Movement by Valerie Miner Page B

glanced courteously at the seminar topics.
    Ronald explained. “We each wanted to reconsider our priorities, if you know what I mean. We had life all tallied up, but forgot to account for our feelings. It was, well, ‘passionless.’ A few months ago, I wouldn’t have been able to say ‘passionless.’ Do you understand?”
    Did she understand? Could she relate? Would she empathize? She had always tried before. She had been through this so often with the same character—the aging young professional who suddenly discovers that the missing ingredient is passion. So he practices spontaneity. He lets his receding hair grow past his ears and has it styled in the androgyne salon. He buys desert boots and work shirts and goes to Truffaut films. He espouses women’s liberation because no one should be afraid of flying. He eats yogurt for dessert and takes honey in his coffee to be good to his body in hopes that some lady will notice and be good to it too.
    â€œThe dichotomy is very well expressed in Equus, ” said Andre.
    â€œBut isn’t it a little forced, there?” said Susan. Caught now, she realized she had done the same therapy and attended the same plays. She was very relieved when a fresh young man in a blue linen jacket interrupted them. “May I serve you a wine?”
    â€œThat sounds super,” said Ronald. “But not South African.”
    â€œOr Chilean,” said Andre. “I don’t care if it was made before the coup. How about Mateus? That’s safe now, thank god, and it tastes decent. Mateus rosé? A nice political-culinary compromise?”
    â€œNot if you follow the MPLA line,” said Colin.
    She regarded them soberly. Trying to keep a straight face, she offered, “And not the Spanish if you consider the Basques. Nor the Greek, if you read Theodorakis’ statement last night. So why don’t we forget the whole thing and have beer? Here’s to conscienced alcoholism.” They did not laugh.
    Returning with a tray of Tartan cans, the confused waiter inquired tentatively, “And your dinner order?”
    â€œI’ll have moules marinières to begin,” said Andre. “And the lobster. That is local, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes sir,” said the waiter, pleased to find someone who ordered normally.
    â€œPommes au gratin and brussels sprouts.” He glanced with momentary regret at the wine list and then nodded graciously to Susan. “I hope you don’t mind my going first. One assumes it’s the proper thing to do in these days of increasing feminist sensibility.”
    Sounded like some kind of plague, this feminist sensibility. Relax, she told herself, and resolved to be less sardonic.
    â€œWell, now, Susan. How long are you here for?” asked Ronald. “On vacation? Alone?”
    â€œYes,” she said. “I’m on a working holiday.”
    â€œOh, for how long?” smiled Colin.
    â€œAbout a fortnight.”
    â€œA walking holiday,” said Ronald, mishearing her. “How sensible. Amazing how fleshy we get. Where are you walking?”
    â€œBus to Land’s End tomorrow,” she said. “I’m walking to St. Just.”
    â€œHey, why don’t you join us?” asked Ronald.
    She woke five minutes late the next morning, zipped into her clothes and ran out the room. Halfway down the street, she realized she had left the camera in her hotel. Damn, she couldn’t go back now.
    Ronald hopped out of the car and flourished open the door. “For you, madam,” he said and lowered his voice, “God, you look sexy.”
    Quickly, she checked the buttons on her blouse. OK. She failed to see the seductiveness of her faded jeans, especially since she packed into them like so much bulk cream cheese. Nodding good humoredly, she slid in next to Andre who was driving.
    â€œThis land,” said Ronald, “is sort of primal to me. My mother was born