Another Country Read online

  The driver coughed. The cab stopped for a red light, just before entering the park, and the driver lit a cigarette. She, too, lit a fresh cigarette: and the two tiny flames almost seemed to be signaling one another. Just so, she now remembered, as the cab lurched forward, had she wandered, aimlessly and bitterly, through the city, when Richard first began to go away from her. She had wanted to be noticed, she had wanted a man to notice her. And they had: they had noticed that she was a sexual beggar, no longer young. Terrifying, that the loss of intimacy with one person results in the freezing over of the world, and the loss of oneself! And terrifying that the terms of love are so rigorous, its checks and liberties so tightly bound together.

  There were many things she could not demand of Eric. Their relationship depended on her restraint. She could not go to him now, for example, at two in the morning: this liberty was not in their contract. The premise of their affair, or the basis of their comedy, was that they were two independent people, who needed each other for a time, who would always be friends, but who, probably, would not always be lovers. Such a premise forbids the intrusion of the future, or too vivid an exhibition of need. Eric, in effect, was marking time, waiting— waiting for something to be resolved. And when it was resolved— by the arrival of Yves, the signing of a contract, or the acceptance, in Eric, of a sorrow neither of them could name— she would be locked out of his bed. He would use everything life had given him, or taken from him, in his work— that would be his life. He was too proud to use her, or anyone, as a haven, too proud to accept any resolution of his sorrow not forged by his own hands. And she could not be bitter about this, or even sorrowful, for this was precisely why she loved him. Or, if not why, the why of such matters being securely locked away from human perception, it was this quality in him which she most admired, and which she knew he could not live without. Most men could— did: this was why she was so menaced.

  Therefore, she too, was marking time, waiting— for the blow to fall, for the bill to come in. Only after she had paid this bill would she really know what her resources were. And she dreaded this moment, dreaded it— her terror of this moment sometimes made her catch her breath. The terror was not merely that she did not know how she would rebuild her life, or that she feared, as she grew older, coming to despise herself: the terror was that her children would despise her. The rebuilding of her own life might have reduced itself, simply, to moving out of Richard’s house— Richard’s house! how long had she thought of it as Richard’s house?— and getting a job. But holding the love of her children, and helping them to grow from boys into men— this was a different matter.

  The cab driver was singing to himself, in Spanish.

  “You have a nice voice,” she heard herself say.

  He turned his head, briefly, smiling, and she watched his young profile, the faint gleam of his teeth, and his sparkling eyes. “Thank you,” he said. “We are all singers where I come from.” His accent was heavy, and he lisped slightly.

  “In Puerto Rico? there can’t be very much to sing about.”

  He laughed. “Oh, but we sing, anyway.” He turned to her again. “There is nothing to sing about here, either, you know— nobody sings here.”

  She smiled. “That’s true. I think singing— for pleasure, anyway— may have become one of the great American crimes.”

  He did not follow this, except in spirit. “You are all too serious here. Cold and ugly.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Two years.” He smiled at her again. “I was lucky, I work hard, I get along.” He paused. “Only, sometimes, it’s lonely. So I sing.” They both laughed. “It makes the time go,” he said.

  “Don’t you have any friends?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Friends cost money. And I have no money and no time. I must send money home to my family.”

  “Oh, are you married?”

  He shrugged again, turning his profile to her again, not smiling. “No, I am not married.” Then he grinned. “That also costs money.”

  There was a silence. They turned into her block.

  “Yes,” she said, idly, “you’re right about that.” She pointed to the house. “Here we are.” The cab stopped. She fumbled in her handbag. He watched her.

  “You are married?” he asked at last.

  “Yes.” She smiled. “With two children.”

  “Boy or girl?”

  “Two boys.”

  “That is very good,” he said.

  She paid him. “Good-bye. I wish you well.”

  He smiled. It was a really friendly smile. “I also wish you well. You are very nice. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  She opened the door and the light shone full on their faces for a moment. His face was very young and direct and hopeful, and caused her to blush a little. She slammed the cab door behind her, and walked into her house without looking back. She heard the cab drive away.

  The light was on in the living room, and Richard, fully dressed except for his shoes, lay on the sofa, asleep. He was usually in bed, or at work, when she came home. She stared at him for a moment. There was a half-glass of vodka on the table next to him, and a dead cigarette in the ashtray. He slept very silently and his face looked tormented and very young.

  She started to wake him, but left him there, and tiptoed into the room where Paul and Michael slept. Paul lay on his belly, the sheet tangled at his feet, and his arms thrown up. With a shock, she saw how heavy he was, and how tall: he was already at the outer edge of his boyhood. It had happened so fast, it seemed almost to have happened in a dream. She looked at the sleeping head and wondered what thoughts it contained, what judgments, watched one twitching leg and wondered what his dreams were now. Gently, she pulled the sheet up to his shoulders. She looked at the secretive Michael, curled on his side like a worm or an embryo, hands hidden between his legs, and the hair damp on his forehead. But she did not dare to touch his brow: he woke too easily. As quietly as possible, she retrieved his sheet from the floor and lay it over him. She left their room and walked into the bathroom. Then she heard, in the living room, Richard’s feet hit the floor.

