Issue 3 - Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art

They sit together in the turret, one opposite the
other. The man smiles, tapping his fingers on the desk,
making a rapid steady beat like a drum roll, keeping his
eyes on this . . . should he say "woman"? ... in the
long red gown. The face is as perfectly articulated as a
model's, with dark eyes, blushing cheeks—and those
hands he'd thought made for sorting orders, for cranking
postage meters and operating gummed-tape machines,
now extend, as though shyly, from ruffled
sleeves, nails long and as red as the gown, as the lips.
He must reach across and touch that hand. Where, he
wants to ask, have you been all my life?
The sex of the figure on the bed is perhaps best
described as indeterminable. There is the woman's slip,
white and silky, and the nylons, dark and silky. The
eyes appear to be heavily outlined, the lashes thickened
by craft. Draped across the chair is a red gown, and the
air in the room is heavy with perfume. But see how the
legs spread far apart, see the dark chest hard where all
ought to be soft and white, the arms long and with such
sharp lines, the large hands and thick fingers.
Sad contradictions. It is as though the pathetic creature
had got into its head the notion that it could create
itself anew—through force of will make itself over into
something, somebody, someone (the body not fully reckoned
with until the end) of its own choosing and design.
Ha! Ignotum per ignotius.
Ted tells of a strange dream. He defies me to explain
it.
He walks across a lawn, a spacious, green lawn, a
well-manicured lawn, and sees a large bird, perhaps an
eagle, crouching or sitting as though on a nest. He feels
concern for the bird, worries that it might be injured,
and therefore walks toward it with a view to being of
service. But the bird rises, flaps its great wings, soars
upwards before he can reach it, then glides in circles
18
above him, floating in wind currents. He sees another
bird, though also in the grass, this one certainly an
eagle, and, unlike the first, not rising at his approach, in
fact rolling over onto its back, sticking its talons up into
the air, looking for all the world as if in desire for him to
stroke its feathery chest. He takes the bird, heavy and
warm and unresisting, into his arms, cradling it as
though it were an infant. But now it seems that there is
still another bird on the lawn. Yes. And another. These
birds are everywhere. Disgusted, then afraid, he throws
the bird down and runs toward an open field in the
distance, hearing behind him the fluttering of wings.
We must not, I tell Ted, deny our maternal impulses.
The room is silent. Before leaving, you turn for one
last look. The figure lies as still as before. But you notice
a red effluence on the slip—how could you have missed
it? It grows even as you watch, a bright red flower,
radiant rose, blossoming as if in response to some sudden
nurturing light. At the very center of the loins,
against the whiteness of the slip, it glows, tinting the
room a pale red, the brilliance becoming so intense that
finally it is all you can see, all you want to see. You
know that you could never leave.
V
Clearly I had no choice. Look, I told myself, you
either climb out the window, whatever the risk, or you
open the door and go into the room. I could wait no
longer. To continue to do so seemed only to prolong, to
promote, the old duplicitous life. My situation was in
movement, ex necessitate rei. Give myself over to the
multitudes, the hapless bourgeoisie, by plunging from
the window? No, there was nothing but to open the
door, steal a last look in the mirror, enter the room.
19