more than a brief pause, the mere skip of a heartbeat, a momentary detachment that Frankie felt instantly, and as Malone lay back with a sigh, caused him to look at Malone with his gorgeous, prepossessing eyes and say in a calm voice :"If you leave me, I will kill you."
It was as if the electricity had failed in the entire city, as if suddenly the current had been shut off, and a tremendous stillness suddenly settled down over the echoing avenues beneath them. Malone shuddered.
The words were so out-of-the-blue, and spoken in so grave and quiet a voice, that he believed them; even as he watched a fly above them land on the No-Pest Strip that dangled from the ceiling, buzz frantically, and then be still...
The disembodied hiss of a passing car rose up with the vanishing heat; and later when a cool breeze came through the window, as the refrigerator hummed, they made love again. Making love to Frankie had always been like making love to someone underwater. They were like two swimmers kissing beneath the sea, in slow motion; but this very stillness, this very gravity that Malone had found so wondrous—that medieval calm that his eyes had given Malone the first moment he saw them—now seemed to him not so much medieval calm as a lethargy of spirit. Was Frankie a trap? As viscous as the sticky glue on the No-Pest Strip that hung above them like the streamer of a Chinese lantern? He wondered as he lay entangled in his limbs, making love and thinking of a dozen distracting things—the other rooms he had made love in, the death of God, his father's white shirts—how curious it was that he lay there confined in this high tower in the ruins of the city on a summer evening. Through the window, from the lazy perch of his mattress, he saw the snow-white, lighted hull of the S.S. Canberra sailing slowly through the harbor to the open sea, and above them another fly buzzed frantically in the glue of the No-Pest Strip and then was still. Malone lay beside Frankie in a state of white, cool, dumb confusion; he was not sure himself what had happened, and he resolved the issue by staring finally at the sky, the blue, empty sky through the tall window, and letting his soul float out into the limitless space there.
"Oh man, oh man," Frankie would say when he came home from work that week, stripping off his tie and lighting a joint. He kissed Malone and he tried, not understanding why an estrangement had occurred, to bring' things back to what they were. Malone was touched by this. He asked Frankie how his day was, but they had little, in fact, to talk about. Before it had never mattered, now the silences ached. Frankie liked to watch TV, Malone could not bear it. And now Malone had to look at him in the middle of the long, dull evenings in which the comedies of the television set spilled out into the air, and Malone asked himself why he was there, with someone who watched TV and got stoned each evening and hated his boss and had a temper; but then Frankie, turning from the refrigerator with a glass of wine, would look at Malone with those cloudy eyes, and Malone would remember...
One Sunday afternoon—aware that Malone could no longer bear what had been his favorite day in their sunny perch above the harbor—Frankie bent down and kissed Malone and then, lying beside him as he held his hand, asked if he would come to New Jersey that day and take Frankie's son for a walk. Malone felt something churn within himself. But he went, and hand in hand with Enrico between them, they went to gaudy amusement parks and sat in ice-cream parlors under the blistering sun, and Malone felt sadder and sadder.
It was the habit of recording his thoughts, his days, in his journal that ended Malone's affair. He came home from work one night and found Frankie standing silent in the middle of the floor. The television was dead. Malone looked at Frankie's face and knew instantly what had happened. His journal lay open on the mattress. "What's wrong?" gasped
It was as if the electricity had failed in the entire city, as if suddenly the current had been shut off, and a tremendous stillness suddenly settled down over the echoing avenues beneath them. Malone shuddered.
The words were so out-of-the-blue, and spoken in so grave and quiet a voice, that he believed them; even as he watched a fly above them land on the No-Pest Strip that dangled from the ceiling, buzz frantically, and then be still...
The disembodied hiss of a passing car rose up with the vanishing heat; and later when a cool breeze came through the window, as the refrigerator hummed, they made love again. Making love to Frankie had always been like making love to someone underwater. They were like two swimmers kissing beneath the sea, in slow motion; but this very stillness, this very gravity that Malone had found so wondrous—that medieval calm that his eyes had given Malone the first moment he saw them—now seemed to him not so much medieval calm as a lethargy of spirit. Was Frankie a trap? As viscous as the sticky glue on the No-Pest Strip that hung above them like the streamer of a Chinese lantern? He wondered as he lay entangled in his limbs, making love and thinking of a dozen distracting things—the other rooms he had made love in, the death of God, his father's white shirts—how curious it was that he lay there confined in this high tower in the ruins of the city on a summer evening. Through the window, from the lazy perch of his mattress, he saw the snow-white, lighted hull of the S.S. Canberra sailing slowly through the harbor to the open sea, and above them another fly buzzed frantically in the glue of the No-Pest Strip and then was still. Malone lay beside Frankie in a state of white, cool, dumb confusion; he was not sure himself what had happened, and he resolved the issue by staring finally at the sky, the blue, empty sky through the tall window, and letting his soul float out into the limitless space there.
"Oh man, oh man," Frankie would say when he came home from work that week, stripping off his tie and lighting a joint. He kissed Malone and he tried, not understanding why an estrangement had occurred, to bring' things back to what they were. Malone was touched by this. He asked Frankie how his day was, but they had little, in fact, to talk about. Before it had never mattered, now the silences ached. Frankie liked to watch TV, Malone could not bear it. And now Malone had to look at him in the middle of the long, dull evenings in which the comedies of the television set spilled out into the air, and Malone asked himself why he was there, with someone who watched TV and got stoned each evening and hated his boss and had a temper; but then Frankie, turning from the refrigerator with a glass of wine, would look at Malone with those cloudy eyes, and Malone would remember...
One Sunday afternoon—aware that Malone could no longer bear what had been his favorite day in their sunny perch above the harbor—Frankie bent down and kissed Malone and then, lying beside him as he held his hand, asked if he would come to New Jersey that day and take Frankie's son for a walk. Malone felt something churn within himself. But he went, and hand in hand with Enrico between them, they went to gaudy amusement parks and sat in ice-cream parlors under the blistering sun, and Malone felt sadder and sadder.
It was the habit of recording his thoughts, his days, in his journal that ended Malone's affair. He came home from work one night and found Frankie standing silent in the middle of the floor. The television was dead. Malone looked at Frankie's face and knew instantly what had happened. His journal lay open on the mattress. "What's wrong?" gasped
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