Pauline. For an instant, syllables hollow of meaning. “What?” said O’Byrne, and as he spoke the word he remembered, and understood a threat. “Untie me,” he said quickly. But Lucy’s finger curled under her crotch and her eyes half closed. Her breathing was slow and deep. “Untie me,” he shouted, and struggled hopelessly with his straps. Lucy’s breath came now in light little gasps. As he struggled, so they accelerated. She was saying something … moaning something. What was she saying? He could not hear. “Lucy,” he said, “please untie me.” Suddenly she was silent, her eyes wide open and clear. She climbed off the bed. “Your friend Pauline will be here, soon,” she said, and began to get dressed. She was different, her movements brisk and efficient, she
no longer looked at him. O’Byrne tried to sound casual. His voice was a little high. “What’s going on?” Lucy stood at the foot of the bed buttoning her dress. Her lip curled. “You’re a bastard,” she said. The doorbell rang and she smiled. “Now that’s good timing, isn’t it?”
“Yes, he went down very quietly,” Lucy was saying as she showed Pauline into the bedroom. Pauline said nothing. She avoided looking at either O’Byrne or Lucy. And O’Byrne’s eyes were fixed on the object she carried in her arms. It was large and silver, like an outsized electric toaster. “It can plug in just here,” said Lucy. Pauline set it down on the bedside table. Lucy sat down at her dressing table and began to comb her hair. “I’ll get some water for it in a minute,” she said.
Pauline went and stood by the window. There was silence. Then O’Byrne said hoarsely, “What’s that thing?” Lucy turned in her seat. “It’s a sterilizer,” she said breezily. “Sterilizer?” “You know, for sterilizing surgical instruments.” The next question O’Byrne did not dare ask. He felt sick and dizzy. Lucy left the room. Pauline continued to stare out the window into the dark. O’Byrne felt the need to whisper. “Hey, Pauline, what’s going on?” She turned to face him, and said nothing. O’Byrne discovered that the strap around his right wrist was slackening a little, the leather was stretching. His hand was concealed by pillows. He worked it backwards and forwards, and spoke urgently. “Look, let’s get out of here. Undo these things.”
For a moment she hesitated, then she walked around the side of the bed and stared down at him. She shook her head. “We’re going to get you.” The repetition terrified him. He thrashed from side to side. “It’s not my
idea of a fucking joke!” he shouted. Pauline turned away. “I hate you,” he heard her say. The right-hand strap gave a little more. “I hate you. I hate you.” He pulled till he thought his arm would break. His hand was too large still for the noose around his wrist. He gave up.
Now Lucy was at the bedside pouring water into the sterilizer. “This is a sick joke,” said O’Byrne. Lucy lifted a flat black case onto the table. She snapped it open and began to take out long-handled scissors, scalpels and other bright, tapering silver objects. She lowered them carefully into the water. O’Byrne started to work his right hand again. Lucy removed the black case and set on the table two white kidney bowls with blue rims. In one lay two hypodermic needles, one large, one small. In the other was cotton wool. O’Byrne’s voice shook. “What is all this?” Lucy rested her cool hand on his forehead. She enunciated with precision. “This is what they should have done for you at the clinic.” “The clinic …?” he echoed. He could see now that Pauline was leaning against the wall drinking from a bottle of scotch. “Yes,” said Lucy, reaching down to take his pulse. “Stop you spreading round your secret little diseases.” “And telling lies,” said Pauline, her voice strained with indignation.
O’Byrne laughed uncontrollably. “Telling lies … telling lies,” he spluttered. Lucy took the scotch from Pauline and raised it to her lips. O’Byrne recovered. His legs were shaking. “You’re both out of your minds.” Lucy tapped the sterilizer and said to Pauline, “This will take a few minutes yet. We’ll scrub down in the kitchen.” O’Byrne tried to raise his head. “Where are you going?” he called after them. “Pauline… Pauline.”
But Pauline had nothing more to say. Lucy stopped in the bedroom doorway and smiled at him. “We’ll leave you a pretty little stump to remember us by,” she said, and she closed the door.
On the bedside table the sterilizer began to hiss. Shortly after, it gave out the low rumble of boiling water, and inside the instruments clinked together gently. In terror he pumped his hand. The leather was flaying the skin off his wrist. The noose was riding now around the base of his thumb. Timeless minutes passed. He whimpered and pulled, and the edge of the leather cut deep into his hand. He was almost free.
