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pimples. She began to shiver. She was about to cry, lacking spirit, prepared
for pain and disillusion. Jacques realized that their encounter was
tainted by ugly circumstance, his own; but he was not going to let go
just now, it would be too dreary. Who said it was what she wanted? Not
her, at any rate. She came close to him, sensual mouth on his greying
hairy chest (he looked down), thick bright locks tickling his shoulder.
He leaned forward to kiss her on a mildly feverish temple. Was she going
to sob? She looked up, the wide open blue eyes were slightly wet but all
the clouds had been blown away. She kissed his neck, sucking a small
rose of spring blood through the rejuvenated skin, then they locked
in embrace, her surprisingly heavy breasts alternately pressed and
brushing against him. The foreplay lasted what seemed half a lifetime.
They had their eyes, rapturously empty of thought, digging into the
unfathomable mirrors of each other as he penetrated her, ever so slowly.
Feeling, feeding their whole mellow bodies to each other. Lychees after
a hot spicy meal. A long lost young voice in him said : “I love you, I
love you.” Although no sound other than an anguished sigh came out
of his mouth, she could hear the words through her own low moaning,
their exact desperate tone. It had been rehearsed every day since he was
fifteen, it was unmistakably true, because there is no greater truth than
the one wrought by the apprenticeship of death. Yet, for the same reason,
she did not come. Three, four times in a row, a bushfire climax built up
somewhere behind her head, it went away, following its own indifferent
trail through the silently screeching, scorched tall gums, “là-bas dans la
montagne,” leaving her forlorn, her hands empty, meaninglessly repelling
the heaving chest of the stranger she was straddling.
They were both exhausted. They lay still, side by side, holding
hands, looking at the shadows of the bedside lamps and the small cracks
in the ceiling. She turned sideways. The red digits of the alarm clock read
12.46 am. He was stroking her belly, the narrow space from the top of
her pubic hair to the navel and back. Tears were running from the corner
of her eye. “I am sorry that you did not enjoy it,” Jacques began to
apologize, “do you want me to caress you? I want you to be happy with
me, I’ll do anything. —It’s not your fault. It’s not a matter of doing one
thing or another. I don’t know what’s happened. I couldn’t concentrate.
Maybe I’m just tired. I wanted you, though. —I know, I know. But I
shouldn’t insist tonight. Everything has gone too fast. I have behaved
as if there were nothing special to it. But it was very special, believe
me. Please tell me you’re not angry at me, tell me we’ll try again. —Of
course we will.” She sat up in bed, without drawing the top sheet to her
breasts. It was not a movie, it was life, with its own aesthetics, its own
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