The Bleeding Heart (3 page)

Open: the way Sydney had read her a Yeats poem she had just discovered, her voice sounding as if she had just discovered a new dimension. “How can we know the dancer from the dance?” Sydney had concluded, looking up at Dolores with wonder on her face. “How can we, Mommy?”

Open. And she too, despite the routine of a tenured professor, years and years of freshman English, years and years of trying to find a good way to teach Spenser, years and years of committee meetings, the same questions, the same speeches: despite all that, she too had remained open.

In some ways.

(He
was
looking at her.)

So that was always accessible, the pleasure and joy she permitted herself: It is true, she had closed some doors. Who can blame me? How much can a heart be scarred and still go on beating? Because to stay open entirely means to stay open to all sides of things, to pain as well as pleasure. And some pains she could not absorb more of. The pain she already carried was always with her, it rose up like fumes and would not abate, like that night before she left for England, staying for a weekend on the Cape with Carol and John, the oldest of her friends, people she could be honest with. To. They had sat up late, very late, the three of them, remembering, the sorrow just below all their surfaces, until it rose through the liquor and the hour, and with no touch at all had poured out of Dolores like a geyser whose cap had simply worn out, had poured out and spilled over the room, silencing it.

T
HE MAN WAS STARING
at her.

She was sure of it. She had not turned her head towards him, she was still facing the window, but she felt something—an intensity. She slid her eyes towards him. And caught him! He was staring at her. He lowered his eyes instantly, and instantly she turned away to the window, but for a dot of time, their eyes had grazed each other’s. His eyes were dark, almost black, with a pinpoint of light in them.

Or is that just the way she imagined they were? Because they were intense intelligent eyes, passionate eyes, just like the eyes of the man in the dream.

A cloud formed around her heart. Indigestion. Damned greasy eggs. Really ought to find another place to stay when I’m in London, but that place is so cheap and so convenient, a pleasant walk through Russell Square to the British Museum.

She gazed at a blur of landscape and puffed on her cigar. She got nothing. It had gone out. How ridiculous she must look to that person opposite her if he was looking at her and of course he was. She raised her eyebrows, hoping she appeared disdainful at this stupid cigar, and fished in her purse for a match. And as she did so, she let her eyes sweep the lower parts of him. Long slender feet, good shoes, tweedy brown slacks. Not at all a refugee’s dress. Forget the damned dream. As she puffed the cigar to life again (ugh! stale and strong!) she slid her eyes up further. Tweedy grey jacket, flecks of brown in it, nice. A grey turtleneck sweater. And a longish face—looking at her!

(Don’t panic. He doesn’t know about your dream. Smile and say: Beastly weather, isn’t it. But it isn’t. Is it?) She looked out of the window to check. The sun had come out and had turned the canals a deep blue-grey, like the ocean at Gloucester in July.

Pressure was growing in the back of her neck. She could not control herself, she had to look at him again. He was looking straight at her and for a courageous moment, she let her eyes meet his. She tried hard to move her facial muscles into something resembling a smile. Then her eyes, still operating under their own control, ignoring her directions, slid, or rather darted, back to the window.

He had not smiled back.

What a face he had! Long, thin, with deep lines running down the cheeks. It was a face that had felt. How often did you see that in a man? There was a kind of rumpled elegance about him, about his body, his clothes, his carriage, the kind you see in dancers or actors, people who are conscious of their bodies, people who use their bodies. Dream: he probably played tennis religiously, keeping the weight down.

She wondered what
he
was looking at, what he saw, looking at her. A woman of forty-five who looked her age but did not look middle-aged. Tallish, slender, very, maybe too thin, her shoulders always hunched forward as if she were trying to protect her breasts—or her heart. A face that was always—almost always—in control of itself. Why did he keep on looking?

She kept her eyes fixed firmly on the window, so firmly that she saw nothing. Then suddenly the train stopped. They were at Reading. And suddenly she panicked. Suppose he gets off? Suppose someone else enters the compartment? Good God. A drama I’ve made already. Shit. I want it. I want this tension, this intimacy without words or gestures, to continue. Oh Dolores, my dolores, idolores, what a fucking fool you are.

