Oh, you wouldn’t do it at once, that very day. But one day, or say one night, at three in the morning, when you wake up for no reason and can’t fall back to sleep, when every little thing in your life feels wrong, when you look into your heart and see rats, bats, and dead men’s bones, when your soul is nothing but a lump of black ice, then, if you listen closely, you will hear my voice whispering in your ear. Then you’ll get up your courage. It isn’t difficult, you know. So many ways! In every room a sharp instrument, a blunt object, dangerous devices of all kinds. Pills in the cabinet, poison in the basement, knives in the kitchen drawer. A rope. A high window. Simple as ABC. Easy as pie. Did you know there’s a gun shop in town? A woman like you would have no trouble. The temple. The mouth. The heart. The smooth place between the eyes. Think of it! Your arm outstretched on the bed, your head flung back, your hair strewn across the pillow. Very becoming, very. . romantic. You do like to think of yourself that way, don’t you? I mean, a romantic woman. A woman in a movie — windswept hair, dress blown against your legs. But no — no — now that I think of it, maybe other endings are more your style. Here’s one. The ice on the road, the sudden curve, the wildly turning wheel. Is that a good one? Do you like it? That was no accident, you know. Did you really think it was an accident? An accident? Come on. You know what it was? It was Robert’s way of solving the problem. Yes! If it hadn’t been for you. . Yes! You! Murderer! You! Coming to my house! And that awful telephone. Robert’s what? He’s what? Black ice? I hate telephones. . voices without faces. . ghosts in dead houses. . talking to you in the dark. Whispering. Shhh. I knew you’d come back. I knew you would. Did you know I knew? About you and Robert? Deep down did you know? I think you knew. I think you did. Or peaceful scenes. . on the rug beside the fire, the small brown bottle beside you. . or slumped in a favorite chair. Peace, at long last. Because you’ll never have it any other way, you know. I’ll never have it any other way. You did wrong, my dear. I’m afraid so. Of course you never meant to hurt anyone. Of course not. You were very, very considerate. But there you have it: Robert dead, and me. . as you find me. I’m afraid you made a real mess of it. There’s no escaping it. So you might as well get it over with. I think so. Do it. Do it. Do it. Why don’t you? Of course you can probably get by, for a while. There are crossword puzzles, and mystery novels with nice big blood drops on the cover, and men with. . oh, what’s that word. . it’s on the tip of my. . oh, I have it. Desire. But sooner or later. One day or another. Somewhere down the line. That sudden uneasiness as you look out a window. That moment of panic as you climb the stairs. What will you do? How can you live? Where will you go? There’s nowhere to go. There’s nothing to do. No one to see. Don’t you know? Why go on? And always the little voice whispering in my ear, always the sad ghost rustling in the dark. That is why I wanted to show you my house. To tell you who we are. So that we would know. What to do.
And now my story’s done. I never dreamed I’d be so tired! But I wanted us to hear it. People don’t get to hear stories much anymore, and that’s a shame. Mine even has a moral, just the way a story should.
Tired. . I really am, you know. It takes it out of you, showing a house to strangers. And planning to go. . to some far-away place. A journey. . out of here. That would be nice. Peaceful, and. . nice. Don’t you think? I feel as if I haven’t slept for a long time. I haven’t, you know. I haven’t slept for nearly a year.
Remind me to show you the heating bills. I’ve got them all in some folder somewhere, going back ten years.
Here’s a question for you. If you were a ghost, if you were a ghost in this house, if you were dead and came to live in this house, where would you hide? In the attic? Or in the cellar?
Watch it. Watch your head.
TOP OF THE STAIRS
Back from the dead. Oh, look: it’s dark out. Imagine.
FRONT HALL
Your coat. Have I said how much I admire it? I need a new spring coat myself, mine’s practically a rag. I’ll just put the porch light on for you. They say the weather’s going to be a little warmer tomorrow: sun mixed with clouds. Last time they said that, it rained for two days. I’m hoping my jonquils will pull through. I ought to tell you that someone’s coming to see the house tomorrow at four, or is it four-thirty: just for you to know. You think it over. Think over what we talked about, down there. I’m sure you’ll make the right decision. And I meant what I said about the appraisaclass="underline" I won’t budge. Not a penny less, not a penny more. You let me know. I’ve lived here a long time, and now I don’t want to live here anymore. You let me know. You just let me know.
An Adventure of Don Juan
I
A time came when Don Juan could no longer bear his life. He was thirty years old, hot-blooded and handsome as a god, fiercely healthy except for a dueling scar on his left shoulder that troubled him a little in damp weather; when he walked the streets or the marble halls of still another city, the great plumes on his broad-brimmed hat trembled, his cape lifted behind him, and the jeweled hilt of his sword swinging in its scabbard against his leg seemed ready to leap out at the end of a blade of fire. He was an expert swordsman, a skilled horseman, a strong swimmer who once on a dare swam across the Ebro, where he ravished a handsome washerwoman before swimming back to complete the seduction of a countess. In his brief life he had bedded more than two thousand women and killed fourteen men — five in duels, eight in self-defense, and one by mistake, through a curtain at which he was thrusting in sheer high spirits. He feared no man, mocked the machinery of heaven, and was heard to say that the devil was a puppet invented by a bishop to frighten children in the nursery. Men envied him, women of stainless virtue stood in the window to watch him ride by. And yet this man, who walked the earth like an immortal, who did whatever was pleasing to him and who satisfied his every desire, felt that a darkness had fallen across his spirit.
Sometimes Don Juan had the sensation that every drop of his bright blood was being replaced by thick, dark smoke. Sometimes he felt tired in an unfamiliar way. He had had moments of tiredness before, the kind of bone-deep tiredness that comes after weeks of excess; then he would withdraw to his rooms, admitting no one but a devoted servant, only to emerge in two or three days, filled with energy and ferocious with desire, as if he wished to seize the world in his fist for breakfast. But this was no fit of sensual exhaustion, no temporary lull in the rush of his vigor. It was something else, something akin to tiredness that wasn’t tiredness — as if a little crack, like a tiny flaw in crystal, had appeared deep within him and begun to spread. He was not bored. Don Juan didn’t know whether he loved women, but he knew that he loved the pursuit and conquest of women, loved the feeling that he was following pleasure to the farthest edges of his nature. No, he felt restless in some other way, dissatisfied deep in his blood; and he began to feel that he was looking for something, though he didn’t know what it was, exactly, or where he might find it.