A Week as Andrea Benstock
- Автор: Блок Лоуренс
- Год: 1975
- Язык: английский
- Год: Arbor House
- ISBN: 978-0-87795-100-1
- Жанр: Романы для взрослых
Электронная книга - «A Week as Andrea Benstock». Краткое содержание книги:
She said, “We haven’t had this room before.”
“Huh? Haven’t we?”
“No.”
“Not the kind of thing I would remember. The rooms in this motel don’t have all that much in the way of individuality. If you’ve seen one you’ve seen ’em all.”
“I was wondering something,” she said. He waited, and she said, “I was wondering why we bother with this. You and I.”
“Because it feels good.”
“Is that all?”
He swung his legs up onto the bed, balanced his glass on his stomach. “The sex is good,” he said.
“It’s not bad for me. But it’s not really the thrill of a lifetime for you, is it?”
“I always have a good time.” He sounded just the least bit defensive.
She closed her eyes for a moment, considering this. The sex was always good for her. He always knew how to hold and touch her, and her response was always powerful, almost too intense. And yet this power and intensity did not always add up to pleasure. It was a physical reaction, a response on the part of her body which did not seem to involve more than her body, so that she was paradoxically capable of having positively electric orgasms without feeling herself to be a participant in them.
“There’s something beyond the sex.”
“Well, we enjoy each other’s company. That’s hardly a revelation.”
“That’s not what I mean,” she said. “What makes us come to this room is the people who aren’t in it.”
“That’s a little too cryptic for me.”
“Your wife and my husband.”
He looked at her.
“It’s the relationship,” she went on. “If you and Mark weren’t partners, if Ellie and I weren’t friends—”
“You’re not.”
“What?”
“You can’t stand Ellie,” he said. “You think she’s a stupid cow with brains in her tits.”
“That’s an awful thing to say.”
He shrugged. “Maybe. But why? If Mark and I didn’t happen to be partners you and Ellie would never have known each other. The two of you are cordial to each other and that’s really all that’s necessary. There’s no reason why you should pretend to have something in common.” He reached for his glass. “I don’t think Ellie particularly exists for you. You represent something to her, as it happens. I think she sees you as the sort of woman she ought to be in order to be the ideal wife for me.”
“In what way? I mean what is it about me she finds admirable?”
“Oh, you’re educated, you’re polished, you’re sophisticated.”
“I am like hell.”
“In her lights you are. And you’re witty and verbally agile and she thinks these are things that are important to me.”
“Aren’t they?”
“No, not really, but she doesn’t know that. As it happens she’s very much the kind of wife I want and need. You look surprised.”
“A little.”
“Why?”
“Maybe it was the way you said that, so matter of fact and all. I don’t know. I suppose I’ve always wondered why you married her.”
He seemed about to respond to her last remark. Instead he said, “You know, what you said a minute ago is probably fairly accurate. It is other people that keep us coming back here. And more than anything else it’s your husband.”
“Yes.”
“I think we got here the first time under our own steam. That business in the kitchen, there was a strong attraction between us, physical and otherwise. And we were both of us ready for an adventure.”
“You’ve had adventures before, haven’t you?”
“That didn’t keep me from being ready. And you were ready, it showed all over you.”
“I didn’t recognize it myself, though.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So that was enough to get us into bed once.”
“But not enough to keep us coming back for more.” He darted a glance at her. “You know, this is probably the best way to kill the whole thing. By talking it to death.”
“Maybe.”
“Let’s forget it, huh?”
“But I’m enjoying the talk.”
“Anyway it’s getting late.” He was out of bed, getting his undershorts from the chair.
“You really don’t want to talk about it.”
“That’s right.”
“Maybe it’s already talked to death. Maybe we can just forget about seeing each other any more.”
“If that’s what you want.”
“Hey!”
“Oh, hell,” she said. “Why is everything always so fucking complicated? Why does everything get messed up? I screw up everything I touch.”
“Easy, now.”
“Don’t call me any more, all right? Oh, shit, do I mean that? I don’t even know. I’m using you to get even with Mark and I don’t know why I’m mad at him. He never did anything to me. Nobody ever did anything to me. I’m the one who does everything, I fuck up other people and I fuck myself up. I love Mark. He’s my husband and I love him.”
He didn’t say anything.
“So what am I doing here? That’s a good question, isn’t it? If I love him so damn much what am I doing here?” She had been striding around the room while he went on dressing, not looking directly at her. Now he turned slowly toward her and she felt suddenly vulnerable in her nakedness.
“Cass? What should I do?”
“Better put some clothes on for openers.”
“I’m serious. What should I do?”
But he had no answer for her. That evening she decided that she would definitely not see him again. Whatever roles they were playing for each other, whatever itches they scratched in that motel, she was certain they were doing each other more harm than good. He probably realized as much himself, she told herself, and it was more than possible that he would not call her again. But if he did call she would not see him.
That night Mark made love to her. It always bothered her when they made love on the same day that she had been with Cass, and yet it seemed to happen that way more often than not. This particular time their lovemaking was intense and exciting, inordinately exciting, and it left her with a feeling of profound fulfillment that still blanketed her when she awakened the following morning.
So it was over. She had had a fairly stupid and pointless affair for reasons which she might or might not sometime examine, and it was over.
A few days later she decided she would see Cass one more time. Not to go to bed with him — she would definitely not go to bed with him — but because there was a conversation they had not quite gotten around to having and she felt it was one that ought to take place.
And then he did call. They had their usual quick conversation, agreeing to meet at the usual time and place. And she met him as agreed, and they went to bed, and they did not talk about any of the things she had decided needed to be discussed.
In the middle of the afternoon of her thirtieth birthday, Andrea sat at the kitchen table. There was a cup of coffee on the table in front of her, and a cigarette burned in the ashtray alongside the cup. The ash on the cigarette was almost two inches long now. She was letting the cigarette burn up, and she was letting the coffee grow cold, and it seemed to her suddenly that she was letting everything burn up or cool off, that things went on without her, that all the parts of her life were running away from her.
No, not running. Walking, and walking slowly, stepping off in slow motion. And all she could do was sit and watch.
She was alone in the house now. Robin was at the zoo, her little hand firmly gripped in her grandfather’s hand. About half an hour ago David Kleinman had pulled his car into the driveway, first to give her his birthday wishes in person, then to attend to the more important matter of taking Robin for a ride.
He had been an enthusiastic grandfather from the day she was born, always anxious to spend time with her, but since his heart attack he had devoted a much larger portion of his time to Robin and seemed to take more delight than ever in her company.