  She washed her face, combed her hair, staring at her weary face in the mirror. Then she walked into the living room. Richard sat on the sofa, the glass of vodka in his hands, staring at the floor.

  “Hello,” she said, “What made you fall asleep in here?” She had left her handbag in the bathroom. She walked to the bar and picked up a package of cigarettes and lit one. She asked, mockingly, “You weren’t, were you, waiting up for me?”

  He looked at her, drained his glass, and held it out. “Pour me a drink. Pour yourself a drink, too.”

  She took his glass. Now, his face which in sleep had looked so young, looked old. A certain pain and terror passed through her. She thought, insanely, as she turned her back on him, of Cleopatra’s lament for Antony: His face was as the heavens. Was that right? She could not remember the rest of it. She poured two drinks, vodka for him, whiskey for her. The ice bucket was empty. “Do you want ice?”

  “No.”

  She handed him his drink. She poured a little water into her whiskey. She looked, covertly, at him again— her guilt began. His face was as the heavens, Wherein were set the stars and moon.

  “Sit down, Cass.”

  She left the bar and sat down in the easy chair facing him. She had left the cigarettes on the bar. Which kept their course and lighted, This little O, the earth.

  He asked, in a friendly tone, “Where are you just coming from, Cass?” He looked at his watch. “It’s past two o’clock.”

  “I often get in past two o’clock,” she said. “Is this the first time you’ve noticed it?” She was astounded at the hostility in her voice. She sipped her drink. Her mind began to play strange tricks on her: her mind was filled, abruptly, with the memory of a field, long ago, in New England, a field with blue flowers in patches here and there. The field was absolutely silent and empty, it sloped g
ently toward a forest; they were hidden by tall grass. The sun was hot. Richard’s face was above her, his arms and his hands held and inflamed her, his weight pressed her down into the flowers. A little way from them lay his army cap and jacket; his shirt was open to the navel, and the rough, glinting hairs of his chest tortured her breasts. But she was resisting, she was frightened, and his face was full of pain and anger. Helplessly, she reached up and stroked his hair. Oh. I can’t.

  We’re getting married, remember? And I’m going overseas next week.

  Anybody can find us here!

  Nobody ever comes this way. Everybody’s gone away.

  Not here.

  Where?

  “No,” he said, with a dangerous quietness, “it’s not the first time I’ve noticed it.”

  “Well. It doesn’t matter. I’ve just left Ida.”

  “With Vivaldo?”

  She hesitated, and he smiled. “We were all together earlier. Then she and I went up to Harlem and had a drink.”

  “Alone?”

  She shrugged. “With lots of other people. Why?” But before he could answer, she added, “Ellis was there. He said he’s going to call you in a couple of days.”

  “Ah,” he said, “Ellis was there.” He sipped his drink. “And you left Ida with Ellis??”

  “I left Ida with Ellis’s party.” She stared at him. “What’s going on in your mind?”

  “And what did you do when you left Ida?”

  “I came home.”

  “You came straight home?”

  “I got into a taxi and I came straight home.” She began to be angry. “What are you cross-examining me for? I will not be cross-examined, you know, not by you, not by anyone.”

  He was silent— finished his vodka, and walked to the bar. “I think you’re drunk enough already,” she said, coldly. “If you have a question you want to ask me, ask it. Otherwise, I’m going to bed.”

  He turned and looked at her. This look frightened her, but she willed herself to be calm. “You are not going to bed for a while yet. And I have a great many questions I want to ask you.”

  “You may ask,” she said. “I may not answer. You’ve waited a very long time, it seems to me, to ask me questions. Maybe you’ve waited too long.” They stared at each other. And she saw, with a sense of triumph that made her ill, that, yes, she was stronger than he. She could break him: for, to match her will, he would be compelled to descend to stratagems far beneath him.

  And her mind was filled again with that bright, blue field. She shook with the memory of his weight, her desire, her terror, and her cunning. Not here. Where? Oh, Richard. The cruel sun, and the indifferent air, and the two of them burning on a burning field. She knew that, yes, she must now surrender, now that she had him; she knew that she could not let him go; and, oh, his hands, his hands. But she was frightened, she realized that she knew nothing: Can’t we wait? Wait. No. No. And his lips burned her neck and her breasts. Then let’s go to the woods. Let’s go to the woods. And he grinned. The memory of that grin rushed up from its hiding place and splintered her heart now. You’d have to carry me, or I’d have to crawl, can’t you feel it? Then, Let me in Cass, take me, take me, I swear I won’t betray you, you know I won’t!

