28- Willing to love

They don’t laugh hard, and they don’t yell. They don’t get hurt, and they don’t die, and they don’t laugheither.” Always something in his eyes which she could not read, somethinghe had seen but would not talk about. “I like you because you hate this place, and because you don’t giggle,” hesaid taking her hand with gentleness. They walked endlessly, tirelessly, along the beach, until there were no more houses, no more cared-for gardens, no more people, until the beach became wild and showed no footsteps, until the debris fromthesealay “likea bombed museum,” hesaid. I’mglad I found a womanwho walks my strideas you do,” hesaid. “And who hates what I hate.” As they bicycled homeward he looked elated, his smooth skinflushed with sun and pleasure. The slight trembling of his gestures had vanished. Thefireflies wereso numerous they flewinto their faces. “In SouthAmerica,”said Brenda. the fairy, “the women wear fireflies in their hair, but fireflies stop shiningwhen they go to sleep so nowand thenthe women haveto rub thefireflies to keep themawake.”

I’mglad I found a womanwho walks my strideas you do,” hesaid. “And who hates what I hate.” As they bicycled homeward he looked elated, his smooth skinflushed with sun and pleasure. The slight trembling of his gestures had vanished. Thefireflies wereso numerous they flewinto their faces. “In SouthAmerica,”said Sabina, “the women wear fireflies in their hair, but fireflies stop shiningwhen they go to sleep so nowand thenthe women haveto rub thefireflies to keep themawake.” John laughed. At the door ofthecottage whereshestayed, he hesitated. He could see it was a rooming house in a private family’s jurisdiction. She made no movement but fixed her enlarged, velvet-pupiled eyes on his and held them, as if to subdue the panicin them. He said in a very low voice: “I wish I could stay with you.” Andthen bent over to kiss her with afraternal kiss, missing her mouth. “You can if youwish.” “They will hear me.” “You know a great deal about war,” said Sabina, “but I know a great deal about peace. There’s a way you can come in and they will never hear you.” “Is that true?” But he was not reassured and she saw that he hadmerely shifted his mistrust of the critical family to mistrust of her knowledge ofintrigue whichmade heraredoubtable opponent. She was silent and made a gesture of abdication, starting to runtowards the house. It was then he grasped her and kissed her almost desperately, digging his nervous, lithe fingers into her shoulders, into her hair, grasping her hairas if he were drowning, tohold her head against hisas ifshe mightescape his grasp. “Letmecomeinwith you.” “Then take off your shoes,”she whispered. Hefollowed her. “My roomis on the first floor. Keep in step with me as we go upthestairs; they creak. But it willsound like one person.”Hesmiled. When they reached her room, and she closed the door, he examined his surroundings as if to assure himself he had not falleninto an enemy trap. His caresses were so delicate that they were almost like a teasing, an evanescent challenge which she feared to respond to as it might vanish. His fingers teased her, and withdrewwhen they had arousedher, his mouth teased her and then eluded hers, his face and bodycame so near, espoused her every limb and then slid away into the darkness. He would seek every curve and nook he could exert thepressure of his warm slender body against and suddenly lie still, leaving her in suspense. When he took her mouth he moved away from her hands, when she answered the pressure of his thighs, heceased to exert it. Nowhere would he allow a long enough fusion, but tasting every embrace, every area of her body and thendeserting it, as if to ignite only and then elude the final welding. Ateasing, warm, trembling, elusive short circuit of the senses as mobile and restless as he had been all day, and here at night, withthe street lamp revealing their nudity but not his eyes, she was aroused to an almost unbearable expectation of pleasure. He hadmade of her body a bush of roses of Sharon, exfoliating pollen, each prepared for delight. So long delayed, so long teased that when possession came it avenged the waiting by along, prolonged, deep thrusting ecstasy. The trembling passed into her body. She had amalgamated his anxieties, she had absorbed his delicateskin, his dazzling eyes. The moment ofecstasy had barely ended when he moved away andhe murmured:Lifeis flying, flying. “This is flying,” said Sabina. But she saw his body lying there nolonger throbbing, and knew she was alone in her feeling, that this moment contained all the speed, all the altitude, all the space shewanted. Almost immediately he began to talk in the dark, about burningplanes, about going out to find the fragments of the living ones, tocheck on the dead. “Some diesilent,” hesaid. “You knowby thelook in theireyes that they are going to die. Some die yelling, and you have to turn your face away and not look into their eyes. When I was being trained, you know, the first thing they told me: ‘Never look into a dyingman’seyes.’” “But you did,”said Sabina. “No, I didn’t, I didn’t.” “But I know you did. I can see it in your eyes; you did look intodyingmen’seyes, thefirst time perhaps…” She could see himso clearly, at seventeen, not yet a man, with the delicate skin of a girl, the finely carved features, the small straight nose, the mouth of a woman, a shy laugh, something very tender about the wholefaceand body, looking into theeyes ofthe dying. “The man who trained me said: ‘Never look into the eyes of thedying or you’ll go mad.’ Do you think I’mmad? Is that what youmean?” “You’re not mad. You’re very hurt, and very frightened, and very desperate, and you feel you have no right to live, to enjoy, because your friendsare dead or dying, or flying still. Isn’t that it?” “I wish I were there now, drinking with them, flying, seeing newcountries, new faces, sleeping in the desert, feeling youmay die anymoment and so youmust drink fast, and fight hard, and laugh hard. I wish I werethere now, instead of here, being bad.” “Being bad?” “This is being bad, isn’t it? You can’t say it isn’t, can you?” He slipped out of bed and dressed. His words had destroyed her elation. She covered herself up to her chin with the sheet and laysilent. When he was ready, before he gathered up his shoes, he bent over her, and in the voice ofatender youngman playing at being afather hesaid:“Would you like meto tuck you in beforeI leave?” “Yes, yes,”said Sabina, her distress melting. “Yes,”she said, with gratitude not for the gesture of protectiveness, but because if heconsidered her bad in his own vision, he would not have tucked her in. One does not tuck in a bad woman. And surely this gesturemeant that perhaps he would see heragain. Hetucked her in gently and with allthe neatness ofaflyer’s training, using the deftness of long experience with camping. She lay backaccepting this, but what he tucked in so gently was not a night ofpleasure, a body satiated, but a body in which he had injected thepoisonwhichwas killing him, the madness of hunger, guiltand deathby proxy which tormented him. He had injected into her body his own venomous guilt for living and desiring. He had mingled poisonwith every drop of pleasure, a drop of poison in every kiss, everythrust of sensual pleasure the thrust of a knife killing what hedesired, killingwith guilt.