The door opened, and Lucy and Pauline carried in a small, low table. Through his fear O’Byrne felt excitement once more, horrified excitement. They arranged the table close to the bed. Lucy bent low over his erection. “Oh dear… oh dear,” she murmured. With tongs Pauline lifted instruments from the boiling water and laid them out in neat silver rows on the starched white tablecloth she had spread across the table. The leather noose slipped forwards fractionally. Lucy sat on the edge of the bed and took the large hypodermic from the bowl. “This will make you a little sleepy,” she promised. She held it upright and expelled a small jet of liquid. And as she reached for the cotton wool O’Byrne’s arm pulled clear. Lucy smiled. She set aside the hypodermic. She leaned forwards once more… warm, scented… she was fixing him with wild red eyes … her fingers played over his tip … she held him still between her fingers. “Lie back, Michael, my sweet.” She nodded briskly at Pauline. “If you’ll secure that strap, Nurse Shepherd, then I think we can begin.”
Eaters of asparagus know the scent it lends the urine. It has been described as reptilian, or as a repulsive inorganic stench, or again, as a sharp, womanly odor … exciting. Certainly it suggests sexual activity of some kind between exotic creatures, perhaps from a distant land, another planet. This unworldly smell is a matter for poets and I challenge them to face their responsibilities. All this … a preamble that you may discover me as the curtain rises, standing, urinating, reflecting in a small overheated closet which adjoins the kitchen. The three walls which fill my vision are painted a bright and cloying red, decorated by Sally Klee when she cared for such things, a time of remote and singular optimism. The meal, which passed in total silence and from which I have just risen, consisted of a variety of tinned foods, compressed meat, potatoes, asparagus, served at room temperature. It was Sally Klee who opened the tins and set their contents on paper plates. Now I linger at my
toilet washing my hands, climbing on to the sink to regard my face in the mirror, yawning. Do I deserve to be ignored?
I find Sally Klee as I left her. She is in her dining room playing with used matches in a musty pool of light. We were lovers once, living almost as man and wife, happier than most wives and men. Then, she wearying of my ways and I daily exacerbating her displeasure with my persistence, we now inhabit different rooms. Sally Klee does not look up as I enter the room, and I hover between her chair and mine, the plates and tins arranged before me. Perhaps I am a little too squat to be taken seriously, my arms a little too long. With them I reach out and stroke gently Sally Klee’s gleaming black hair. I feel the warmth of her skull beneath her hair and it touches me, so alive, so sad.
Perhaps you will have heard of Sally Klee. Two and a half years ago she published a short novel and it was an instant success. The novel describes the attempts and bitter failures of a young woman to have a baby. Medically there appears to be nothing wrong with her, nor with her husband, nor his brother. In the words of
The Times Literary Supplement
, it is a tale told with “wan deliberation.” Other serious reviews were less kind, but in its first year it sold thirty thousand copies in hardback, and so far a quarter of a million in paperback. If you have not read the book you will have seen the cover of the paperback edition as you buy your morning paper at the railway station. A naked woman kneels, face buried in hands, amidst a barren desert. Since that time Sally Klee has written nothing. Every day for months on end she sits at her typewriter, waiting. But for a sudden flurry of activity at the end of each day her machine is
silent. She cannot remember how she wrote her first book, she does not dare depart from what she knows, she does not dare repeat herself. She has money and time and a comfortable house in which she languishes, bored and perplexed, waiting.
Sally Klee places her hand on mine as it moves across her head, either to forestall or to acknowledge tenderness—her head is still bowed and I cannot see her face. Knowing nothing, I compromise and hold her hand and seconds later our hands drop limply to our sides. I say nothing and, like the perfect friend, begin to clear away the plates and cutlery, tins and tin opener. In order to assure Sally Klee that I am not at all piqued by or sulking at her silence I whistle “Lillibullero” cheerfully through my teeth, rather in the manner of Sterne’s Uncle Toby in times of stress.
