was I. I had to force myself not to look away. A few weeks ago I’d been nudging a boner against her and she’d been sort of nudging back, the two of us holding this thing between us like an apple in some birthday game. Then she’d betrayed me and snubbed me. Now what?
I could see her decide to brazen it out. She said something to the other girl and came down the aisle, steadying herself on the seatbacks, long camel overcoat swaying to the rhythmic sideways lurch of the train. She was a redhead with beautifully arched eyebrows and pouty lips, her pale forehead faintly stippled with acne scars. When she talked to you she leaned back and narrowed her eyes as if sizing you up. She stopped beside me and asked where I was going, and when I said Baltimore she wondered if I knew some friend of hers who lived there.
I repeated the name thoughtfully, then said no, I didn’t think I knew her.
Well, you should, Rain said. She’s stupendous great fun. I’ll tell her to look out for you.
Terrific.
She dropped her cigarette and ground it out, her leg flashing forward from the pleats of her skirt. She had on black stockings. Then she glanced back at her friend. Well, she said—Oh, don’t tell me! She plucked the novel off my lap. Do not tell me you’re reading this book!
It seemed useless to deny it.
She flipped through the pages, then stopped and began to read. Oh, God, she said, and went on reading long enough for her friend to look impatient. I waited, smiling idiotically. Dominique is my spirit guide, Rain said. You know what I mean?
Well, sure, I said. Absolutely.
Roark too, she said, but in a different way. I have a
completely
different thing with Roark. I’m not even going to try to describe that.
I know what you mean, I said, then added, Probably like what I have with Dominique.
Her friend called out and jerked her head toward the next car. Rain held the book out, then pulled it back. Can I borrow it? I don’t have a
thing
to read.
No. Afraid not.
Please? Then, in a low voice: Pretty please?
No. Sorry.
She looked at me in that measuring way of hers. Maybe she was wondering whether I would take the book by force if I had to. She came up with the right answer.
Okay,
she said, and handed it over.
Rain hadn’t bothered to close the book. I glanced over the pages she’d been reading and found this exchange between Dominique and Roark:
I want to be owned, not by a lover, but by an adversary who will destroy my victory over him, not with honorable blows, but with the touch of his body on mine. That is what I want of you, Roark. That is what I am. You wanted to hear it all. You’ve heard it. What do you wish to say now?
Take off your clothes.
I read without stopping until we pulled into New York, where I took an empty bench in the station and went back to the book as my schoolmates played the fool around me. One boy had gotten plastered on the train and was puking into an ashtray, and a couple others were pretending to be drunk. What sheep!
It was dark when I boarded the train to Baltimore. Now and then I stopped reading to study my reflection in the window.
His face was like a law of nature—a thing one could not question, alter, or implore. It had high cheekbones over gaunt, hollow cheeks; gray eyes, cold and steady; a contemptuous mouth, shut tight, the mouth of an executioner or a saint.
My cheeks weren’t hollow and my eyes weren’t gray, but my mouth surely tightened with contempt over the next weeks as I read and re-read
The Fountainhead
and considered how shabbily this world treats a man who is strong and great, simply
because
he’s strong and great. A man like the architect Howard Roark, who refuses to change even one angle of a design to advance his career and who, when his finest work—a housing project—is secretly modified during construction, goes there and personally dynamites the whole thing to smithereens rather than let people live in such mongrelized spaces. His genius is not for
I could see her decide to brazen it out. She said something to the other girl and came down the aisle, steadying herself on the seatbacks, long camel overcoat swaying to the rhythmic sideways lurch of the train. She was a redhead with beautifully arched eyebrows and pouty lips, her pale forehead faintly stippled with acne scars. When she talked to you she leaned back and narrowed her eyes as if sizing you up. She stopped beside me and asked where I was going, and when I said Baltimore she wondered if I knew some friend of hers who lived there.
I repeated the name thoughtfully, then said no, I didn’t think I knew her.
Well, you should, Rain said. She’s stupendous great fun. I’ll tell her to look out for you.
Terrific.
She dropped her cigarette and ground it out, her leg flashing forward from the pleats of her skirt. She had on black stockings. Then she glanced back at her friend. Well, she said—Oh, don’t tell me! She plucked the novel off my lap. Do not tell me you’re reading this book!
It seemed useless to deny it.
She flipped through the pages, then stopped and began to read. Oh, God, she said, and went on reading long enough for her friend to look impatient. I waited, smiling idiotically. Dominique is my spirit guide, Rain said. You know what I mean?
Well, sure, I said. Absolutely.
Roark too, she said, but in a different way. I have a
completely
different thing with Roark. I’m not even going to try to describe that.
I know what you mean, I said, then added, Probably like what I have with Dominique.
Her friend called out and jerked her head toward the next car. Rain held the book out, then pulled it back. Can I borrow it? I don’t have a
thing
to read.
No. Afraid not.
Please? Then, in a low voice: Pretty please?
No. Sorry.
She looked at me in that measuring way of hers. Maybe she was wondering whether I would take the book by force if I had to. She came up with the right answer.
Okay,
she said, and handed it over.
Rain hadn’t bothered to close the book. I glanced over the pages she’d been reading and found this exchange between Dominique and Roark:
I want to be owned, not by a lover, but by an adversary who will destroy my victory over him, not with honorable blows, but with the touch of his body on mine. That is what I want of you, Roark. That is what I am. You wanted to hear it all. You’ve heard it. What do you wish to say now?
Take off your clothes.
I read without stopping until we pulled into New York, where I took an empty bench in the station and went back to the book as my schoolmates played the fool around me. One boy had gotten plastered on the train and was puking into an ashtray, and a couple others were pretending to be drunk. What sheep!
It was dark when I boarded the train to Baltimore. Now and then I stopped reading to study my reflection in the window.
His face was like a law of nature—a thing one could not question, alter, or implore. It had high cheekbones over gaunt, hollow cheeks; gray eyes, cold and steady; a contemptuous mouth, shut tight, the mouth of an executioner or a saint.
My cheeks weren’t hollow and my eyes weren’t gray, but my mouth surely tightened with contempt over the next weeks as I read and re-read
The Fountainhead
and considered how shabbily this world treats a man who is strong and great, simply
because
he’s strong and great. A man like the architect Howard Roark, who refuses to change even one angle of a design to advance his career and who, when his finest work—a housing project—is secretly modified during construction, goes there and personally dynamites the whole thing to smithereens rather than let people live in such mongrelized spaces. His genius is not for
Similar Books
