Read Online I Think of You: Stories by Ahdaf Soueif - Free Book Online Page A

knowing that. Not that you’d think it from the jeans and sweater she was wearing. But then she doesn’t need to bother anymore. He doesn’t mind spending his money on me. He does it like it was the most natural thing in the world. Maybe that’s Eastern too: women being chattels and all that. (Does chattel have anything to do with cattle? Maybe, because the possessions of nomadic peoples would probably be livestock.) I wonder how much of that I really can put up with? It’s fun so far, but it’s only been three weeks. She must have gotten fed up with it, though—and she was born to it.
    Why the hell do I have to keep on thinking about her? I wonder how much he thinks about her? A lot, I’d guess, although he’d never admit it. Admit it? He’d never discuss it even. He’ll maybe answer a straight question, but not always.
    But seeing him with her today was really something: he was like some kid showing off. Showing off to his mom. And playing her up. One minute he’d be all intimate half-smiles and the next he’d be needling her. And she was all serene and beautiful, taking it all. It’s sick if you ask me. Sick. It could have been beautiful: two people—having passed through the Storm That Made Their Marriage and then the Storm That Wrecked It—left with a Deep and Intimate Friendship. But in their case it’s just sick. I don’t know why.
    Wow! I got upset just then.
    Man, I’d go crazy without this journal. I had a smoke and a small Scotch and here I am again. I put everything in here: accounts, observations, fragments, poems (must remember to copy out two written on the Amsterdam–London train), even the days I get my period and the nights I make love.
    Talking of making love, I just went and looked at him as he lay sleeping. He looks so peaceful when he sleeps. Not everyone does. Clark ground his teeth all night. But Saif just turns on his side and curls up like a baby. I’ve laid for hours staring at his back: the color of light caramel candy. Sometimes I’d like to lick it, but I don’t know what he’d think of that. He’s into some kind of Eastern thing he says is called Carezza: it involves him doing things to me very slowly (nothing weird or far-out, just stroking and things) and me doing nothing at all. It’s not a problem since I orgasm at least once each time, but I don’t always see what’s in it for him.
    He’s very cute, though, as well as being rich. Once or twice he’s acted strange—all gloomy and smoky and wouldn’t speak at all—but mostly he’s fun to be with, except I don’t always know if he’s joking or what. He won’t ever talk—I mean, really TALK—about anything personal, but I guess it takes time to build up communication.
    What I’d like to do now is take a photo of him sleeping. The flash would wake him, though, and Ihaven’t got my tripod and his kit is down in the car. I’ll take lots of shots of him tomorrow. Maybe I’ll take a shot of him taking a shot of me. No, that should be a third person really, to make the point: a third person taking a photo of two people, hiding behind their cameras, shooting each other, with the trees and fallen leaves all around them and the lake in the background. It’s so beautiful up here. We’ve just caught the trees before they shed the last of their leaves.
    Well, I guess we’ll have a nice day tomorrow. I don’t know if he will want to go on the lake, but we’ll drive around it and he said there was a neat place in William Wordsworth’s hometown where we could have tea— that means tea and cakes here. I ought to go to bed if I’m going to be in any kind of shape in the morning. But I’m not sleepy. What I’d really like right now is a joint, but I’m fresh out. Okay, what I’ll do is, I’ll copy out these two poems now, then go to bed.
I
A Russian dissident sits across from me in the park.
He must be a dissident because
he’s Russian, and he’s
here
in New York City.
Does he know that Central Park