Read Online The Black House by Patricia Highsmith - Free Book Online Page B

away from the basket now.
    An hour or so later, when she and Reg were finishing lunch, Reg laughing and about to light a cigarette, Diane felt an inner jolt as if—What? She deliberately relaxed, and gave her attention, more of it, to what Reg was saying. But it was as if the sound had been switched off a TV set. She saw him, but she wasn’t listening or hearing. She blinked and forced herself to listen. Reg was talking about renting a tractor to clear some of their sand away, about terracing, and maintaining their property with growing things. They’d drawn a simple plan weeks ago, Diane remembered. But again she was feeling not like herself, as if she had lost herself in millions of people as an individual might get lost in a huge crowd. No, that was too simple, she felt. She was still trying to find solace in words. Or was she even dodging something? If so, what?
    â€œWhat?” Reg asked, leaning back in his chair now, relaxed.
    â€œNothing. Why?”
    â€œYou were lost in thought.”
    Diane might have replied that she had just had a better idea for a current project at Retting, might have replied several things, but she said suddenly, “I’m thinking of asking for a leave of absence. Maybe just a month. I think Retting would do it, and it’d do me good.”
    Reg looked puzzled. “You’re feeling tired, you mean? Just lately?”
    â€œNo. I feel somehow upset. Turned around, I don’t know. I thought maybe a month of just being away from the office . . .” But work was supposed to be good in such a situation as hers. Work kept people from dwelling on their problems. But she hadn’t a problem, rather a state of mind.
    â€œOh . . . well,” Reg said. “Heyningen getting on your nerves maybe.”
    Diane shifted. It would have been easy to say yes, that was it. She took a cigarette, and Reg lit it. “Thanks. You’re going to laugh, Reg. But that basket bothers me.” She looked at him, feeling ashamed, and curiously defensive.
    â€œThe one you found last weekend? You’re worried a child might’ve drowned in it, lost at sea?” Reg smiled as if at a mild joke he’d just made.
    â€œNo, not at all. Nothing like that. I told you last weekend. It simply bothers me that I repaired it so easily. There. That’s it. And you can say I’m cracked—I don’t care.”
    â€œI do not—quite—understand what you mean.”
    â€œIt made me feel somehow—prehistoric. And funny. Still does.”
    Reg shook his head. “I can sort of understand. Honestly. But—another way of looking at it, Di, is to realize that it’s a very simple activity after all, mending or even making a basket. Not that I don’t admire the neat job you did, but it’s not like—sitting down and playing Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto, for instance, if you’ve never had a piano lesson in your life.”
    â€œNo.” She’d never had a basket-making lesson in her life, she might have said. She was silent, wondering if she should put in her leave of absence request on Monday, as a gesture, a kind of appeasement to the uneasiness she felt? Emotions demanded gestures, she had read somewhere, in order to be exorcised. Did she really believe that?
    â€œReally, Di, the leave of absence is one thing, but that basket—It’s an interesting basket, sure, because it’s not machine-made and you don’t see that shape any more. I’ve seen you get excited about stones you find. I understand. They’re beautiful. But to let yourself get upset about—”
    â€œStones are different,” she interrupted. “I can admire them. I’m not upset about them. I told you I feel I’m not exactly myself—me—any longer. I feel lost in a strange way— Identity , I mean,” she broke in again, when Reg started to speak.
    â€œOh, Di!” He got up. “What do you mean