Read Online Master of Petersburg by J. M. Coetzee - Free Book Online

arms pass the child entirely by?
    He waits for the silence, that will mean Matryona has gone to bed. Instead, at nine o’clock the light next door is extinguished. For half an hour he waits, and another half-hour. Then with a shielded candle, in his stockinged feet, he creeps out. The candle casts huge bobbing shadows. He sets it down on the floor and crosses to the alcove.
    In the dim light he makes out Anna Sergeyevna on the farther side of the bed, her back to him, her arms gracefully above her head like a dancer’s, her dark hair loose. On the near side, curled with her thumb in her mouth and one arm cast loosely over her mother, is Matryona. His immediate impression is that she is awake, watching him, guarding her mother; but when he bends over her, her breathing is deep and even.
    He whispers the name: ‘Anna!’ She does not stir.
    He returns to his room, trying to be calm. There are perfectly sound reasons, he tells himself, why she might prefer to keep to herself tonight. But he is beyond the reach of his own persuading.
    A second time he tiptoes across the room. The two women have not stirred. Again he has the uncanny feeling that Matryona is watching him. He bends closer.
    He is not mistaken: he is staring into open, unblinking eyes. A chill runs through him. She sleeps with her eyes open, he tells himself. But it is not true. She is awake and has been awake all the time; thumb in mouth, she has been watching his every motion with unremitting vigilance. As he peers, holding his breath, the corners of her mouth seem to curve faintly upward in a victorious, bat-like grin. And the arm too, extended loosely over her mother, is like a wing.
    They have one more night together, after which the gate closes. She comes to his room late and without warning. Again, through her, he passes into darkness and into the waters where his son floats among the other drowned. ‘Do not be afraid,’ he wants to whisper, ‘I will be with you, I will divide the bitterness with you.’
    He wakes sprawled across her, his lips to her ear.
    â€˜Do you know where I have been?’ he whispers.
    She eases herself out from under him.
    â€˜Do you know where you took me?’ he whispers.
    There is an urge in him to show the boy off to her, show him in the springtime of his powers, with his flashing eyes and his clear jaw and his handsome mouth. He wants to clothe him again in the white suit, wants the clear, deep voice to be heard again from his chest. ‘See what a treasure is gone from the world!’ he wants to cry out: ‘See what we have lost!’
    She has turned her back to him. His hand strokes her long thigh urgently, up and down. She stops him. ‘I must go,’ she says, and gets up.
    The next night she does not come, but stays with her daughter. He writes her a letter and leaves it on the table. When he gets up in the morning the apartment is empty and the letter still there, unopened.
    He visits the shop. She is at the counter; but as soon as she sees him she slips into the back room, leaving old Yakovlev to attend to him.
    In the evening he is waiting on the street, and follows her home like a footpad. He catches her in the entryway.
    â€˜Why are you avoiding me?’
    â€˜I am not avoiding you.’
    He takes her by the arm. It is dark, she is carrying a basket, she cannot free herself. He presses himself against her, drawing in the walnut scent of her hair. He tries to kiss her, but she turns away and his lips brush her ear. Nothing in the pressure of her body answers to him. Disgrace, he thinks: this is how one enters disgrace.
    He stands aside, but on the stairway catches up with her again. ‘One word more,’ he says: ‘Why?’
    She turns toward him. ‘Isn’t it obvious? Must I spell it out?’
    â€˜What is obvious? Nothing is obvious.’
    â€˜You were suffering. You were pleading.’
    He recoils. ‘That is not the