The History Man

incest, practising wife-exchange, performing rites of circumcision, potlatching, as Flora enters their clearing or their longhouse or their living-room and asks, notebook in hand, 'How's the family?' It is a serious and searching question about the universe; and, Flora is seeking a universal answer. For Flora is famous for questions. When she is not in her service flat in the leafy suburb, or out in the world on fieldwork, she is to be found at meetings and congresses, in small halls in London or Zurich; here she habitually sits in a left-hand aisle seat near the front and, the paper over, rises first, a pencil held high for attention, to ask the initial and most devastating question ('I'd hoped to bring evidence to show the entire inadequacy of this approach. Happily the speaker has, presumably unconsciously, performed the task for me in the paper itself. As for my question…) Flora, it is widely known, wherever she goes, is formidable, with her dark serious eyes, her firm manner, her big, intimidating body. And as for her more intimate relationships, well, it sometimes seems to Howard, when he lies, on the happy occasions when the privilege has been granted to him, on her moving bed in her large white bedroom, that Flora has reinvested fornication, an occupation at which she is in fact extremely skilled and able, with new purpose and significance. She has conceived of it as a tactical-advance on the traditional psychiatrist's couch; permitting more revelation, more intimacies, it therefore leads, inevitably, to better questions. So he looks up at her serious face, peering at him over his bent arm; he considers; he says, 'Well, of course, it's the old story.'

'Oh, Howard,' says Flora, 'I want a new story. Which old story?'

'Well, when I'm up, Barbara's down,' says Howard, 'and vice versa.'

'When you're up who, Barbara's down on whom?' asks Flora. 'Flora, you're coarse,' says Howard. 'No, not really,' says Flora. 'And Barbara's down now?'

'Well, I'm up,' says Howard. 'Things are happening to me.'

'You ought to watch Barbara,' says Flora. 'Oh, it's the usual things,' says Howard. 'We battle on, emissaries of the male and female cause. Barbara says: 'Pass the salt.' And then, if I pass it, she smirks. Another win for the sisters over the brothers.'

'Marriage,' says Flora, 'the most advanced form of warfare in the modern world. But of course you usually pass the pepper.' Howard laughs and says: 'I do.'

'By accident,' says Flora. 'Oh, Flora,' says Howard, 'you should have married. You'd be so good at it.' The bed heaves; Flora pushes herself up from her place against Howard, and sits in the bed with her knees up, her hair loose, the bedside lights glowing on her flesh and casting sharp shadow. 'Isn't it amazing?' she says, reaching across to the table at her side, and picking up a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, 'Why is it that married people always say 'Come in' when everything they do says 'Get out'? They talk about their miseries and then ask you why you're unmarried. No, Howard, I prefer to stand on the sidelines and watch. I really find it much safer.' Howard laughs; he reaches out, and runs his hand round the curve of Flora's breast. 'It has its compensations,' says Howard. 'You're never lonely.'

'I know you aren't, Howard,' says Flora, 'but it seems to me that you've demonstrated that the main compensation of marriage is that you can commit adultery. A somewhat perverse argument.'

Flora bends her head, and lights her cigarette; she looks down slyly at Howard. 'Well, have you found out?' she asks. 'Found out what?' asks Howard. 'Who Barbara was with last night?'

'I don't know that she was with anybody,' says Howard. 'I've told you,' says Flora, 'you ought to take an interest in Barbara.'

'Have you found out?' asks Howard. 'No, I've not had time,' says Flora, 'but I think I can make an inspired guess.'

'Your guesses are always inspired,' says Howard. 'It's not serious,' says Flora, 'just something interesting. You mustn't try her with it.'

'I won't,' says Howard. 'You know, I sometimes wonder whether you have anything else to think about besides the fornication's of your friends.'

'I pay attention,' says Flora, 'but, after all, it's my research. Sex and families.'

'An interesting field,' says Howard, 'rather better than Christadelphianism in Wakefield.'

'Look,' says Flora, 'do you want to know my guess?'

