1yulSVC

And Not to Have is the Beginning of Desire
she’s mediocre, or she’s jealous, or she’s old. It would be pathetic to explain
that she had once been the object of desire. She has been here too long.
Otto keeps her endlessly revising the proposal for her dissertation. He
explains, in the most reasonable tone, that clearly defining her ideas will
save her time and energy, but she has turned in eleven drafts of her proposal,
and each time he finds some subtle point to criticize, then collapses
her whole castle of cards. She sips her wine and opens her desk drawer
to look at the pistol. It’s a lady’s piece with pearl inlay on the handle, a
slender barrel, late nineteenth century. The antiques dealer assured her
it would still work.
Otto and Katherine walk into the English office together––cheeks flushed,
coats open, satchels over their shoulders––like adventurers from afar. They
conduct themselves with a willed youthfulness, although Katherine has
cut her hair in a middle-aged bob, and Otto’s dark hair is thinning.
“Hi, Eleanor.” Katherine smiles as if something amusing has just happened.
As she and Otto stand at the mailboxes, gathering their mail, Otto
leans into her to say something sotto voce. Katherine laughs.
Otto turns, as if remembering they’re in the presence of others.
“Eleanor, if I give you something to scan could you take care of it this
morning”
“Sure, Otto. No problem.” Eleanor understands the masquerade now,
although it still feels awkward. His voice, warm and courteous, is a mask
for his polite withdrawal. When she first arrived, he had asked why she
was working as a secretary, as if it were clear that this work was too pedestrian
for her abilities. Noticing her interest in Shakespeare, he had praised
her intelligence and taste. He left her little notes. Privately, he called her
Portia. He never touched her.
The first time he called from his office upstairs, Eleanor was surprised,
imagining he wanted some administrative task dispatched. Instead he said,
“Let me read you something,” and he read a quote from Wallace Stevens,
one she didn’t completely understand.
Sometimes he called to ask her advice about something he could have
easily decided for himself. When the office was empty, she would tell him
a funny anecdote from her day, and his voice, full of intelligence and humor,
encouraged her, as if she were fleshing out an idea that had previously
been abstract to him. One afternoon, they’d been laughing on the
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