in the dark, âNorman, Iâm scared.â
He didnât answer at first, not knowing what she expected of him. âI think,â he said, âitâs natural. At least, I hope it is, because I am scared shitless. But Iâm not sure you should tell me thatâs how you feel if thatâs how you feel.â
âWhy on earth not, if thatâs how I feel?â
âLook at it, Gus.â He lit a cigarette. âYouâre telling me youâre not sure Iâm right for you. It may be a natural fear but hearing you state it is not exactly reassuring to me. If you ask me,â he said, âitâs a classic demonstration of displaced hostility.â
âNobody asked you. Would you mind putting out that cigarette? The smoke isnât good for my lungs.â
âYou never told me that before, Gus.â
âYou never asked. Iâve worked very hard to develop my diaphragm muscles.â
Norman stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray on his side of the bed. He had to use the butt as a flashlight to locate the ashtray on the table, before he could stub it out.
âAnyway,â Gus said, âyou already got your own back by telling me youâre just as scared as I am. I donât know why we shouldnât be a little nervous. Itâs not every day that people vow to spend the rest of their lives together.â
Norman felt as if his heart was a rose planted in the garden of his soul, and somebody was digging it up for transplant, every root torn from its rightful place. âDo you think you may have made a mistake?â he asked her, barely able to squeeze the question past his throat.
âThatâs not it!â What was it? A sense of missed possibility. She would have liked to marry the world; instead, she was cutting herself off from most of it. And she did mean âmarry,â not âsleep with.â Or maybe âsleep withâ was what she meant. How could she know, if sheâd never found out? âNorman,â she pleaded, thinking of the wide world to be seen, âletâs go to Africa.â
âSure. First thing in the morning,â he said.
âIâm serious. To see the hippopotami.â
âAnd the rhinoceri.â
âAnd the anthropophagi.â
âWildebeests.â
âElephants.â
âGiraffes! Zebras! Gazelles!â
âThe poisonous horned viper!â
âCome on, what do you know from horned vipers?â
âYou see,â Gus said, weeping, sitting up, and biting her knee, âyou see how little you know about me? My father used to work in a zoo. When he was putting himself through school. He was an assistant.â
âTake it easy,â Norman said; âyouâre hysterical.â
âIâm not, Iâm not.â She did know perfectly well what she was doing, but she couldnât stop herself; she wanted him to be just as alarmed as she was. When she caught the note of panic in his voice, she calmed down.
âHey,â he said, soothing her, ârelax.â He pulled her down beside him and stroked her forehead until she was still. It seemed to him that he held his future in his arms, and that it was going to require infinite attention and tenderness if it was to turn out the way he wanted. Deep exhaustion seized him.
So Gus pretended to fall asleep in Normanâs arms, but he fell asleep first. The radiator stopped steaming. The room grew cold again; Augustaâs nose on the outside of the blanket felt as cold to her own touch as a puppyâs muzzle. She used to have a dog called Caesar. It seemed to her unbearably sad, that she once had a dog called Caesar and no longer did. She listened to Normanâs breathing. There was always something urgent about it, his sleep-breath, something superintense, as if to breathe by night called for as much concentration as thinking by day. It seemed to Gus odd that she could never know her own night