I am more than a little ambivalent lately. Gwen has never marched, I’m sure of that. Were I to ask her she’d arch one eyebrow and shoot me a certain look, as if to reproach me for reading her so badly. She and I share ambivalence like a biscuit we might break in half for tea. She’s more angry than I, I believe, but her anger is carefully muted through sarcasm. This may or may not reveal some truth beneath. I’m sure she still fights, verbally, as she always has, especially when she’s tied one on. Gwen loves a wickedly good contest, one of wits, of course. For her there is almost no other contest, except perhaps for love. The love of a bad man, usually.
Some fights must be fought — the Civil War, World War II. I would have liked to have been at Stonewall as a fly on the barroom wall. But I hate physical violence. I was not brave enough, when I was living in Boston, to go on a freedom ride to the South. I drank a toast to them in Gwen’s apartment in Cambridge; she drank and said nothing. I cried when King died; Gwen wrote me that she was so drunk that night she lay down in the gutter on Canal Street. But it was not at all clear whether her drinking was in relation to King’s death. She allowed that to remain ambiguous. About matters pertaining to civil rights or to the fact that she is black, she has, over the years’ said little, almost nothing. I am sure she carries all this within her where she nurses her secret self, the self that would not rest easy in the company of whites, not even men like myself whom she loves and trusts. But I don’t really think Gwen trusts anyone. Her cynicism is deeper than the sea out my window and beyond. I can’t bear to think about it. I wonder if Gwen’s script — Dark Angels — holds these secrets, these surprises, exposes the Gwen I am not privy to. I’ve often thought that, that her true self and outrage would find release in her personal writing. I wonder if on this trip she will show me any of it. But I know, in my heart, beaten but still beating, that she will not.
Gwen is asleep in the room beneath me. Her proximity provides a homey comfort. That Gwen represents for me a kind of security and sense of rightful place is odd, as she is edgy, always on the edge, always about to fall over to the other side. I sigh audibly and look out again to the sea and to Helen’s terrace. It is empty. The sea is choppy.
It is beautiful here. Gwen must or will surely recognize that. Truth must be beauty. Beauty its own truth. With a full heart I go to the typewriter and confront Stan Green as he studies and tracks the young rich boy, stalking him, stalking him, watching and waiting for him to return to the scene of the crime. Blasting with energy I type more than ten manuscript pages. I will make my deadline after all if I continue with such alacrity. Just a little more detective-like analysis and Stan Green will nail the young spoiled criminal to a cross of his own making. I think it will be in a diary he’s kept, a small book written in code. Green will crack it.
The sky is darkening. Gwen is still asleep. Perhaps she took a pill. Suddenly it comes to me that the word analyst on Helen’s diary may apply as much to her father as to herself. That is, I had assumed she was in analysis, though I never inquired, and now, I remember quite distinctly, she told me her father was a shrink. Her psychological astuteness may indeed be an inherited trait, or one encouraged from birth. Perhaps placing analyst in block letters on her diary’s cover was an ironic gesture. She may have been one of those children who was sent to a psychiatrist at a young age. I don’t think Helen was a twin, after all. I cannot imagine that that fact, were it so, wouldn’t have risen to the surface in these past months. But I do think her sister died. There was some great family tragedy, I am certain.
I know Gwen is going to disabuse me of this and upbraid me. She will most likely tell me that my fascination with Helen has to do with my being isolated, out of touch with my base, or that it comes from alienation, loneliness, or that my desire for progeny can’t be fulfilled by Yannis. She’ll think of something, I’m sure. I do agree — there is something strange about my relationship to Helen. Her curtains are still drawn. Perhaps she is traveling or hiding. Helen may be spending time with the Gypsy.
Gypsies pass through this way with some regularity, and some have settled not far outside of town. Thousands of Gypsies live in Greece and have for years. But I have always been suspicious of them. It’s a prejudice, yet I cannot shake it. I don’t understand their ways at all, and they have not yet come into my mind as individuals. Alicia has some sociological books on them. I think I’ll pay her a visit while Gwen sleeps. It’s still early for dinner. I’ll just leave Gwen a note and toddle off. See Alicia. And John, of course.
Generally I like this time of day. Dusk elicits neither happiness nor sadness. It doesn’t demand a precise response. The boats are rocking gently on the water. The slight nip in the air is invigorating. I walk briskly up the hill to Alicia’s house. I knock boldly on the thick wooden door. John answers and lets me in. His neck is healed. He wears a small bandage on one part of it only, which I suppose is the place where most of the damage was done. I shudder to think more on it. His violet eyes, I detect, light up at the sight of me. How curious — he’s glad to see me.
Just a short visit, I explain quickly, embarrassed. How’s Helen? John asks in a muffled voice. She’s well, I lie, since I most assuredly don’t know how she is. He makes his inquiry at the base of the stairs, out of Alicia’s sight and hearing. He dawdles, waiting for something more, some more meaty disclosure, and as he dawdles, he scratches his cheek lazily. His cheekbones are high, and today he reminds me of a foppish lad I went to school with. I want to offer other, better information and thus add portentously, She’s taken up with a Gypsy, John. A girl, woman. Yeah, John snorts, what is she going to do — live in a cave? I shouldn’t think so, John. I answer him with as much dignity as I can, more for Helen’s sake than my own. She’s much too urban for that, I insist.
I follow him up the stairs. His tanned feet are bare and dirty, and I recall following my first lover up the stairs to his bedroom when his parents were away. His feet were very dirty too. He committed suicide many years later, I heard, which also reminds me of John and his recent botched attempt. When I knew my first beau, he was furtive and guilty but he possessed a mad sense of humor. In those days a practical joker was much prized, a wicked but wickedly appropriate spoof much appreciated. I once was served coffee in a porcelain bowl, not a cup; I spent several minutes searching for the piece that holds the index finger. My friends howled as I spun the bowl around, again and again, feeling but not looking for the handle. My friends knew I never looked at what was in front of me when I was engaged in conversation. It is the same today. Many things do not change, though we Americans expect everything to change all the time, which is why we are so easily disillusioned.
Alicia is reclining on her Moroccan couch. She’s in blue, a violet blue. Her cheeks and nose blush pink and there’s something indefinable about her mood. Were I a vulgar man, I would imagine she’d just had an orgasm. An orgasmic flush had spread over her precious womanly body, that’s how our South African Don Juan, Wallace, might pen it. She’s lost weight, I think, though I’m not really able to imagine what Alicia’s body is like. She wears flowing robes and loose trousers and shirts. She waves her hands in the air grandly when making certain points. Her wrists are thin and delicate, her hands well-shaped, each finger pink and clean, her nails are covered in a clear polish. When quite still she seems active or about to be. One might call her intense. She moves with her mind. Your mind races ahead of you, Mother used to say to me.
I’ve just been playing the piano for John, Alicia says, and touches her brow as if the heat of playing had overcome her. She sang for me, too, John declares, looking down. I hate opera, but when Alicia sings, it’s okay. How wonderful of Alicia to sing for you, John. You haven’t sung for me in ages, Alicia, I complain petulantly. She smiles patiently.