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Authors: Frederic Lindsay
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them and went in front of him without answering. The passage was brightly lit and the walls were tiled to shoulder height, blue tiles with a single white flower on each. As he climbed behind her, he asked again, 'If you hadn't your key, would you be able to attract a neighbour's attention? Would someone come down and let you in?'
'No chance of that.' They were on the first landing and as she opened her door she nodded at the one opposite. 'That's a jewellery repair workshop. And upstairs it's a dental mechanic's and I don't know what else. There's no one but me here at night.'
In the flat, he asked, 'Doesn't it frighten you being alone in the building?' Embarrassed, he took only a vague impression of the room. Decoration, carpet, furniture, all of it seemed new. He had the feeling he disliked in a hotel room or a guesthouse, that it could belong to no one, since it was made for strangers. He was by nature a home-loving man. The one exception to this impersonality was a painting on the wall opposite where he was standing. It showed a brown and orange landscape of low hills with a pale fragment of moon or sun low in the sky. The frame was wide and painted gold, and the picture seemed to have come there by accident from a different life .
'What makes you think I live alone?' she asked.
The question startled him with a queasy vision of a husband appearing from the next room.
'It's all right,' she said, 'my friend doesn't live here. Never mind him.'
He followed her into the inner room. It was tiny and the bed seemed enormous, but she went past it and opened a second door. 'See?' she said. But he didn't until she pointed. 'There's a mirror on the ceiling over the bath.' As he looked up, puzzled by it, she laughed at him. 'What good would it be covered in steam? Doesn't it make you wonder what kind of people they were?'
'People?' he repeated in bewilderment.
'Oh, this place doesn't belong to him. We're fairly sure of that.
We think it's one of the little presents he's picked up for being co-operative.'
'I don't understand.'
'Why should you? Don't you think I know why you came here?' She took his hand and laid it upon her breast. 'Like this?' she asked softly. 'Isn't this what you wanted?'
At the touch of her separate flesh, a shock ran through him. Trembling, he brought his face close to hers.
She pulled back.
'I don't allow that,' she said. 'Anything else, but I don't let people kiss me on the mouth.'
It had been too long. As they lay together naked on the bed in the tiny room, he knew that he would fail. He had thought his manhood was gone, but he responded and, even when with a sudden shuddering he lost control, she made him respond again and he entered her and she moved under him as if he was a man . When it was over, he was weeping and it did not matter that perhaps he had not emptied his seed for a second time.
'Who is Clare?' she whispered warm against his ear. Appalled, he kept silence. 'Is that your wife's name? You kept saying it all the time.'
He turned his head from her. 'Why did you – why did you let me? You can't have found me attractive . I'm an old man. I shouldn't be in bed with you.'
'Because you wanted it so badly.' She stretched like a cat. 'It was the way you looked at me. You were so frightened.'
He caressed her shoulder with his lips. 'I'm not frightened anymore.' Hearing his own words, he believed them. It was true that fear had become a habit, faint and unacknowledged as a fluttering in the blood. Sometimes a sound can go on for so long that you only realise it is gone when suddenly you feel the silence like a presence. He was full of gratitude.
'You don't have to worry. We won't see one another again,' she said. 'You can go home to your wife.'
'My wife's gone away,' he reminded her. 'To Shreveport – in Louisiana.'
Hadn't he explained that to her earlier? Like an impulse of disloyalty, he put aside the idea that she might be stupid. 'I'm going out there to join her.' To the New
'No chance of that.' They were on the first landing and as she opened her door she nodded at the one opposite. 'That's a jewellery repair workshop. And upstairs it's a dental mechanic's and I don't know what else. There's no one but me here at night.'
In the flat, he asked, 'Doesn't it frighten you being alone in the building?' Embarrassed, he took only a vague impression of the room. Decoration, carpet, furniture, all of it seemed new. He had the feeling he disliked in a hotel room or a guesthouse, that it could belong to no one, since it was made for strangers. He was by nature a home-loving man. The one exception to this impersonality was a painting on the wall opposite where he was standing. It showed a brown and orange landscape of low hills with a pale fragment of moon or sun low in the sky. The frame was wide and painted gold, and the picture seemed to have come there by accident from a different life .
'What makes you think I live alone?' she asked.
The question startled him with a queasy vision of a husband appearing from the next room.
'It's all right,' she said, 'my friend doesn't live here. Never mind him.'
He followed her into the inner room. It was tiny and the bed seemed enormous, but she went past it and opened a second door. 'See?' she said. But he didn't until she pointed. 'There's a mirror on the ceiling over the bath.' As he looked up, puzzled by it, she laughed at him. 'What good would it be covered in steam? Doesn't it make you wonder what kind of people they were?'
'People?' he repeated in bewilderment.
'Oh, this place doesn't belong to him. We're fairly sure of that.
We think it's one of the little presents he's picked up for being co-operative.'
'I don't understand.'
'Why should you? Don't you think I know why you came here?' She took his hand and laid it upon her breast. 'Like this?' she asked softly. 'Isn't this what you wanted?'
At the touch of her separate flesh, a shock ran through him. Trembling, he brought his face close to hers.
She pulled back.
'I don't allow that,' she said. 'Anything else, but I don't let people kiss me on the mouth.'
It had been too long. As they lay together naked on the bed in the tiny room, he knew that he would fail. He had thought his manhood was gone, but he responded and, even when with a sudden shuddering he lost control, she made him respond again and he entered her and she moved under him as if he was a man . When it was over, he was weeping and it did not matter that perhaps he had not emptied his seed for a second time.
'Who is Clare?' she whispered warm against his ear. Appalled, he kept silence. 'Is that your wife's name? You kept saying it all the time.'
He turned his head from her. 'Why did you – why did you let me? You can't have found me attractive . I'm an old man. I shouldn't be in bed with you.'
'Because you wanted it so badly.' She stretched like a cat. 'It was the way you looked at me. You were so frightened.'
He caressed her shoulder with his lips. 'I'm not frightened anymore.' Hearing his own words, he believed them. It was true that fear had become a habit, faint and unacknowledged as a fluttering in the blood. Sometimes a sound can go on for so long that you only realise it is gone when suddenly you feel the silence like a presence. He was full of gratitude.
'You don't have to worry. We won't see one another again,' she said. 'You can go home to your wife.'
'My wife's gone away,' he reminded her. 'To Shreveport – in Louisiana.'
Hadn't he explained that to her earlier? Like an impulse of disloyalty, he put aside the idea that she might be stupid. 'I'm going out there to join her.' To the New
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