Read Online On the Blue Train by Kristel Thornell - Free Book Online
Authors: Kristel Thornell
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eyes strangely blank.
Harry’s heartbeat had gone light and harried. As the man’s hand dropped from her neck to her hip, still clutching with brutish force, her dress fell quite from her shoulders. Her cheeks coloured and Harry averted his gaze. The briny fetor of the sea was in his nose, and a perfume—hers, probably—cloyingly floral and somehow low-slung. Looking back, gawking in spite of himself, he saw a shockingly white slip, a lustre of sweat at the start of the dip between her breasts, the olive shine of shoulders.
Should he intervene, call out curtly to the man? But what was he seeing? The woman’s will was not clear to him. What if this were only the half-playful theatrics of lust? Harry’s hesitation made him feel complicit, the brute’s accomplice.
They were kissing now, if that were the word for an act so rough and blurred. Rabidly embracing, though her arms remained limp. Was she responding—or just lethargic, snared?Harry had an uncomfortable, intimate sense of pelvises colliding, of the jutting ridges of hips.
When they withdrew back into the room (who leading or forcing whom?) and the rippled sea gently filled the glass once more, Harry walked on. Sickly, stimulated, alone. The uncertain spectacle had stirred him, he realised, dismayed at his own peculiar disturbance. A husky impetus had awoken in him at the sight of whatever passion or violence he had witnessed. It terrorised him to think that he could be his father’s son, though he had travelled so far. That lodged deep in his nature there might have been the instincts of a bully.
‘So you consider there to be a contradiction’—he was talking to Teresa jumpily—‘between a happy place and a quiet end.’
‘Casablanca?’
He noted her taste for the exotic. He tried to dissipate the mood the memory of Nice had induced in him with silliness. ‘How about jumping off a mountain, or feeding yourself to a large jungle animal?’
‘You’d want to be unconscious before it ate you.’
‘Assuredly.’
Pasture now to one side of them, and beyond it dales with wooded patches. Lavish greens and placid blue-greys.
‘Oh,’ she remarked.
Nearby, a group of hardy cows. Further off, a speckling of sheep. The sky was very clear and cold. Shifting cows, the smell of livestock.
‘What an inviting place,’ she went on meditatively. ‘But is it? The problem with describing a place is that an idea of the place interferes. Like wallpaper covering it over.’
It appeared to him there was something like self-loathing in these words. She had exposed herself, and it was important that he advance with extreme caution—not cause her to recoil. ‘I suspect we’re all blinded by ideas,’ he began. ‘So much for man’s superior intelligence.’ She looked quite bleak. ‘Don’t you think it advisable to have something between us and the world, anyhow? A buffer, some diversions? Dreams, I suppose. The real world tending to be boring, or troublesome and disagreeable.’
‘But if we saw what was real, we might be happier, in the long run. Safer.’
‘Ah. Happiness.’ He was not the man to comment on that. ‘What do you think those cows see, looking around?’
‘They seem content.’
He couldn’t deny it. ‘Grass? Ideas of grass? Is there a difference?’
‘But grass is their reality. People have fanciful ideas that get in the way of reality. Some more than others. Some are purblind.’ She was gazing fiercely straight ahead. ‘Which is really a kind of stupidity. Unforgivable.’
Harry didn’t disagree here, either. He had lived blind or part-blind for a good number of years, enveloped in his own inconsequential drama that had prevented him from trulyseeing Valeria. From cherishing her as she had deserved to be cherished. The wisdom he had to offer was null. Still, he wanted to be reassuring. ‘Oh, but come, who sees clearly? Who is wise? And if we were all literal-minded, would life be better? God, imagine how monotonous it would
Harry’s heartbeat had gone light and harried. As the man’s hand dropped from her neck to her hip, still clutching with brutish force, her dress fell quite from her shoulders. Her cheeks coloured and Harry averted his gaze. The briny fetor of the sea was in his nose, and a perfume—hers, probably—cloyingly floral and somehow low-slung. Looking back, gawking in spite of himself, he saw a shockingly white slip, a lustre of sweat at the start of the dip between her breasts, the olive shine of shoulders.
Should he intervene, call out curtly to the man? But what was he seeing? The woman’s will was not clear to him. What if this were only the half-playful theatrics of lust? Harry’s hesitation made him feel complicit, the brute’s accomplice.
They were kissing now, if that were the word for an act so rough and blurred. Rabidly embracing, though her arms remained limp. Was she responding—or just lethargic, snared?Harry had an uncomfortable, intimate sense of pelvises colliding, of the jutting ridges of hips.
When they withdrew back into the room (who leading or forcing whom?) and the rippled sea gently filled the glass once more, Harry walked on. Sickly, stimulated, alone. The uncertain spectacle had stirred him, he realised, dismayed at his own peculiar disturbance. A husky impetus had awoken in him at the sight of whatever passion or violence he had witnessed. It terrorised him to think that he could be his father’s son, though he had travelled so far. That lodged deep in his nature there might have been the instincts of a bully.
‘So you consider there to be a contradiction’—he was talking to Teresa jumpily—‘between a happy place and a quiet end.’
‘Casablanca?’
He noted her taste for the exotic. He tried to dissipate the mood the memory of Nice had induced in him with silliness. ‘How about jumping off a mountain, or feeding yourself to a large jungle animal?’
‘You’d want to be unconscious before it ate you.’
‘Assuredly.’
Pasture now to one side of them, and beyond it dales with wooded patches. Lavish greens and placid blue-greys.
‘Oh,’ she remarked.
Nearby, a group of hardy cows. Further off, a speckling of sheep. The sky was very clear and cold. Shifting cows, the smell of livestock.
‘What an inviting place,’ she went on meditatively. ‘But is it? The problem with describing a place is that an idea of the place interferes. Like wallpaper covering it over.’
It appeared to him there was something like self-loathing in these words. She had exposed herself, and it was important that he advance with extreme caution—not cause her to recoil. ‘I suspect we’re all blinded by ideas,’ he began. ‘So much for man’s superior intelligence.’ She looked quite bleak. ‘Don’t you think it advisable to have something between us and the world, anyhow? A buffer, some diversions? Dreams, I suppose. The real world tending to be boring, or troublesome and disagreeable.’
‘But if we saw what was real, we might be happier, in the long run. Safer.’
‘Ah. Happiness.’ He was not the man to comment on that. ‘What do you think those cows see, looking around?’
‘They seem content.’
He couldn’t deny it. ‘Grass? Ideas of grass? Is there a difference?’
‘But grass is their reality. People have fanciful ideas that get in the way of reality. Some more than others. Some are purblind.’ She was gazing fiercely straight ahead. ‘Which is really a kind of stupidity. Unforgivable.’
Harry didn’t disagree here, either. He had lived blind or part-blind for a good number of years, enveloped in his own inconsequential drama that had prevented him from trulyseeing Valeria. From cherishing her as she had deserved to be cherished. The wisdom he had to offer was null. Still, he wanted to be reassuring. ‘Oh, but come, who sees clearly? Who is wise? And if we were all literal-minded, would life be better? God, imagine how monotonous it would
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