Actually, in his case it had been a very small matter. Something which if told – and he had never been so foolish as to tell it, even to his professional headbasher – would have proved absurd, would have made him appear, and rightly so, an idiot. Or, even worse, mentally deranged.
It had been an incident between himself and—
'Your wife,' the Mole said, staring at him, never taking his eyes from him. And still the steady grip of his hand.
'Yes.' Eric nodded. 'My Ampex video tapes ... of the great mid-twentieth century comedian Jonathan Winters.'
The pretext for his first invitation of Kathy Lingrom had been his fabulous collection. She had expressed a desire to see them, to drop by his apt – at his invitation – to witness a few choice shots.
The Mole said, 'And she read something psychological into your having the tapes. Something "meaningful" about you.'
'Yes.' Eric nodded somberly.
After Kathy had sat curled up one night in his living room, as long-legged and smooth as a cat, her bare breasts faintly green from the light coating of polish she had given them (in the latest style), watching the screen fixedly and, of course, laughing – who could fail to? – she had said contemplatively, 'You know, what's great about Winters was his talent for role-playing. And, once in a role, he was submerged; he seemed actually to believe in it.'
'Is that bad?' Eric had said.
'No. But it tells me why you gravitate to Winters.' Kathy fondled the damp, cold glass of her drink, her long lashes lowered in thought. 'It's that residual quality in him that could never be submerged in his role. It means you resist life, the role that you play out – being an org-trans surgeon, I suppose. Some childish, unconscious part of you won't enter human society.'
'Well, is that bad?' He had tried to ask jokingly, wanting – even then – to turn this pseudopsychiatric, ponderous discussion to more convivial areas... areas clearly defined in his mind as he surveyed her pure, bare, pale green breasts flicking with their own luminosity.
'It's deceitful,' Kathy said.
Hearing that, then, something in him had groaned, and something in him groaned now. The Mole seemed to hear it, to take note.
'You're cheating people,' Kathy said. 'Me, for instance.' At that point – mercifully – she changed the topic. For that he felt gratitude. And yet – why did it bother him so?
Later, when they had married, Kathy primly requested that he keep his tape collection in his study and not out in the shared portion of their conapt. The collection vaguely vexed her, she said. But she did not know – or anyhow did not say – why. And when in the evenings he felt the old urge to play a section or tape, Kathy complained.
'Why?' the Mole asked.
He did not know; he had not then and did not now understand it. But it had been an ominous harbinger; he saw her aversion but the significance of it eluded him, and this inability to grasp the meaning of what was taking place in his married life made him deeply uneasy.
Meanwhile, through Kathy's intercession, he had been hired by Virgil Ackerman. His wife had made it possible for him to take a notable leap in the hierarchy of econ and sose – economic and social – life. And of course he felt gratitude toward her; how could he not? His basic ambition had been fulfilled.
The means by which it had been accomplished had not struck him as overpoweringly important: many wives helped their husbands up the long steps in their careers. And vice versa. And yet—
It bothered Kathy. Even though it had been her idea.
'She got you your job here?' the Mole demanded, scowling. 'And then after that she held it against you? I seem to get the picture, very clear.' He plucked at a front tooth, still scowling, his face dark.
'One night in bed—' He stopped, feeling the difficulty of going on. It had been too private. And too awfully unpleasant.
'I want to know,' the Mole said, 'the rest of it.'
He shrugged. 'Anyhow – she said something about being "tired of the sham we're living." The "sham," of course, being my job.'
Lying in bed, naked, her soft hair curling about her shoulders – in those days she had worn it longer – Kathy had said, 'You married me to get your job. And you're not striving on your own; a man should make his own way.' Tears filled her eyes, and she flopped over on her face to cry – or appear, anyhow – to cry.
'"Strive"?' he had said, baffled.
The Mole interrupted, 'Rise higher. Get a better job. That's what they mean when they say that.'
'But I like my job,' he answered.
'So you're content,' Kathy said, in a muffled, bitter voice, 'to appear to be successful. When you really aren't.' And then, sniffling and snuffling, she added, 'And you're terrible in bed.'
He got up and went into the living room of their conapt and sat alone for a time and then, instinctively, he made his way into his study and placed one of his treasured Johnny Winters tapes into the projector. For a while he sat in misery watching Johnny put on one hat after another and become a different person under each. And then—
At the doorway Kathy appeared, smooth and naked and slim, her face contorted. 'Have you found it?'
'Found what?' He shut the tape projector off.
'The tape,' she stated, 'that I destroyed.'
He stared at her, unable to take in what he had heard.
'A few days ago.' Her tone, defiant, shrilled at him. 'I was all alone here in the conapt; I felt blue – you were busy doing some drafk nothing thing for Virgil – and I put on a reel; I put it on exactly right; I followed all the instructions. But it did something wrong. So it got erased.'
The Mole grunted somberly. 'You were supposed to say "It doesn't matter."'
He had known that; known it then, knew it now. But in a strangled, thick voice he had said, 'Which tape?'
'I don't remember.'
His voice rose; it escaped him. 'Goddam it, which tape?' He ran to the shelf of tapes; grabbed the first box; tore it open; carried it at once to the projector.
'I knew,' Kathy said, in a harsh, bleak voice as she watched him with withering contempt, 'that your —— tapes meant more to you than I do or ever did.'
'Tell me which tape!' he pleaded. 'Please?'
'No, she wouldn't say,' the Mole murmured thoughtfully. That would be the entire point. You'd have to play every one of them before you could find out. A couple days of playing tapes. Clever dame; damn clever.'
'No,' Kathy said in a low, embittered, almost frail voice. Now her face was peaked with hatred for him. 'I'm glad I did it. You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to ruin all of them.'
He stared at her. Numbly.
'You deserve it,' Kathy said, 'for holding back and not giving me all your love. This is where you belong, scrabbling like an animal, a panic-ridden animal. Look at you! Contemptible – trembling and about to burst into tears. Because someone ruined one of your INCREDIBLY important tapes.'