never see them again. I sit there. There are at least ten minutes until I can have my dessert. The waiter will have to come, clear away the main course, take my order.

They climb the stairs. The key turns in the door. The simple mechanics of crime. He lies on the bed, naked, as she rakes off her eye make-up. There is the sound of water running. Her face is close to the mirror. She can see him in it, extended, one hand resting inside his thigh.

“You are like a dead king,” she says.

She opens the shutters wide. The lights flooding upward from the church seem to carry a bar of darkness with them, a core of iron, into the mysterious sky. Dean makes love to her with great tenderness, kissing her shoulders, listening to her breath. It’s as if he’s never done it before. He tries to memorize her. His hands touch her carefully. His lips form reverent phrases.

Afterwards they lie for a long time in silence. There is nothing. Their poem is scattered about them. The days have fallen everywhere, they have collapsed like cards. The air has a chill in it. He pulls the covers up. She is so perfectly still she seems asleep. He touches her face. It is wet with tears.

[35]

THE MORNING HE IS to leave, the last morning, comes, as ordinary as any other. They have spent the night together. Dean watches her move about the room, dressing. There is very little to say. Everything is helplessly quiet, unreal. Things seem artificial, actions which are necessary but completely dry. He takes her to work—the town is just stirring—and they park for a few minutes outside. The street is in shadow and quite cool. A few people pass. Finally they say goodbye. Dean starts the car. She stands waiting. He drives off slowly, moving through flats of sunlight that lie along the way. He turns his head. A final wave. The street curves. He is gone.

Suddenly he is driving faster, bursting forth as if from a channel. The air is lucid and sweet. The grey fronts of Autun come alive. On an impulse he stops to buy an orange.

I hear the door open, and he comes in.

“Well…” he finally says.

He sits down. He seems filled with resignation. Then he gets up again.