darkness. She was caught in the
contagion of this panic, the transparent film of precious stone trembling, about
to be sucked in by a hidden cyclone.
It was only later that she noticed the
delicately chiseled face, the small nose, the mouth modeled by gentleness,
unrelated to the deeper disturbance of the eyes, a very young man’s mouth, a
pure design on the face not yet enslaved by his feelings. These feelings not
yet known to him, had not yet acid-bitten through his body. His gestures were
free and nimble, the gestures of an adolescent, restless and light. The eyes
alone contained all the fever.
He had driven his bicycle like a racing car or
an airplane.
He had come down upon her as if he did not see
trees, cars, people, and almost overlooked the stop signal.
To free herself of the shock his eyes had given
her she sought to diminish their power by thinking: “They are just beautiful
eyes, they are just passionate eyes, young men rarely have such passionate
eyes, they are just more alive than other eyes.” But no sooner had she said
this to herself to exorcise his spell than a deeper instinct in her added: “He
has seen something other young men have not seen.”
The red light changed to green; he gave a wild
spurt to his pedaling, so swift that she had no time to step on the curb, then
just as wildly he stopped and asked her the way to the beach in a breathless
voice which seemed to miss a beat. The voice matched the eyes as his tan,
healthy, smooth skin did not.
The tone in which he asked directions was as if
the beach were a shelter to which he was speeding away from grave dangers.
He was no handsomer than the other young men
she had seen in the place, but his eyes left a memory and stirred in her a wild
rebellion against the place. With bitter irony she remembered ruins she had
seen in Guatemala, and an American visitor saying: “I hate ruins, I hate
dilapidation, tombs.” But this new town at the beach was infinitely more static
and more disintegrated than the ancient ruins. The clouds of monotony,
uniformity, which hung over the new, neat mansions, the impeccable lawns, the
dustless garden furniture. The men and women at the beach, all in one
dimension, without any magnetism to bring them together, zombies of
civilization, in elegant dress with dead eyes.
Why was she here? Waiting for Alan to end his
work, Alan who had promised to come. But the longing for other places kept her
awake.
She walked and collided against a sign which
read: “This is the site of the most costly church on Long Island.”
She walked. At midnight the town was deserted.
Everyone was at home with bottles from which they hoped to extract a gaiety bottled
elsewhere.
“It’s the kind of drinking one does at wakes,”
thought Sabina, looking into the bars, where limp figures clutched at bottles
containing oblivion.
At one o’clock she looked for a drug store to
buy sleeping pills. They were closed. She walked. At two o’clock she was worn
out but still tormented by a place which refused to have feasts on the street,
dances, fireworks, orgies of guitars, marimbas, shouts of delight, tournaments
of poetry and courtships.
At three o’clock she swung towards the beach to
ask the moon why she had allowed one of her night children to become so lost in
a place long ago deprived of human life.
A car stopped beside her, and a very tall,
white-haired Irish policeman addressed her courteously.
“Can I give you a lift home?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” said Sabina. “I was looking
for a drug store to buy sleeping pills, or aspirin. They’re all closed. I was
trying to walk until I felt sleepy…”
“Boy trouble?” he said, his white-haired head
very gallantly held with a suave rectitude which did not come from his
policeman’s training but from some deeper pride in rectitude itself as the
image of man’s erotic pride.
But the words so inadequate that they inhibited
whatever she would have liked to confide in him, for fear of
contagion of this panic, the transparent film of precious stone trembling, about
to be sucked in by a hidden cyclone.
It was only later that she noticed the
delicately chiseled face, the small nose, the mouth modeled by gentleness,
unrelated to the deeper disturbance of the eyes, a very young man’s mouth, a
pure design on the face not yet enslaved by his feelings. These feelings not
yet known to him, had not yet acid-bitten through his body. His gestures were
free and nimble, the gestures of an adolescent, restless and light. The eyes
alone contained all the fever.
He had driven his bicycle like a racing car or
an airplane.
He had come down upon her as if he did not see
trees, cars, people, and almost overlooked the stop signal.
To free herself of the shock his eyes had given
her she sought to diminish their power by thinking: “They are just beautiful
eyes, they are just passionate eyes, young men rarely have such passionate
eyes, they are just more alive than other eyes.” But no sooner had she said
this to herself to exorcise his spell than a deeper instinct in her added: “He
has seen something other young men have not seen.”
The red light changed to green; he gave a wild
spurt to his pedaling, so swift that she had no time to step on the curb, then
just as wildly he stopped and asked her the way to the beach in a breathless
voice which seemed to miss a beat. The voice matched the eyes as his tan,
healthy, smooth skin did not.
The tone in which he asked directions was as if
the beach were a shelter to which he was speeding away from grave dangers.
He was no handsomer than the other young men
she had seen in the place, but his eyes left a memory and stirred in her a wild
rebellion against the place. With bitter irony she remembered ruins she had
seen in Guatemala, and an American visitor saying: “I hate ruins, I hate
dilapidation, tombs.” But this new town at the beach was infinitely more static
and more disintegrated than the ancient ruins. The clouds of monotony,
uniformity, which hung over the new, neat mansions, the impeccable lawns, the
dustless garden furniture. The men and women at the beach, all in one
dimension, without any magnetism to bring them together, zombies of
civilization, in elegant dress with dead eyes.
Why was she here? Waiting for Alan to end his
work, Alan who had promised to come. But the longing for other places kept her
awake.
She walked and collided against a sign which
read: “This is the site of the most costly church on Long Island.”
She walked. At midnight the town was deserted.
Everyone was at home with bottles from which they hoped to extract a gaiety bottled
elsewhere.
“It’s the kind of drinking one does at wakes,”
thought Sabina, looking into the bars, where limp figures clutched at bottles
containing oblivion.
At one o’clock she looked for a drug store to
buy sleeping pills. They were closed. She walked. At two o’clock she was worn
out but still tormented by a place which refused to have feasts on the street,
dances, fireworks, orgies of guitars, marimbas, shouts of delight, tournaments
of poetry and courtships.
At three o’clock she swung towards the beach to
ask the moon why she had allowed one of her night children to become so lost in
a place long ago deprived of human life.
A car stopped beside her, and a very tall,
white-haired Irish policeman addressed her courteously.
“Can I give you a lift home?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” said Sabina. “I was looking
for a drug store to buy sleeping pills, or aspirin. They’re all closed. I was
trying to walk until I felt sleepy…”
“Boy trouble?” he said, his white-haired head
very gallantly held with a suave rectitude which did not come from his
policeman’s training but from some deeper pride in rectitude itself as the
image of man’s erotic pride.
But the words so inadequate that they inhibited
whatever she would have liked to confide in him, for fear of
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