wind howled in through the open window and Cunningham moaned. There was a rain gutter that looked secure along the edge of the sloping roof and the roof itself had wooden shingles on it that would give good purchase for fingers and Benjamin stepped out gingerly, testing the gutter. “Well,” he said to Cunningham, “tell the boys I died game.”
Cunningham heaved himself up from the cot with what seemed to be the last ounce of energy left in his body and leaned out the window to watch as Benjamin inched his way along, trying not to look down at the ground forty feet below him. “Hurry up, for Christ’s sake,” Cunningham said. “I’m freezing.”
Benjamin reached his window and tried to open it. It was locked. The wind whistled through his thin shirt (they had left their white jackets and bow ties in the kitchen). The shade was down, although he was sure he hadn’t drawn it in the few minutes he had spent in his room before the night’s work began. “The hell with it,” he said to Cunningham. He took out his handkerchief, wrapped it around his fist, and broke the top pane of glass, then reached in, turned the lock mechanism, lifted the bottom half of the window, ran up the shade, and crawled in. Safely inside, he leaned out and said to Cunningham, “Ok, go to sleep.”
Cunningham closed his window. Benjamin went to the door and flicked on the light. Then he turned and surveyed the room, which was shaking now with the wind that roared in through the broken pane. The bed had been used. The one blanket was in a heap on the floor, the sheet was crumpled, half on the bed, half on the floor. There were lipstick stains all over the sheet and pillowcase.
The blond girl, Benjamin thought. The drunken blond whore. Maybe she was hunting a third lay and that’s why she locked the door and took the key. For future use. His comb and brush were on the floor. He picked them up. There were two or three fine pale hairs in his comb. No wonder she looked so neat when she came down the stairs. For a moment, he considered wrapping himself in his overcoat and sleeping on the floor. No, he thought, fighting an insane and impotent rage. I won’t give the bitch the satisfaction. He hung his coat as best as he could over the broken window. It kept out some of the wind, but not much. It must have been at least ten below zero outside. Shivering, he picked up the sheet and made the bed. The lipstick stains were in some strange places, he noted, and there was the stain of semen and its distinctive odor, faint but probing. He put out the light and lay down in his clothes, after taking his shoes off. He pulled the thin blanket over him. As his body warmed the sheets the odor of the bed, the musty odor of the straw mattress, the fragrance of perfume, the womb and vagina and semen smell of sex, rose to his nostrils. Exhausted as he was he couldn’t sleep. As he lay there, trying to breathe through his mouth so as not to smell the disturbing mixture of odors, trying not to recreate in his mind what must have happened in this bed while he was downstairs, he realized that, with all his loathing, he wanted the girl who had used his bed in which to make love with two men that night and that if she came through the door he would take her in his arms if she would have him.
From that moment he knew he was going to search for girls like that, for girls like the one in the black dress who had pulled up her shoulder strap when she noticed that he was watching her, that he wanted a hundred girls he had seen downstairs during the course of the night, and that in the long run he was going to sleep with as many of them as he could. At the same moment he knew he was never going to marry Pat and that, for a longer or shorter period of his life, he was going to be promiscuous and probably perverse and, for a long time and perhaps forever, incapable of fidelity.
“Ah, God,” he said aloud. He got up and put on the light. He sat on the edge of the bed,
Cunningham heaved himself up from the cot with what seemed to be the last ounce of energy left in his body and leaned out the window to watch as Benjamin inched his way along, trying not to look down at the ground forty feet below him. “Hurry up, for Christ’s sake,” Cunningham said. “I’m freezing.”
Benjamin reached his window and tried to open it. It was locked. The wind whistled through his thin shirt (they had left their white jackets and bow ties in the kitchen). The shade was down, although he was sure he hadn’t drawn it in the few minutes he had spent in his room before the night’s work began. “The hell with it,” he said to Cunningham. He took out his handkerchief, wrapped it around his fist, and broke the top pane of glass, then reached in, turned the lock mechanism, lifted the bottom half of the window, ran up the shade, and crawled in. Safely inside, he leaned out and said to Cunningham, “Ok, go to sleep.”
Cunningham closed his window. Benjamin went to the door and flicked on the light. Then he turned and surveyed the room, which was shaking now with the wind that roared in through the broken pane. The bed had been used. The one blanket was in a heap on the floor, the sheet was crumpled, half on the bed, half on the floor. There were lipstick stains all over the sheet and pillowcase.
The blond girl, Benjamin thought. The drunken blond whore. Maybe she was hunting a third lay and that’s why she locked the door and took the key. For future use. His comb and brush were on the floor. He picked them up. There were two or three fine pale hairs in his comb. No wonder she looked so neat when she came down the stairs. For a moment, he considered wrapping himself in his overcoat and sleeping on the floor. No, he thought, fighting an insane and impotent rage. I won’t give the bitch the satisfaction. He hung his coat as best as he could over the broken window. It kept out some of the wind, but not much. It must have been at least ten below zero outside. Shivering, he picked up the sheet and made the bed. The lipstick stains were in some strange places, he noted, and there was the stain of semen and its distinctive odor, faint but probing. He put out the light and lay down in his clothes, after taking his shoes off. He pulled the thin blanket over him. As his body warmed the sheets the odor of the bed, the musty odor of the straw mattress, the fragrance of perfume, the womb and vagina and semen smell of sex, rose to his nostrils. Exhausted as he was he couldn’t sleep. As he lay there, trying to breathe through his mouth so as not to smell the disturbing mixture of odors, trying not to recreate in his mind what must have happened in this bed while he was downstairs, he realized that, with all his loathing, he wanted the girl who had used his bed in which to make love with two men that night and that if she came through the door he would take her in his arms if she would have him.
From that moment he knew he was going to search for girls like that, for girls like the one in the black dress who had pulled up her shoulder strap when she noticed that he was watching her, that he wanted a hundred girls he had seen downstairs during the course of the night, and that in the long run he was going to sleep with as many of them as he could. At the same moment he knew he was never going to marry Pat and that, for a longer or shorter period of his life, he was going to be promiscuous and probably perverse and, for a long time and perhaps forever, incapable of fidelity.
“Ah, God,” he said aloud. He got up and put on the light. He sat on the edge of the bed,
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