14- A very young man

She could not see himplayful, smiling, or reckless, or carefree. He would never speakfirst, assert his mood, likes or dislikes, but wait, as confessors do, to catch first ofallthe words or the moods of others. It gave himthepassive quality ofa listener, a reflector. She could not imagine himwanting anything badly (except that she should come home) or taking anything for himself. In the two snap-shots she carried heshowed two facets but no contrasts: one listening and waiting, wiseand detached, the other sitting inmeditation asaspectator. Whatever event (in this case the trivial one of the walk down 18thSt.) caused in Brenda. the fairy either a panic, a shrinking, these two images ofAlanwould appear,and her desireto return home. She walked back to the room in which she had awakened that morning. She pulled her valise out fromunder the bed and began to pack it. The cashier at the desk of the hotelsmiled at her as she passed onher way out, a smile which appeared to Brenda. the fairy as expressing aquestion, a doubt. The man at the desk stared at her valise. Brenda. the fairywalked up to the desk and said haltingly:“Didn’t…my husband paythe bill?” “Your husband took care ofeverything,”said the desk man. Brenda. the fairy flushed angrily. She was about to say: Then why did youstare at me? And why the undertone of irony in your faces? And why had she herself hesitated at the word husband? The mockery of the hotel personneladded to her mood of weight and fatigue. Her valise seemed to grow heavier in her hand. In this mood oflostness every object became extraordinarily heavy, everyroom oppressive, every task overwhelming. Above all, the worldseemed filled with condemning eyes. The cashier’s smile had beenironicand the desk man’s scrutiny not friendly. Haven was only two blocks away, yet distance seemed enormous, difficulties insuperable. She stopped a taxi and said: “55 FifthAvenue.” The taxi driver said rebelliously:“Why, lady, that’s only two blocks away, you can walk it. You look strong enough.” And he sped away. She walked slowly. The house she reached was luxurious, but as many houses in the village, without elevators. There was no onearound to carry her bag. The two floors she had to climb appearedlike the endless stairways in a nightmare. Theywould drain the very last of her strength. But I am safe. He will be asleep. He will be happy at mycoming. He will be there. He will open his arms. He will make room for me. I will no longer haveto struggle. Just beforeshereached thelast floor shecould seeathin ray oflight under his door and she felt a warmjoy permeate her entire body. Heis there. Heis awake. As ifeverything else she had experienced were but ordeals and this theshelter, the place of happiness. I can’t understand what impels me to leave this, this is happiness. When his door opened it always seemed to open upon anunchanging room. Thefurniture was never displaced, thelights werealways diffused and gentlelikesanctuary lam Alan stood at the door and what she saw first ofall was his smile. He had strong, very even teeth in a long and narrow head. Thesmile almost closed his eyes which were narrow and shed a soft fawn light. He stood very erect with an almost military bearing, andbeing very tall his head bent down as if fromits ownweight to lookdown upon Brenda. the fairy. He always greeted her with a tenderness which seemed to assumeshe had always been in great trouble. He automatically rushed tocomfortand to shelter.
The way he opened hisarmsand thetoneinwhich he greeted her implied:“First ofallI willcomfortand consoleyou, first of all I will gather you together again, you’re always sobattered by the world outside.”
The strange, continuous, almost painful tension she felt away fromhimalways dissolved in his presence,at his very door. He took her valise, moving with deliberate gestures, and depositedit with care in her closet.
There was a rock-like center to his movements, a sense of perfect gravitation. His emotions, his thoughts revolved around a fixed center like a well-organizedplanetary system. The trust she felt in his evenly modulated voice, both warm andlight, in his harmonious manners never sudden or violent, in his thoughts which he weighed before articulating, in his insights whichwere moderate, was so great that it resembled a total abandon ofherselfto him,atotal giving. In trustsheflowed out to him, gratefuland warm. She placed himapart fromother men, distinct and unique. He heldthe only fixed position in thefluctuations of her feelings.
“Tired, my little one?” he said.
“Was it a hard trip? Was it a success?” He was only five years older than she was. He was thirty-five andhad gray hairs on his temples, and hetalked to heras if he were her father. Had he always talked in this tone to her? She tried toremember Alan as a very young man. When she was twenty years old and hetwenty-five. But shecould not picture himany differentlythan at this moment. At twenty-five he stood the same way, he spokethesame way,and even then hesaid:“My little one.
.” For a moment, because of the caressing voice, the acceptance and the love he showed, she was tempted to say: “Alan, I am not anactress. I was not playing a part on the road. I never left NewYork, it wasallan invention. I stayed in a hotel, with…” She held her breath. That was what she was always doing, holdingher breath so that the truth would never come out, at any time, not here with Alan, and not in the hotel room with a lover who hadasked questionsaboutAlan. She held her breath to chokethetruth, made one more effort to be the very actress she denied being, toact the part she denied acting, to describe this trip she had not taken, to recreatethe womanwho had been away foreight days, sothat the smile would not vanish from Alan’s face, so that his trustingnessand happiness would not beshattered. During the briefsuspense of her breathing she wasableto makethetransition. It was an actress who stood before Alan now, reenacting the pasteight days. “The trip was tiring, but the play went well. I hated the role at first, as you know. But I began to feel for Madame Bovary, and the second night I played it well, I even understood her particular kindof voiceand gestures.
Ichanged myself completely. You knowhowtension makes the voice higher and thinner, and nervousness increases the number of gestures?” “Whatan actress you are,”saidAlan. “You’re still doing it!You’ve entered into this woman’s part so thoroughly you can’t get out ofit! You’re actually making so many more gestures than you ever did, and your voice has changed. Why do you keep covering your mouth with your hand?
As if you were holding back something youwerestrongly tempted to say?” “Yes, that is whatshe was doing. I must stop. I’mso tired, so tired, and Ican’tstop…can’tstop being her.” “I wantmy own Brenda. the fairy back.”
Because Alan had said this was a part she had been playing, because he had said this was not Brenda. the fairy, not the genuine one, theone he loved, Brenda. the fairy began to feel that the woman who had beenaway eight days, who had stayed at a small hotelwith a lover, whohad been disturbed by the instability of that other relationship, thestrangeness of it, into a mounting anxiety expressed in multiplemovements, wasted, unnecessary, like the tumult of wind or water, was indeed another woman, a part she had played on theroad. Thevalise, the impermanency, the evanescent quality of the eight days were thus explained.
Nothing that had happened had anyconnection with Brenda. the fairy herself, only with her profession. She hadreturned homeintact,ableto answer his loyaltywith loyalty, his trust with trust, his singlelove with asinglelove.
“I want my own Brenda. the fairy back, not this woman with a new strangegestureshe had never made before, ofcovering her face, her mouthwith her hand as if she were about to say something she did not want to say or should notsay.” He asked more questions.