  “I love you, Cass,” he said, his lips twitching and his eyes stunned with grief. “Tell me where you’ve been, tell me why you’ve gone so far away from me.”

  “Why I,” she said, helplessly, “have gone away from you?” The smell of crushed flowers rose to her nostrils. She began to cry.

  She did not look down. She looked straight up at the sun; then she closed her eyes, and the sun roared inside her head. One hand had left her— where his hand had been, she was cold.

  I won’t hurt you.

  Please.

  Maybe just a little. Just at first.

  Oh. Richard. Please.

  Tell me you love me. Say it. Say it now.

  Oh, yes. I love you. I love you.

  Tell me you’ll love me forever.

  Yes. Forever. Forever.

  He was looking at her, leaning on the bar, looking at her from far away. She dried her eyes with the handkerchief he had thrown in her lap. “Give me a cigarette, please.”

  He threw her the pack, threw her some matches. She lit a cigarette.

  “When was the last time you saw Ida and Vivaldo? Tell me the truth.”

  “Tonight.”

  “And you’ve been spending all this time— every time you come in here in the early morning— with Ida and Vivaldo?”

  She was frightened again, and she knew that her tone betrayed her. “Yes.”

  “You’re lying. Ida hasn’t been with Vivaldo. She’s been with Ellis. And it’s been going on a long time.” He paused. “The question is— where have you been? Who’s been with Vivaldo while Ida’s been away— till two o’clock in the morning?”

  She looked at him, too stunned for an instant, to calculate. “You mean, Ida’s been having an affair with Steve Ellis? For how long? And how do you know that?”

  “How do you— not know it?”

  “Why— everytime I saw them, they seemed perfectly natural and happy together—”

  “But many of the times you say you’ve been with them, you couldn’t have been with them because Ida’s been with Steve!”

  She still could not quite get it through her head, even though she knew that it was true and although she knew that precious seconds were passing, and that she must soon begin to fight for herself. “How do you know?”

  “Because Steve told me! He’s got a real thing about her, he’s going out of his mind.”

  Now, she did begin to calculate— desperately, cursing Ida for not having given her warning. But how could she have? She said, coldly, “Ellis at the mercy of a great passion—? don’t make me laugh.”

  “Oh, I know you think we’re made of the coarsest of coarse clay, and are insensitive to all the higher vibrations. I don’t care. You can’t have been seeing much of Ida— that I know. Have you been seeing much of Vivaldo? Answer me, Cass.”

  She said, wonderingly— for it was this she could not get through her head: “And Vivaldo doesn’t know—”

  “And you don’t, either? You’re the only two in town who don’t. What mighty distractions have you two found?”

  She winced and looked up at him. She saw that he was controlling himself with a great and terrible effort; that he both wanted to know the truth, and feared to know it. She could not bear the anguish in his eyes, and she looked away.

  How could she ever have doubted that he loved her!

  “Have you been seeing a lot of Vivaldo? Tell me.”

  She rose and walked to the window. She felt sick— her stomach seemed to have shrunk to the size of a small, hard, rubber ball. “Leave me alone. You’ve always been jealous of Vivaldo, and we both know why, though you won’t admit it. Sometimes I saw Vivaldo, sometimes I saw Vivaldo with Ida, sometimes I just walked around, sometimes I went to the movies.”

  “Till two o’clock in the morning?”

  “Sometimes I’ve come in at midnight, sometimes I’ve come in at four! Leave me alone! Why is it so important to you now? I’ve lived in this house like a ghost for months, half the time you haven’t known I was here— what does it matter now?”

  His face was wet and white and ugly. “I have lived here like a ghost, not you. I’ve known you were here, how could I not know it?” He took one step toward her. He dropped his voice. “Do you know how you made your presence known? By the way you look at me, by the contempt in your eyes when you look at me. What have I done to deserve your contempt? What have I done, Cass? You loved me once, you loved me, and everything I’ve done I’ve done for you.”

  She heard her voice saying coldly, “Are you sure? For me?”

  “Who else? who else? You are my life. Why have you gone away from me?”

  She sat down. “Let’s talk about this in the morning.”

  “No. We’ll talk about it now.”
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  He walked about the room— in order, she sensed, not to come too close to her, not to touch her; he did not know what would happen if he did. She covered her face with one hand. She thought of the ginger-colored boy and the Puerto Rican, Eric blazed up in her mind for a moment, like salvation. She thought of the field of flowers. Then she thought of the children, and her stomach contracted again. And the pain in her stomach somehow defeated lucidity. She said, and knew, obscurely, as she said it, that she was making a mistake, was delivering herself up, “Stop torturing yourself about Vivaldo— we have not been sleeping together.”