were. You're not the man you never were.”The argument had resonance. It had levels, memories. It referred to other arguments, to cities, houses, rooms, those wasted lessons, our history in words. In a way, our special way, we were discussing matters close to the center of what it meant to be a couple, to share that risk and distance. The pain of separation, the fore-memory of death. Moments of remembering her, Kathryn dead, odd meditations, pity the sad survivor. Everything we said denied this. We were intent on being petty. But it was there, a desperate love, the conscious hovering sum of things. It was part of the argument. It was the argument.We walked the rest of the way in silence and she went in to check on Tap, who was sleeping. Then we sat on the terrace and began immediately to whisper at each other.'Where will he go to school?”'Back on that, are we?”'Back on that, back on that.”'He's way ahead of them. He can start a little later if necessary. But it won't be necessary. We'll work it out.”'He's not so way ahead. I don't think he's way ahead.”'You distrust his writing. Something in you recoils from that. You think he ought to be diagramming sentences.”'You're crazy, you know that? I'm beginning to see.”'Admit it.”'Why did it take me so long to see what you are.”'What am I?”'What are you.”'You enjoy telling me that you know how I think. How do I think? What am I?”'What are you.”'I feel things. I have self-respect. I love my son.”'Where does that come from? Who asked? You feel things. You feel things when they're in your interest. You feel things when they further your drive, your will to do something.”'Ass of the universe.”'Pure will. Where's the heart?”'Where's the liver?' she said.'I don't know why I came here. It was crazy, thinking something might come of it. Did I forget who you are, how you consider the simplest things people say and do an affront to your destiny? You have that, you know. A sense of personal destiny, like some German in the movies.”'What's that mean?”'I don't know.”'What movie, ass?”'Come to my room. Come on, let's go to the hotel, right now.”'Whisper,' she said.'Don't make me hate myself, Kathryn.”'You'll wake him up. Whisper.”'I'm fucking pissed off. How can I whisper?”'We've had that argument.' Bored.'You make me hate us both.”'That's an old tired argument.' Bored. The worst remarks were bored ones. The best weapons. Bored sarcasm, bored wit, bored tones.'But what about Frank? We haven't had that argument in a while, have we? How is it he just happened to drop by? Did he want to talk over old times?”She was laughing. What was she laughing at?'What a pair, you two. The ragged self-regarding artist, the secretly well-to-do young woman. How many intimate little lunches did you and Frank have while I was doing my booklets and pamphlets? All those diminutive things I was so good at. That minor status you hated so much and still hate in me. What sexy currents passed in the air? Buddy-buddy. Did he ask you up to one of those dreary flats he was always holed up in? He spent half his life looking for bottle openers in other people's kitchens. Did that make it sleazier, sexier? Did you talk about your father's money? No, that would have made him hate you. That would have made him want to fuck you in all the wrong ways, so to speak. And what about Owen, the way you look out for his interests, his curious interests, that half-flirtish thing that comes over you.' I went into my female voice routine, a tactic I hadn't used since the recitation of the 27 Depravities. 'Are you sure, Owen honey, you never wrote a single line of poetry when you were a lonely farmboy under that big prairie sky?”'Fobuck yobou.”'That's right.”'You stupid.”'That's right. Bilingual.”'You're just shit.”'Whisper, whisper.”She went inside. I decided to follow, feeling my way in the dark. Soft noise, a light around the corner. She was in the bathroom, pants down, seated, when I moved into the doorway. She tried to kick at the door, one arm flailing, but her legs were caught in the jeans and the arm wasn't long enough. Water music. Too urgent to be contained.'What were you laughing at before?”'Out.”'I want to know.”'If you don't get out.”'Say it in Ob.”'You bastard.”'Would you like a magazine?”'If you don't go. If you don't get out.”The argument worked in such a way that we kept losing the sequence. It moved backwards at times, then advanced abruptly, passing over subjects. There were frequent changes in mood. Moods lasted only seconds. Bored, self-righteous, injured. These injured moments were so sadly gratifying that we tried to prolong them. The argument was full of satisfactions, the major one being that we did not have to examine what we said.'It lacks intrepidness.”'Get out.”'You'll build a reed boat.”'James, son of a bitch, I want you out of here.”'You'll live in a gas balloon that circles the earth. A seven-story balloon with ferns in the lobby.”'I'm serious now. If you don't get out. I really mean this.”'You'll take him to the Museum of Holes. So he'll have a better understanding of your life work. Dirt holes, mud holes, tall holes, short holes.”'You bastard, I'll get you for this.”'Pee pee pee pee pee pee pee.”'You stupid.”'Don't you realize that as long as you have to sit down to pee, you'll never be a dominant force in the world? You'll never be a convincing technocrat or middle manager. Because people will know. She's in there
The terrace was L-shaped. From the longer of the segments, the east, where I sat doing a pronoun exercise in my book on modern Greek, I saw a familiar figure in red shorts and t-shirt go running across the street and along the restaurant wall, where he passed quickly from sight, the first of two familiar figures I would see that day.It was David Keller, toning up. I put down the book, delighted to have an excuse to do so. Then I went outside and headed up through a small dusty park toward the pine woods that form a band around Lycabettus Hill. As I walked through the opening in the fence I heard my name called. Lindsay was behind me, also tracking the runner.We walked into the woods and found a path that looked as though it might suit someone running, being set at less of a lateral slant than the others. The pine floor was dry and pale. There were no shrubs or bushes and it was possible to see a fair distance up into the woods.'Why does he come all the way up here to run?”'He likes the woods. Someone told him it's better to run on rough terrain.”'A milder heart attack.”'He was serious about sports. He needs to hear himself breathe, he says. He was football, basketball crazy.”'The dogs will get him in here.”'Dogs like him,' she said.She walked lazily, swaying, hands clasped behind her. From an opening in the trees we saw part of the sprawl toward Hymettus, white buildings, a white city in this September sun. She seemed often to be thinking some amusing thought, perhaps something so nearly inseparable from a private perception she could not share it easily. She was shy with people but eager to receive, never wary or distrustful. Her eyes were full of humor, fond remembering. Her favorite stories concerned men making fools of themselves heroically.'I like it here. It's so still.”'He has a kind of shagginess. As far as dogs.”'They really do. They follow him.”We saw him coming back this way, pounding crookedly on the narrow path, dancing over tree roots and stones. We stepped out of the way. He went past grunting, breath blasting, his face twisted and stretched, looking unfinished. We found a crude bench in the
