Читать книгу The Shadow of Memory - Bernard Comment - Страница 11

Chapter V

“Your nutty old man called. He’d like to see you, tonight. Wants to know if you could drop by? After eight o’clock, but before midnight. Eight o’clock would be best.” It was Monday. Mattilda seemed exasperated. Robert, his knowledge, my files. What would that leave her? If I didn’t love her anymore I needed to tell her; it would probably hurt less than seeing me always running away from her, vanishing, either not there or exhausted. I found time for my old man: I willingly relinquished entire workdays to him. But for her just Saturday afternoon, and Sunday—nothing more. How long was this going to go on?

When Mattilda was really annoyed, she was no longer able to hide her sadness; the momentary severity of her eyes couldn’t contain it and her voice kept cracking. The headlong nature of our sexuality bothered her. She’d have preferred the opposite: taking pleasure slowly and cleverly, combining rhythms, postures, getting to the heart, the very heart of the act. Yet now, silently disillusioned, this was what she got, these scraps of love, taking them for lack of anything better.

I’d explained, I don’t know how many times, that this wouldn’t last, afterward we’d enjoy life, we’d make up for it, but for the time being I needed help from her rather than reproaches, we had to make some sacrifices. In fact, the thing that had made Mattilda so furious was that the day Robert and I had wanted to go visit that abbey, I’d gotten up without batting an eye, not once complaining; whereas if I’d been going somewhere with her, whether off on vacation or just with her to the university, I’d have made a huge fuss, I’d have refused to wake up so early in the morning. She felt under attack and she was vaguely envious too, blaming the old man for petty things. She’d be a wreck over trivialities. She had, however, no reason to hate Robert; their only contact was her having heard his voice on the phone. It’s true that he was somewhat curt, his voice was dramatic; he spoke too fast, too loudly, you couldn’t get a word in, he left no space in the conversation. Who did he think he was? And the way he has of giving orders while making it seem like you have a choice!

Finally, Mattilda had lost her temper with me—which wasn’t her usual way. She was more hangdog by nature, bottling up her troubles, her idea of putting up a fight was a few resigned words, actually she didn’t ever put up a fight really. Reality was too hard for her to bear. Dreams suited her better, she felt safe in them. So she slept a lot, she really liked sleeping, taking refuge in a more lighthearted, gentler world. The first nights we’d slept together I was really struck by this. She stretched nights out into mornings that were endless. I’d take hold of her body, damp with dreams, in the saturated air under the sheets, filling my lungs with the warmth of her armpits, unshaven but kept well trimmed. Or of her dark, thick pubic hair. Since those days the frequency and intensity of our encounters had subsided.