'Yes, please,' says Howard, flat on his back. 'Dr Macintosh,' says Flora. 'A man gets very competitive when his wife's having a baby.' Howard stares at her face, lit with amusement; he says, 'That's marvellous, Flora. Though actually his wife seems not to be having a baby.'

'Oh, she's tantalizing him with it, she'll have one in the end,' says Flora. 'But I mean, what else can a man do at a time like that, except go to bed with the hostess of the party she's so wilfully chosen to leave?'

'Of course, nothing,' says Howard. 'It's a very interesting speculation.'

'Not to be used or quoted, of course,' says Flora. 'I didn't say it was true. Barbara was probably out of sight having a bath or something.'

'I must say,' says Howard, 'you're very good at making life sound interesting.'

'Well, we both are, aren't we?' asks Flora. 'Presumably for fear it may not be.'

'Oh, it is,' says Howard. 'There's always something or someone to do.'

'But don't you ever find it too much work, Howard?' asks Flora, 'All this dressing and undressing, all these undistinguished climaxes, all this chasing for more of the same, is it really, really, worth the effort?'

'Of course,' says Howard. 'Well, you, Howard,' says Flora, 'who did you screw last night?'

Howard laughs and says, 'Well, Flora, it's awfully personal.' Flora turns her face toward him: she says, 'My God, what kind of an answer is that? Where would the state of modern psychological knowledge be if Dora had said to Freud: 'I'm sorry, Sigmund, it's awfully personal.''

'Oh, Freud deduced,' says Howard. 'Ah, well, so did I, of course,' says Flora. 'It was that student, wasn't it?'

'Which student?' asks Howard. 'Oh, Howard, come on,' says Flora, puffing at the cigarette, 'Felicity someone, the one with spots. The one who came into your room this morning for morning-after recompense.'

'Another inspired guess,' says Howard. 'No,' says Flora, 'this one was absolutely bloody obvious. I never saw two people who looked more as if they'd just jumped off each other. She felt entitled to a new role, you felt compelled to resist it.'

'Flora,' says Howard, 'you're jealous.'

'My God,' says Flora, flicking ash into an ashtray, 'I don't suffer from these female diseases. Why do you need me to be jealous? So that you can believe I care for you much more than I do?' Howard laughs and says, 'You do care for me, Flora. And you sounded jealous.'

'Oh, no,' says Flora, 'I sounded disgusted. You drift off and screw that scrawny, undistinguished girl, whom you could have had at any time, day or night, just when all those interesting things were going on. It shows a shameful lack of concern in the human lot.'

'She had her problems, too,' says Howard. 'Well, of course, she'd have to have,' says Flora, 'but what were her problems, compared to the kind of problems you'd got at your party last night? How did you get on with Henry?'

'Get on with Henry when?' asks Howard. 'You know,' says Flora, 'when you grabbed him and took him off, after the meeting, so you could get to him before I did. Just now.'

'So-so,' says Howard. 'He took me to his local. It's got a barmaid in a bustle. Henry goes there every night to gird his loins before going home to the marital fray.'

'That's sensible enough,' says Flora, 'but did he tell you what happened last night?'

'He said it was an accident,' says Howard. 'He said he'd slipped on a piece of ice someone dropped from a drink.'

'I didn't see any ice at your party.'

'No,' says Howard, 'there wasn't any.' Flora laughs, and looks satisfied. She says, 'Oh, Howard, how sad. It's the typical story of those who show a true concern for others. You try to convince them that there are serious psychological factors at work in their situation, and all they can do is talk about chances and accidents.'

Howard looks up at Flora, her elbows on her knees, her face staring ahead at the windows, blowing smoke. 'Well,' he says, 'he did begin to agree with me, with us, later.'

'Oh, did he?' asks Flora, glancing at him. 'Yes,' says Howard, 'after I told him that Myra wanted to leave him.' Flora's big naked body heaves and moves; the bed bounces; her face appears above his, staring down into his eyes. 'After you told him what?' she cries. 'After I told him Myra had come to us last night and talked about a separation,' says Howard. 'Oh, you shit, you shit, you shit,' says Flora, shaking Howard's arms with