Exactly so. I am stacking the plates in the kitchen and sulking, almost to the point of forgetting to whistle. Despite my negative sentiments I set about preparing the coffee. Sally Klee will have a blend of no less than four different kinds of bean in emulation of Balzac, whose life she read in a lavishly illustrated volume while attending to the proofs of her first novel. We always call it her
first
novel. The beans must be measured out carefully and ground by hand—a task to which my physique is well suited. Secretly, I suspect, Sally Klee believes that good coffee is the essence of authorship. Look at Balzac (I believe she says to herself), who wrote several thousand novels and whose coffee bills present themselves to the well-wisher from behind glass cases in tranquil suburban museums. After the grinding I must add a little salt and pour the mixture into the silver cavity of a compact stainless-steel machine sent here by post from Grenoble.
While this warms on the stove, I peer in at Sally Klee from behind the dining-room door. She has folded her arms now and is resting them on the table in front of her. I advance a few paces into the room, hoping to catch her eye.
Perhaps from the very beginning the arrangement was certain to fail. On the other hand, the pleasures it afforded—particularly to Sally Klee—were remarkable. And while she believes that in my behavior towards her I was a little too persistent, too manic, too “eager,” and while I for my part still feel she delighted more in my unfamiliarity (“funny little black leathery penis” and “your saliva tastes like weak tea”) than in my essential self, I would like to think there are no profound regrets on either side. As Moira Sillito, the heroine of Sally Klee’s first novel, says to herself at her husband’s funeral, “Everything changes.” Is the quiet, assertive yet ultimately tragic Moira consciously misquoting Yeats? So, no lasting regrets, I hope, when, this afternoon, I carried my few personal effects from Sally Klee’s spacious bedroom to my own small room at the top of the house. Yes, I rather like to climb stairs, and I left without a murmur. In effect (why deny it?) I was dismissed, but I had my own reasons for quitting those sheets. This liaison, for all its delights, was involving me too deeply in Sally Klee’s creative problems and only a final act of good-natured voyeurism could show me how far out of my depth I was. Artistic gestation is a private matter and my proximity was, and perhaps is still, obscene. Sally Klee’s gaze lifts clear of the table and for an immeasurable moment meets my own. With a slight affirmative motion of the head she indicates she is ready to take coffee.
Sally Klee and I sip our coffee “in pregnant silence.”
This at least is how Moira and her husband, Daniel, a rising young executive at a local bottling factory, sip their tea and digest the news that there are no medical reasons why between them they should be incapable of producing a child. Later the same day they decide to try (a good word, I thought) yet again for a baby. Personally speaking, sipping is something at which I rather excel, but silence, of whatever kind, makes me uncomfortable. I hold the cup several inches away from my face and propel my lips towards the rim in a winsome, tapering pout. Simultaneously I roll my eyes into my skull. There was a time—I remember the first occasion particularly—when the whole performance brought a smile to the less flexible lips of Sally Klee. Now I excel uncomfortably and when my eyeballs are facing outwards into the world once more I see no smile but Sally Klee’s pale, hairless fingers drumming on the polished surface of the dining table. She refills her cup, stands and leaves the room, leaves me to listen to her footsteps on the stairs.
Though I remain below I am with her every inch of the way—I have said my proximity is obscene. She ascends the stairs, enters her bedroom, sits at her table. From where I sit I hear her thread into her typewriter a single sheet of paper, off-white, A
4
, 61 mg per square meter, the very same paper on which she effortlessly composed her first novel. She will ensure the machine is set at double space. Only letters to her friends, agent and publisher go at single space. Decisively she punches the red key which will provide, when there are words to surround it, a neat, off-white emptiness to precede her first sentence. An awesome silence settles over the house, I commence to writhe in my chair, an involuntary high-pitched sound escapes my throat. For two and a half
years Sally Klee has grappled not with words and sentences, nor with ideas, but with form, or rather, with tactics. Should she, for instance, break silence with a short story, work a single idea with brittle elegance and total control? But what single idea, what sentence, what word? Moreover, good short stories are notoriously hard to write, harder perhaps than novels, and mediocre stories lie thick on the ground. Perhaps then another novel about Moira Sillito. Sally Klee closes her eyes and looks hard at her heroine and discovers yet again that everything she knows about her she has already written down. No, a second novel must break free of the first. What about a novel set (my tentative suggestion) in the jungles of South America? How ridiculous! What then? Moira Sillito stares up at Sally Klee from the empty page. Write about me, she says simply. But I can’t, Sally Klee cries out loud, I know nothing more about you. Please, says Moira. Leave me alone, Sally Klee cries out louder than before. Me, me, says Moira. No, no, Sally Klee shouts, I know nothing, I hate you. Leave me alone!