She passed by him, naked, her skin grazing his. He was overwhelmed by this vision of her, he could not memorize it, he could not have enough. She was indifferent to his presence. Her nudity was dense, unchildish; her buttocks gleamed like a boy’s.
She slipped into the water and bound up her hair. He was sitting outside, his knees drawn up, content.
“How is it?” he asked.
“It’s like making love the second time.”
His eyes moved around the well-arranged apartment. There are women who live carefully, who are cunning, who take a step only when the ground is firm beneath their feet. She was not one of these. There were her necklaces hung casually near the mirror, her scattered clothes, her cigarettes. He turned the television on without the sound. The set was foreign, the colors beautiful and deep. It seemed to him he was elsewhere, in a city in Europe, on a train. He had entered this room in which there was a woman who had been waiting for him, a clever woman who knew why he had come.
She stood against the doorway watching, whiteness encircling her haunches, the dark handful of hair. He longed to stare at her but was embarrassed. He was somehow dismayed that she should give herself to him. He knew he was eating her, like a fox.
“Do you think I should go back to the office?” she said.
“It might be better if we didn’t go back at the same time.” He picked up his watch. “My God,” he murmured. “It’s almost four. Why don’t you come in about four-thirty? Say you’ve been to the dentist or something.”
“Do you think they’ll notice?”
“Will they notice?” he said. He had slowly begun to dress. “They probably already have.”
He watched her comb her hair. She saw him in the mirror; she barely smiled. It was her silence, her submission which overwhelmed him. She wanted nothing, he felt; she would permit anything. He could not look at her without thinking of this, without filling with desire. It was as if she were lost. He was afraid to disturb her, to give her help. It was as if she had not really seen him yet. How long could it last? How long could it be before she recognized him, knew his thoughts? He was afraid of the sudden glint of a wrist watch, the flash of a smile, the sun on the hub cap of a car—any powerful male emission that might wake her. He wanted to continue to possess her even if he could not believe in it, to feel the confidence on which everything depended. He wanted to be invulnerable, even for an hour, to admire her as she lay face down, to talk to her softly as one talked to a child. He placed a pillow beneath her, doubling it with great care. They were swimming in slowness. It seemed five minutes were required to kneel between her legs. She lay stretched beneath him, his hand on her body to steady it…
He left her at the corner, near the museum. She stood waiting for the light. The buildings he passed seemed strangely dead, the street bare, even in sunlight. He turned to look once more. Suddenly, he did not know why—she was crossing the wide avenue alone—all his uncertainty fled. He began to run and caught up to her on the steps.
“I decided to go with you,” he said. His voice was uneven; he managed to calm his breath. “There’s a room of Egyptian jewelry, a beautiful room, I wanted to show it to you. Do you know who Isis is?”
“A goddess,” she said.
“Yes. Another one.”
She lowered her head in a gesture of profound contentment. She looked at him and smiled. “So she’s one too, eh? You know them all.”
He could feel her love plainly. She was his, he understood it. He had never felt happier, more sure.
“There’s a lot I want to show you.”
She followed him into the great galleries. He guided her by the elbow, touching her often, her shoulder, the small of her back. In the end she would forget him; that was how she would win.
He drove home in a luminous twilight. The closing prices of shares were being given, the trees held the remnants of day.
Nedra was sitting at a table in the living room, notes spread around her. She was writing something.
“A story,” she said. “Was the traffic bad?”
“Not very.”
“You have to illustrate it for me.” She had a certain, strange elation. Near her elbow was a San Raphael. She glanced up. “Would you like one?”
“I’ll have a sip of yours. No, on second thought, I will have one.”
She seemed calm, secure; she knew nothing, he was certain of it. She went to prepare the drink. He felt relief. He was like a hare, safe in his form at last. He had a glimpse of her crossing the hall and a feeling of great warmth came over him, affection for her hips, her hair, the bracelets on her wrist. In some way he was suddenly equal to her; his love did not depend on her alone, it was more vast, a love for women, largely ungratified, an unattainable love focused for him in this one wilful, mysterious creature, but not only this one. He had divided his agony; it was cleaved at last.
She returned with his drink and sat in a comfortable chair. “Did you work hard today?”
“Well, yes.” He sipped the drink. “This is delicious. Thank you.”
“And did it go well?”
“More or less.”
“Um.”
She knew nothing. She knew everything, the thought flashed, she was too wise to speak.
“What have you done today?” he asked.
“I’ve had a marvelous day, I really have. I’m writing the story of the eel for Franca and Danny. I don’t like the books they give them in school. I want to do my own. Let me read it to you. I’ll get it.” She smiled at him before she rose, a wide, understanding smile.
“The eel…” he said.
“Yes.”
“That’s very Freudian.”
“I know, but Viri, I don’t believe in all that. I think it’s quite narrow.”
“Narrow. Well, definitely narrow, but the symbolism is very clear.”
“What symbolism?”
“I mean, it’s clearly a cock,” he said.
“I hate that word.”
“It’s inoffensive.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Well, I mean, there are worse.”
“I just don’t like it.”
“What one do you like?”
“What word?”
“Yes.”
“Inimitable,” she said.
“Inimitable?”
“Yes.” She began to laugh. “He had a big inimitable. Listen to what I’ve written.”
She showed him a drawing she had done. It was just to give an idea; his would be better. “Oh, Nedra,” he said, “it’s beautiful.”
A strange, snakelike creature of elegant lines lay adorned in flowers.
“What kind of pen did you do it with?” he said.
“A sensational pen. Look. I bought it.”
He was examining it.
“You can use different points,” she explained.
“It’s a wonderful eel.”
“For centuries, Viri,” she said, “no one knew anything about them. They were an absolute mystery. Aristotle wrote that they had no sex, no eggs, no semen. He said they rose, already grown, from out of the sea. For thousands of years people believed that.”
“But don’t they lay eggs?”
“I’m going to tell you all that,” she promised. “Today, all day, I was drawing this eel. Do you like the flowers?”
“Yes. Very much.”
“You’re much better than I am, yours will be fantastic. Besides, you’re right, the eel is a male thing, but women understand it, too. It fascinates them.”