The Reading stop was always busy. People rushed past on the platform, getting off, getting on, meeting people. Shadows passed the windows in the compartment door, some swift, some slow, some jostling a piece of baggage that knocked against the door; people stopped, turned, moved on. Her face a mask of complete indifference, she smoked and gazed out the window.

The man rustled his newspaper. For the first time since they’d left London, he turned a page. The traffic of people slowed. A door slammed. The train started up again, slowly, then in usual tempo. A heavy pink-faced man, a late arrival, pulled open their compartment door, puffing. He was carrying a salesman’s case that looked heavy, and he looked a little desperate. He glanced at their faces as they turned to him, both at once, bowed a little and retreated, slamming the door shut, trudging on down the corridor.

Is the air in here
that
charged?

Primly, Dolores looked out the window again, but her eyes, of their own accord, wandered back to the man. She had to check, to see if she had invented him, if he were a figment from her dream that she had decided to manufacture in the flesh. She caught a hand. Nice hand. Long, slender fingers, strong bones. Fingers presently holding a newspaper, but fingers you wouldn’t mind…

Back to the window.

Back to him. Nice jacket, well worn, softened tweed.

Back to window.

Back to him. Sweater. Nice soft sweater clinging to the vulnerable flesh. What kind of flesh, do you suppose? Dead white? Hairy? Smooth and golden? Pimply?

Oh God, what am I doing?

Back to window.

Back to him. And this time she caught his eyes, caught them catching her, reluctantly. Yes, reluctantly. Was
she
the one directing this? Straight deep line between the brows. Anxiety. Puzzlement. Thought Nice. Grey flecks in dark hair. Like hers. Nice. Was hers nice? Well, his was short, hers was long. Besides, everything was different for men.

Her eyes wandered off in search of something to look at. She puffed. Her cigar had gone out again. Damn! It was downright embarrassing. She tamped it out, and throwing all her rules to some wind or other, pulled out a fresh one and lighted it.

What an ass she must look. And he was watching her, clearly watching her.

It was intolerable. She did not know what to do with herself, where to put her hands, how to hold her legs, how to keep her face in order. She felt assaulted, invaded, adored, ridiculous.

Well, it was clear what she had to do. She had to look him straight in the face and smile a prim stiff smile and say: Beastly weather, isn’t it. And turn prissily back to the window.

That would do it.

The landscape was running in wavy lines in front of her eyes.

In a few minutes, she told herself, you will be in Oxford. You will stand up and turn around and lift your bags down from the overhead rack. Then you will turn sideways and walk through the door and turn left and walk calmly and quietly down the corridor and stand in the passage until the train has reached a full stop and then you will pull open the carriage door, descend two steps—one step?—and find firm concrete under your firm leather sole and you will walk to the stairway and descend (the escalator may be working but it will be better for you to use the stairs) into the cool bracing September Oxford air and you will walk home breathing deeply, and this figment, this passion you have invented, will blow away.

But I don’t want it to blow away.

No?

Y
ES, HE WILL REMAIN
seated and he watch me go, longingly, and I will feel attractive for as long as the walk home lasts. And he will go on to…

It was not an Inter-city train, she suddenly realized. He must be going to Oxford too.

All right. He too will get off the train and carry his suitcase down, but he would use the escalator and run down it like ordinary stairs, knowing she was watching, sending her a message. Saying: I am running home to my wife and six children, you needn’t feel so attractive, my wife is far more alluring. Alluring. Yes.

Having lived it all through, she lost her consciousness of self. She glanced at her watch and up at him, looking at him straight, with a little anxiety, telling him without words, well, this is it, and to be truthful, you know, I liked it more than not. Even though I didn’t want you invading my space, I rather enjoyed it. Good-bye. I’m sorry it’s good-bye.

