A Sport and a Pastime (7 page)

He goes down to park the car. Finding a place is difficult. He cruises along the narrow streets. He doesn’t want to just leave it in a driveway. When he comes back, she is combing her hair. Except for a pair of the cheap, black panties one finds on the counters in Monoprix, she is naked. She smiles at him, a little stiffly, a little uncertain.

The water is running. In the bathroom he turns her around admiringly. She is very complaisant with all her clothes off. She moves readily to his touch. She’s quite beautiful. Slim. A bit of dark hair between her legs. They stand beneath the shower. He nestles himself flat in the meeting of her buttocks. An excruciating
douche
. He feels unable to move, but he begins to soap her breasts which glisten like seals beneath the flow of water. He scrubs her back. Between the shoulder blades the skin is broken out in small, red points. He goes over them with the cloth. It’s good for them, he tells her. Aureate light is reflected from the ceiling. He has a hard-on he is sure will never disappear.

He has wrapped her in an enormous towel, soft as a robe, and carried her to the bed. They lie across it diagonally, and he begins to draw the towel apart with care, to remove it as if it were a bandage. Her flesh appears, still smelling a little of soap. His hands float onto her. The sum of small acts begins to unite them, the pure calculus of love. He feels himself enter. Her last breath–it is almost a sigh–leaves her. Her white throat appears.

When it is over she falls asleep without a word. Dean lies beside her. The real France, he is thinking. The real France. He is lost in it, in the smell of the very sheets. The next morning they do it again. Grey light, it’s very early. Her breath is bad.

I cannot follow them through the city that day, through the December streets, avenues as bitter as the steppes. They have only a little money, I know that. They shop all afternoon and buy nothing. Then, tired of walking, they return to the hotel. Dean has to go on an errand–he needs a part for the car, he explains. Actually it’s a visit to the Vendôme where his father is staying. He needs money.

“Money? My boy, certain large banks excepted, that is the single great need common to us all.”

He’s a drama critic. He has a fine, sable beard, carefully trimmed. His clothes are always beautiful. He is wearing a blue, batiste shirt that seems not to touch him anywhere except at the neck and wrists which he is buttoning, a shirt that encircles him with an elegant slimness.

“Money,” he says. “Of course. I share that need. Listen, are you coming to dinner with us?”

He is dressing to go out with friends. They’re all very clever. Long, amusing stories, usually irreverent. The women are as witty as the men. Saturday evening. The small cups are refilled with coffee. The Gauloise smoke ascends.

On the chair there are phonograph records. On the desk, fresh books. On the bureau, three leather watch-bands bought that day in Hermés. His father shoots his cuffs with a slight, habitual gesture and turns to the mirror. The room is filled with the scent of his lotion, Zizanie, which comes in cool aluminum bottles. Only his luggage seems worn.

“Jacquette is going to be there, you haven’t met him. And Yeli Ezoum.” He unrolls names like a splendid carpet.

“I can’t tonight,” Dean says.

“What is it, a girl? Let me see you. You look a little drawn.”

“There isn’t any girl.”

“We’re going to the Vert Bocage.”

Dean is silent. Desperation is making him weak.

“Now, Phillip,” his father says, “come on. This is really like climbing a ladder. Let’s go up one rung at a time. First, why can’t you join us for dinner?”

“Please. I can’t.”

“I see.”

“I really need to borrow some money.” It seems too abrupt.

“Oh, that’s about four or five rungs farther up.”

“Seriously…”

“Call me tomorrow,” his father says, “and we’ll have lunch.”

“Tomorrow…”

“All right?”

“But I need it now,” Dean pleads. He is praying.

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“That’s too late,” he says stubbornly.

“Oh, come now,” his father makes it seem foolish. He is brushing the sleeves of his jacket. “Don’t become so absolutely tedious. Here,” and from his wallet he takes out three hundred francs.

“Now, why is it you can’t come to dinner?”

For a moment Dean thinks crazily of bringing her along. Her clothes are so cheap though. The leather of her shoes is cracked. It would be awful. They would greet her with indulgent smiles, ask little questions.

“I really can’t,” he says.

When he gets back, finally, he finds her asleep. He lifts the edge of the covers. She is naked. He pulls off his shoes and undresses. He lies down beside her, and she rolls into his arms. Seven in the evening. The noise from the streets drifts upwards. The soft hours of early night. He reaches for the pack of
préservatifs
on the telephone stand, but she takes hold of his wrist.

“You don’t need to,” she says.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He is overwhelmed. As his prick goes into her, he discovers the world. He knows the source of numbers, the path of the stars. Music pouring over them from somewhere, ah, from her white plastic radio. She’s put a hand towel beneath her, and it becomes bloody. He finds it later. He packs it secretly when they leave.

On Sunday they walk the bridges and sometime in the early afternoon, leave town.

That night he tells me about it, not everything, of course. I’m so happy to see him, to have him confiding in me, that I miss a lot. He’s worn out from the drive. In the street, dark as a ship’s hull, the car is parked. The engine is still warm. Beneath the chilled body there’s a faint cracking, as of joints. In the house we sit shivering. The walls are like steel. We go down to the Foy for some hot tea and cognac. By this time he’s talking of other things–where to eat cheaply–I don’t remember. I am hardly listening. I hear only enough to keep track of what he’s saying while my real thoughts circle around us like hungry dogs.

[10]

W
HAT HAD HAPPENED?
T
HEY
had gone off and made love. That isn’t so rare. One must expect to encounter it. It’s nothing but a sweet accident, perhaps just the end of illusion. In a sense one can say it’s harmless, but why, then, beneath everything does one feel so apart? Isolated. Murderous, even.

