The Ginger Man - J. P. Donleavy [29]
Poking the fried bread with her fork, breaking it. Putting it in her mouth and looking at him. His child had his hair and eyes. His child a lovely child. Nice not to be alone. And Saturday and Sunday to stay in bed.
Mr. Dangerfield took the crust of his bread and wiped up the grease. Into his mouth with it.
"Very good. I'll say this, Chris, it's a fine country for the bacon."
"Yes."
"And now, may I suggest something?"
"Yes."
"Shall we have some refreshment?"
"Yes."
"I know of a very fine house."
"I'm going to get out my nylons. Precious. Get out of these drab things."
"Sensible."
"Drab. But as drabness goes, the least drab."
She unfolds the diaphanous things. Facing me. O but fully fashioned.
"My dear Chris, you do have a lovely pair of legs. Strong. You hide them"
"My dear Sebastian, I do thank you. I'm not hiding them. Does that make men follow one ? "
"It's the hair that does that"
"Not the legs?"
The hair and the eyes."
"So you're the man out of that tattered little house."
"It's me."
"Do you mind if I say something?"
"Not at all."
"You look like a bank clerk or perhaps someone who works in a coal office. Except for that funny tie."
"I stole that from an American friend."
"I must say you're the most curious American I've ever met. I don't like them as a rule."
"They're a fine, fleshy race."
"And you live in that house with brown torn shades. You know, the walls and roof are in a terrible state."
"My landlord doesn't see it that way."
"None do. I'm ready. I'm glad you asked me to go and have a drink."
Chris suggested a bottle of gin. Mr. Dangerfield up importantly to deal with the transaction.
"Let's not stay here. It depresses me. Look how drunk they get and I always feel that one of them is going to lurch over here and start to talk to us. Let's go for a walk. I like that so much better."
"I like you, Chris."
"Do you mean that?"
"Yes."
"You know, I don't know quite where I stand with you."
And on the Saturday night street with the old women going in to look for them ones wasting the money and have a quick malt hidden in their hands and the frolic of high-skirted girls pecking the pavements on their way in this fantastic poverty. They walked along the canal. The moon came out and shadows leaping on the water. Tightly she held his hand. Thinking happiness. The windows low down beneath the grates. People collected in the cellars around red specks of fire, gray heads on gray chests. Most of Dublin dead. A fresh wet air from the West. Turning down Clanbrassil Street. That canal goes across Ireland to the Atlantic The Jewish shops. She pulled his arm against her breast A few freckles on her upper lip.
"I wonder if it's possible, Sebastian"
"What?"
"If we are possible."
"Yes."
"Do you know what Fm talking about?"
"I think so."
The West's taken the rain out of the sky. They walked slowly. His feet in nervous restraint. Her soft voice speaking, pushing at the night.
"What about your wife?"
"Marion?"
"Yes."
"What about her?"
"Well, she's your wife. And you have a child."
"That's so."
"You're not helping me, you know."
"I can't, I don't know myself."
"Do you care for them, for Marion?"
"I'm fond of Marion, at times extremely fond of both her and the child, but I've made them both unhappy."
"What about us?"
"Us?"
"Yes."
"I think we're good for one another."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
"For how long are we good for one another?"
"That's impossible to tell I feel very strongly about you."
She stopped and turned to him.
"I like you. It's so much harder for a woman if love means anything and it does to all women and I want it to mean something to me."
"I like you too, very much."
"Let's go back to the room."
Gentle tugging of her hand.
They returned through three narrow streets. Feet hesitant on the steps. Lock turning. Into the little room and its new bright light. Chris pulled the curtains closed. Sebastian pouring gin, his back to the fire place. She stood on the green carpet, unbuttoning her jacket. Watching her, the long dark-haired girl. Drinking my gin with a shaking hand. She stood silently in the center of the room, facing him. He sat down. Crossing her narrow wrists upon the hem of her sweater she drew the wool garment over her head and pulled it from her arms. Folding it gently on the bed. Hands reversed behind her back, her hair, her hint. I know how you are underneath. Walking over to his chair, stooped over his head. You've pushed your breast against my face. And the solid tip on my mouth and between my teeth. Up in your eyes you're crying and tears collecting on your chin. She pushes his head back over the chair and touches his eyes with her fingers. Softly telling him.