But he was looking back at her and saying something different. His dark eyes had brilliant spots of light in them, like fever. Yet they were embarrassed and reluctant. And they did not assert. They simply stood. There was nothing typically macho game-playing about him: his eyes showed nothing proprietary, knowing, or superior. His eyes looked, looked at her: their assertion was their mere looking.

At least, that’s what she thought.

My God, no wonder I have to be alone. Constructing such dramas out of air, what do I do with things that are more substantial?

Dolores Durer, what are you doing?

There had been other moments like this, she reminded herself. Tens of them. Sometime, back in time, hundreds of times, there had been beautiful men sitting across the way in airline terminals, in restaurants, or walking in Central Park or across the Common. Yes beautiful, and the memory of the beauty lasts even if the memory of the faces does not. Beautiful because you do not speak, you do not ever have to find out who they were. Didn’t have to watch that lovely mouth open and out of it come; Hey, Harry, whattayasay we go out on the town tonight, I know some real swinging places, and whattayasay we find ourselves some real great chicks and show them a real good time. Last time I was in Nashville, I dropped two big ones. Watch his head swing around, see the mouth open again, didn’t look so lovely this time, “Hey honey, can I buy you a drink?”

This man hadn’t said anything.

But he might. Think of all those who had: furniture salesmen wanting a little nooky, uptight actors wanting to impress, executives in fast food wanting to tell you about their degrees in philosophy, even once a Danish army general, slim and sophisticated and careful not to ask any personal questions, savoring the herring, letting his eyes take possession of you but drawing them back (is that how you run battles?) when you turned, and smiling politely, he lighted your cigar.

But this man wasn’t any of them.

I should have smiled tautly and said Beastly weather.

The train was slowing now. It was over. He would get up, she would get up, and they would go their separate ways. In the freedom of that knowledge, she looked at him fully. His face was a dark intensity, staring at her. She let her eyes meet his, and promised him something, much as she had promised something to José earlier. No, fuck it, not promised, just answered. Yes, I think you’re pretty too. That’s all.

But when their eyes met, they locked, like two kids with braces kissing. Simply locked and would not let go. As their eyes met, her innards turned loose and liquid. Safe to feel now, saying good-bye. She looked at him and he looked at her and the message was unreceivable. Slowly, feeling her mouth to be a full moist communication, she tried to turn away.

And did.

Blanking out what she had seen, eyes full of such longing that she could not abide it, face full of such intensity that she could not resist it

Calmly, competently, quietly, she looked down and closed her purse, then turned (what ease! what naturalness!) and glanced up at the overhead rack, and stood and reached for her bag and briefcase and he stood to get his bag and coat and the train braked hard and she staggered and he was behind her, holding her, and he reached up over her head and pulled down her cases (show-off! I could have done it myself! Did you think I couldn’t?) and put them on the seat and for some reason she was still standing there and he put his arms around her waist, gathering his hands together in the front as if he had to tie them up or as if to tie her up. And something inside her sank, sank, and she let it sink, she surrendered, she let herself lean against him just a little, just a breath, as the train halted its way to a full stop.

The train stopped. Doors clanked open, luggage was bumping against the corridor walls, shadows of people passed the compartment window. They still stood there, his arms around her from behind, she with her head tilted back very slightly, her lips parted slightly, relaxed, and she knew she had to regain control, had to move. And so she did, a good girl still; she moved her body slightly, just stiffened it, and he released her and she reached for her purse and reached towards her bags, but he snatched them up from behind her, and his arms were trembling (or was it her arms?) and he picked up his bag and coat and stalked out of the compartment expecting her to follow (me Tarzan you Jane?) and of course she did since he had her bags.

People were all around, greeting, being greeted, rushing to appointments, looking for a porter, and noises swirled around them as she followed him out of the train and onto the platform, and edged around the clusters of people, and to the escalator, and down into the station, and out, out into the cool Oxford afternoon.

O
N THE STREET SHE
stopped and turned to face him. “Thank you,” she said formally, holding out her hand for her cases. She hoped he could not detect the tremulousness she felt: she felt like a child pleading with her father, begging for something.