mysteries of the woman of the town. And yet if he doesnât speak, he is no longer frozen in her presence. He holds her down and takes her like an animal.
The boatmaker stays in her room for three days with the curtain drawn over the window. From time to time the innkeeper comes up the stairs with a new bottle. They have moved from glasses and ice to a place where glasses are unnecessary. Neither of them feels at home,yet neither has any doubt that they belong in this room together. They drink from the bottle, fire flaring between them, burning their bodies with the sting of a jellyfish and sealing them in one continuous spasm. Occasionally they ask the innkeeper to bring them a little food.
After a while he moves on from paying with one bill at a time to turning his money over in clumps. When he left Small Island, the money he had seemed to him like a lot. He had worked many jobs to earn it, not drinking and saving. It wasnât the most money he had ever had. And he knew that even on Small Island there are people to whom his cache would have seemed a small thing. Valter, for instance. Or the doctor, who has been stuffing the bills his patients give him under his mattress for so many years he has trouble getting into bed. Or so the people of Small Island like to say. To the boatmaker it seemed like a lot. Now itâs going fast, like the ice in spring around Small Island, melting first slowly, then fast. One day itâs gone, and the sea opens.
Up in her room he is sometimes her child, other times her father. Sometimes both of them are animals howling in red heat. Regardless of the madness in the little room, the innkeeper always seems to appear with a new bottle at the right moment. The boatmaker slowly understands that the two of them are working together, the womanof the town and the innkeeper. But his understanding remains distant, and the knowledge unimportant. All that matters is whatâs happening in this room with its narrow bed and the desk built into the wall under the window.
Sometimes he is rough with her. The boatmaker hasnât been with many women, and he has never been rough with any them. The woman of Small Island didnât arouse this feeling in him, which holds desire and anger, affection and loathing, mixed until they are inseparable. Sometimes he wanted the woman on Small Island more, sometimes he wanted her less, but he never wanted to hurt her. This one, he wants to hurt. He wants to break into her, tear her into pieces. Then suddenly he feels tender. The two feelings seem to intensify each otherâthe desire to hurt and the tenderness. They are poles; an electrical force runs between them as he raises himself above her. His body fills and empties. She is willing to be whatever he wants. It makes him feel powerful, a feeling he is not used to having in the presence of another person. Usually the boatmaker feels his power only when he is alone.
But if she will be whatever he wants, she remains just out of reach, and she wants to keep it that way. She is frightened. She can feel something inside beginning to give way. The winter ice is beginning to chip, break up. When she feels it, she tells herself: Be hard. Be as hard asyou can. Donât let that start. Do whatever it takes to make him pay. Thatâs the only thing you need to think about: making him pay. She aims to keep the stream of the boatmakerâs banknotesâyellow, blue and buffâflowing to the cashbox in the office under the stairs where the innkeeper sleeps. She will drain his cache and throw him into the road, like a rag she has used to wipe herself with.
That is what she tells herself. But inside where there are no words, she feels things warming, melting. It enrages her. And so she prods him, does things she knows will make him angry. She wants him to be a beast, to be crude, to hurt her, rip her so that she can despise him. More than anything, she wants the confidence she felt when she first saw the
The boatmaker stays in her room for three days with the curtain drawn over the window. From time to time the innkeeper comes up the stairs with a new bottle. They have moved from glasses and ice to a place where glasses are unnecessary. Neither of them feels at home,yet neither has any doubt that they belong in this room together. They drink from the bottle, fire flaring between them, burning their bodies with the sting of a jellyfish and sealing them in one continuous spasm. Occasionally they ask the innkeeper to bring them a little food.
After a while he moves on from paying with one bill at a time to turning his money over in clumps. When he left Small Island, the money he had seemed to him like a lot. He had worked many jobs to earn it, not drinking and saving. It wasnât the most money he had ever had. And he knew that even on Small Island there are people to whom his cache would have seemed a small thing. Valter, for instance. Or the doctor, who has been stuffing the bills his patients give him under his mattress for so many years he has trouble getting into bed. Or so the people of Small Island like to say. To the boatmaker it seemed like a lot. Now itâs going fast, like the ice in spring around Small Island, melting first slowly, then fast. One day itâs gone, and the sea opens.
Up in her room he is sometimes her child, other times her father. Sometimes both of them are animals howling in red heat. Regardless of the madness in the little room, the innkeeper always seems to appear with a new bottle at the right moment. The boatmaker slowly understands that the two of them are working together, the womanof the town and the innkeeper. But his understanding remains distant, and the knowledge unimportant. All that matters is whatâs happening in this room with its narrow bed and the desk built into the wall under the window.
Sometimes he is rough with her. The boatmaker hasnât been with many women, and he has never been rough with any them. The woman of Small Island didnât arouse this feeling in him, which holds desire and anger, affection and loathing, mixed until they are inseparable. Sometimes he wanted the woman on Small Island more, sometimes he wanted her less, but he never wanted to hurt her. This one, he wants to hurt. He wants to break into her, tear her into pieces. Then suddenly he feels tender. The two feelings seem to intensify each otherâthe desire to hurt and the tenderness. They are poles; an electrical force runs between them as he raises himself above her. His body fills and empties. She is willing to be whatever he wants. It makes him feel powerful, a feeling he is not used to having in the presence of another person. Usually the boatmaker feels his power only when he is alone.
But if she will be whatever he wants, she remains just out of reach, and she wants to keep it that way. She is frightened. She can feel something inside beginning to give way. The winter ice is beginning to chip, break up. When she feels it, she tells herself: Be hard. Be as hard asyou can. Donât let that start. Do whatever it takes to make him pay. Thatâs the only thing you need to think about: making him pay. She aims to keep the stream of the boatmakerâs banknotesâyellow, blue and buffâflowing to the cashbox in the office under the stairs where the innkeeper sleeps. She will drain his cache and throw him into the road, like a rag she has used to wipe herself with.
That is what she tells herself. But inside where there are no words, she feels things warming, melting. It enrages her. And so she prods him, does things she knows will make him angry. She wants him to be a beast, to be crude, to hurt her, rip her so that she can despise him. More than anything, she wants the confidence she felt when she first saw the
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