last day. The next morning we fly home.”
Yes, they would have the dress and shoes by late afternoon. All the way back to the hotel, she kept thinking about her children. For the first time since they had left home, she felt a painful longing for their faces, for Jerry's merriment and Emma's curiosity. With all her heart, she longed for her children.
They had their dinner. Gerald had missed the man at the hospital, so he had spent the time buying gifts. Punctilious as always, he had chosen appropriately for Hy'sparents, for Arnie, for Emma and Jerry, for the people in the office, and for Sandy, in appreciation.
They went to a nightclub with the Americans whom Gerald had met in the hotel lobby. And sitting there beside her husband, Hyacinth felt again the loneliness that had corroded the afternoon. He and the other couple were enjoying everything, the crowd, the bustle, and the prance of the naked women. Pretending to be one with the mood, she feigned pleasure. Truly she found no fault with any of this; people were entitled to their tastes. If only she could know what Gerald really wanted, she would willingly give it to him.
What could be wrong? Another woman? Was that absurd, or was it not? It was absurd; he had everything, her ceaseless love, his work, their children, their home, everything. She sat there twisting her rings: the wedding band and the precious diamond chip he had bought with his first month's pay.
“Well,” he said in their room that night, “just one more day. I could turn around and come right back here again next month.”
“I didn't think you loved it that much.”
“Who, me? What makes you say that?”
“You haven't been very jolly these last few days, Gerald. Haven't I been asking you why you're so morose?”
“Morose? You mean because I didn't enjoy the tour at Chartres?”
“Of course I didn't mean that. Please, please, don't dodge the question. Answer me: Is it anything I've done? Be honest with me.”
“No, and no, and no again to your silly question.”
“Do you swear it?”
“Yes, I swear it.”
Lamplight fell upon the bright black hair and on the dimple in the chin that softened the intensely virile face. She thought of the sculpture she had seen that afternoon, and without intending to, she made a sound that was part outcry and part sigh, blinking the tears back, although not before he had seen them.
“What's the matter with you, Hy? What is it? Oh, I hate to see you like this. If it's my fault, I'm sorry. But there's no reason, you're imagining—”
She ran to him. “Pick me up and carry me to the bed the way you used to do. I love you so….”
Later, while Gerald slept his usual peaceful sleep, she lay awake staring through the darkness at the outlines of the marble mantel, of flowers on a table, and of luggage, the best fine luggage, waiting in the corner. She had wanted affirmation, and he had given it, or had at least pretended to. Can there be, she asked herself, an impersonal way of doing what is so personal? Why yes, of course there can be. It is as if you did not care who lay there with you.
Quietly, she slid out of the bed and went to the window. It was very late, and traffic in the grand Place had slowed. Lanterns bordered the bridge that stretched across the river. On the other side stood stately public buildings, presenting to the world the face of dignity, that face which human beings present each day to one another.
But beyond these, and all through the great pulsing city, in the little spaces where men and women livetogether, there are myriad others besides Hyacinth who, in a different language from hers, are crying her same cry, baffled by loneliness and a fear of falling.
Francine's telephone call came before breakfast in the morning. “Jim died. He slipped away without warning after dinner last night.”
CHAPTER NINE
T oo many things occurred during the following six weeks for Hyacinth to think very much about herself, so that the time in
Yes, they would have the dress and shoes by late afternoon. All the way back to the hotel, she kept thinking about her children. For the first time since they had left home, she felt a painful longing for their faces, for Jerry's merriment and Emma's curiosity. With all her heart, she longed for her children.
They had their dinner. Gerald had missed the man at the hospital, so he had spent the time buying gifts. Punctilious as always, he had chosen appropriately for Hy'sparents, for Arnie, for Emma and Jerry, for the people in the office, and for Sandy, in appreciation.
They went to a nightclub with the Americans whom Gerald had met in the hotel lobby. And sitting there beside her husband, Hyacinth felt again the loneliness that had corroded the afternoon. He and the other couple were enjoying everything, the crowd, the bustle, and the prance of the naked women. Pretending to be one with the mood, she feigned pleasure. Truly she found no fault with any of this; people were entitled to their tastes. If only she could know what Gerald really wanted, she would willingly give it to him.
What could be wrong? Another woman? Was that absurd, or was it not? It was absurd; he had everything, her ceaseless love, his work, their children, their home, everything. She sat there twisting her rings: the wedding band and the precious diamond chip he had bought with his first month's pay.
“Well,” he said in their room that night, “just one more day. I could turn around and come right back here again next month.”
“I didn't think you loved it that much.”
“Who, me? What makes you say that?”
“You haven't been very jolly these last few days, Gerald. Haven't I been asking you why you're so morose?”
“Morose? You mean because I didn't enjoy the tour at Chartres?”
“Of course I didn't mean that. Please, please, don't dodge the question. Answer me: Is it anything I've done? Be honest with me.”
“No, and no, and no again to your silly question.”
“Do you swear it?”
“Yes, I swear it.”
Lamplight fell upon the bright black hair and on the dimple in the chin that softened the intensely virile face. She thought of the sculpture she had seen that afternoon, and without intending to, she made a sound that was part outcry and part sigh, blinking the tears back, although not before he had seen them.
“What's the matter with you, Hy? What is it? Oh, I hate to see you like this. If it's my fault, I'm sorry. But there's no reason, you're imagining—”
She ran to him. “Pick me up and carry me to the bed the way you used to do. I love you so….”
Later, while Gerald slept his usual peaceful sleep, she lay awake staring through the darkness at the outlines of the marble mantel, of flowers on a table, and of luggage, the best fine luggage, waiting in the corner. She had wanted affirmation, and he had given it, or had at least pretended to. Can there be, she asked herself, an impersonal way of doing what is so personal? Why yes, of course there can be. It is as if you did not care who lay there with you.
Quietly, she slid out of the bed and went to the window. It was very late, and traffic in the grand Place had slowed. Lanterns bordered the bridge that stretched across the river. On the other side stood stately public buildings, presenting to the world the face of dignity, that face which human beings present each day to one another.
But beyond these, and all through the great pulsing city, in the little spaces where men and women livetogether, there are myriad others besides Hyacinth who, in a different language from hers, are crying her same cry, baffled by loneliness and a fear of falling.
Francine's telephone call came before breakfast in the morning. “Jim died. He slipped away without warning after dinner last night.”
CHAPTER NINE
T oo many things occurred during the following six weeks for Hyacinth to think very much about herself, so that the time in