In a way I could calmly expect that from this point they would begin, having discovered all there was so soon, to lose interest in each other, to grow cold, but these acts are sometimes merely an introduction–in the great, carnal duets I think they must often be–and I search for the exact ciphers which serve to open it all as if for a safe combination. I rearrange events and make up phrases to reveal how the first innocence changed into long Sunday mornings, the bells filling the air, pillows jammed under her belly, her marvelous behind high in the daylight. Dean slowly inserts himself, deep as a sword wound.

I prefer not to think about it, I turn away, but it’s impossible to control these dreams. The forbidden ones are incandescent–they burn through resolutions like cloth. I cannot stop them even if I want to. I cannot make them vanish. They are brighter than the day that surrounds me. I am weary from it. I have become a somnambulist. My own life suddenly seems nothing, an old costume, a collection of rags, and I walk, I breathe to the rhythm of his which is stronger than mine. The world is all changed. The scabs of reality are picked away and beneath them, though I try not to see, are visions which cause me to tremble.

In her room they are warming their hands at the heater. She’s tired. Her work that day was hard. He undresses her, a little awkwardly, for she is still far from being his–one can imagine her still refusing–and puts her to bed. Above the thick quilt her face shines like a child’s. He stands looking at her, filled with contentment. They say nothing. He adjusts the covers, which are somewhat soiled, smooths them down. Then hurriedly, as an afterthought, he takes off his clothes and slips in beside her. An act which threatens us all. The town is silent around them. On the milk-white faces of the clock the hands, in unison, jerk to new positions. The trains are running on time. Along the empty streets, yellow headlights of a car occasionally pass and bells mark the hours, the quarters, the halves. With a touch like flowers, she is gently tracing the base of his cock, driven by now all the way into her, touching his balls, and beginning to writhe slowly beneath him in a sort of obedient rebellion while in his own dream he rises a little and defines the moist rim of her cunt with his finger, and as he does, he comes like a bull. They remain close for a long time, still without talking. It is these exchanges which cement them, that is the terrible thing. These atrocities induce them towards love.

I hear him come in. I am reading. I appear to be. Henry the Fourth is beautifying Paris, building the Place Royale, the Pont-Neuf. I keep going over the same lines again and again. I can tell what has happened, but I cannot bring myself to say anything. Nothing. I am possessed of nothing but phrases as heavy as logs.

[11]

I
T IS ALL IN
fragments, like the half of a paper napkin–for a time in the top drawer of his bureau–on which they both had written words. There are two columns, and I can see they were added to alternately, like a game. His is on the left. It begins with
Croix de Fer
. Opposite, in her hand:
Les Martiens
. He writes
Les Escaliers
. She writes
Le Select
. They are naming a hotel, the one they will have together someday. Dean can get the money, he says–his father knows everybody. His father has rich friends. The list continues:

and the bottom is missing, like a letter torn apart on the wet street.

It is in Nancy, in the hotel on the square. A bright December afternoon. In the center of everything, the statue of Stanislas, traces of old snow at his feet, his green arm pointing to the barren park. They are ushered into the silence of a room on the side. She is happy. It is the weekend. They have wandered along the street in the great, plain-faced crowd, and she has seen a leather suit that costs 130 francs which she imagines he may buy for her. She was wearing a black fur hat. Every eye followed when she walked.

The radio is playing. They undress in the winter daylight. Dean is a little embarrassed at his condition. His prick gets hard whenever he looks at her. He can’t help it. His chief desire is to raise her on it, exultant, to run her up into the sunshine, into the starlight where she can see the world. They begin to dance a little, naked, in the early darkness, the music thin and foreign, their feet bare on the rug. Then they make love, she astride him, in the favorite manner of the Roman poets, as he informs her. He lies gazing up at her, his hands encircling her ankles. The rich smell of her falls over him. At the bottom of it all, his eyes lingering there, the mute triangle in which he is implanted.

“Do you think you will remember me in five years?” she asks him at dinner.

He tries to smile, but it’s dry. He is empty, with no desire to talk about love.

“You will go,” she says. “You are the type.”

“No.”

“
Si
,” she insists calmly.

By now they know something of each other. There is a fund they can draw on together. The encounter begins to have an essence of its own which neither can define but which nourishes them both, and happily, in the single unselfish ritual of love, they contribute to it all they can. Nor does it matter how much either takes away. It is a limitless body. It can never be exhausted but only, although one never believes this, forgot.

They are served a dish piled high with
écrevisses
, salty, pale. The tiny legs crack like dry wood under their teeth. The hidden juices spurt. She wants to know what they are called. Dean isn’t sure. Crayfish, he says.

“Crayfish?”

“I think so,” he says.

She invents a story: The Prince of Crayfish. Dean listens, licking his fingers while she unfolds, as if to a child, a tale filled with mysteries.

Deep down
,
where it is only darkness
,
the prince of crayfish was born
.
It was very difficult
.
It took a long time because his feet kept getting tangled up with his mother’s
,
but finally he was swimming
,
a little weakly
,
by her side
.
From all over the sea important fish came to bring him presents: necklaces of coral
,
little monies to eat
,
seaweed to lie on
,
green and black
…

He is watching her mouth, her clever eyes. Her teeth are a bad color and not well cared for. One can see that when she smiles, but he is only watching the phrases, he hardly notices.

When he was six months old
,
he said to his mother: I am going up to see the world
.
Ah
,
she was very sad
.
She cried
.
She didn’t want
,
but then she said: God be with you
,
my dear son
.
Be brave and honest and no hurt will
…

“Befall you,” Dean supplies, as if in a dream.

“Befall you,” she says, the word funny in her mouth. “No hurt will befall you.”

“Go on,” he says.

“Do you like it?”

“Oh, yes.”

From waters so deep he had to swim for three days before it even began to grow light
,
he makes his way to the surface …