counted the cracks in the wall. Empires had fallen, kingdoms been reshuffled, but that was over the horizon. I played a closet drama in which the machine would let me go … go where?
Here I lay upon another cot, drowsing through a hot forenoon, while outside upon the city streets men came and passed, errands were completed and work begun. I went down for lunch and came back to sit at my desk, driving myself dully through the hours which passed. I felt at a crisis in my work, impulses so contradictory, understanding so scattered, that an hour could go by and I would produce no more than a line or two and then discard it. By evening I felt the need to talk to McLeod.
NINE
C HARACTERISTICALLY , he sat upright on his hard chair, arms folded upon his chest, his knees crossed, his eyes boring into me from behind his silver-rimmed spectacles. Once or twice, in an unconscious gesture, his fingers would sharpen the crease of his trousers, and he would nod his head as if he had heard what I said many times.
I was talking about Guinevere, recounting in detail everything which passed between us. McLeod listened, a small smile upon his lips, chuckling from time to time in a manner I found disconcerting. Only once did he make a comment.
“What’s this about Jehovah’s Witnesses?” he asked.
I repeated some of the gospel she had preached, and McLeod shook his head. “She was making it up,” he said.
“I don’t know.”
“She was.” He fingered his lean jaw for an instant. “I’ve known her for some time, and I’ve never heard her speak about them. It’s inconceivable. She probably read something in a magazine, and then fed it back to you.”
“Well, what about her husband?” I protested. “She says he’s religious.”
McLeod chuckled again. “I don’t believe I’ve met the gentleman,” he said lazily.
I went on with my story, and under McLeod’s scrutiny, sodispassionate, so balanced, I found myself admitting details which normally I would have found distasteful. In his presence I could find enthusiasm for the balm of confession as if nothing I might relate would ever provoke a dishonest reaction. The story launched upon the ways, I searched out facets I had almost forgotten, recalled conversations with an accuracy which startled me.
McLeod listened, soberly and quietly, a tight smile pinching his thin lips. When I had finished, he removed his eyeglasses, wiped them carefully, took out a comb and smoothed his straight hair. “Well,” he murmured. Abruptly, he began to shake with laughter. He controlled himself by an effort and murmured in a slow unsteady voice, “So you’re finding it hard to work, eh?”
This tipped his mirth again. Jeering at me, he continued to laugh. “What a woman she is,” he said at last, and then with a look at me, “What a duet.” He replaced his eyeglasses, stared through them at me. “The fat ghost and the pale ghost,” he stated. “Tell me, Lovett, do you think she’ll bestow the ultimate pleasure upon you?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “And by now I don’t think I care.
“Oh, you’ll care again. She’ll expire before she’ll let you get indifferent. She needs a spy.” With a transparent pleasure, he paused before he spoke again, his finger uplifted. “Tell me, Lovett, will you go and report our conversation to her? That’ll round out the picture, you know.”
“What are you talking about?”
He shrugged, his face impassive. “It’s conceivable, it’s conceivable.”
I disregarded what he had said; other questions pressed upon me more. “Look, what do you make of her?” I asked.
“Lovett, I’ll give you some of my wisdom,” McLeod drawled. “You’ll have to find out for yourself. Not everything can be learned by taking a pill.”
“Well, thanks.”
He grinned. “I’ll give you a tip to further your scientific inquiries along. If you want to know about her, you’ve got to imagine what her husband is like.”
“But neither
Jan (ILT) J. C.; Gerardi Greenburg
Celia Kyle, Lizzie Lynn Lee