people, and she liked to have it held. They went to the nearest cinema: it was an American film, dubbed, from one of Hemingway’s short stories. It was half way through, and she could not understand a word of the dialogue, and was surprised and rather indignant that she could not understand, for she had genuinely looked forward, with half of herself, to seeing a picture: as it was, she found herself obliged to concentrate on the other aspects of the affair. It was clear that he understood less of the film than she did, and cared less. She was glad that it was connected, however dimly, with Hemingway, for she knew about Hemingway, and she liked shockingly the sense of an operating corner in her inviolable mind.
After ten minutes, he took her hand. She allowed it to be taken, and it grew warm in his grasp. Their two hands lay warmly together upon her lap. Then he released it, and took a hold of her knee. She was used to this, and did not flinch. Her eyes firmly glued to the screen, she sat, and she endured and enjoyed. After a while, he withdrew his hand, put his arm round her shoulders, and pulled her towards him, and kissed her. She did not much like his way of kissing, for it was hot and suffocating, and she was glad when he stopped, and released her, and reverted to his grip upon her knee. He was more interested in her knees, and so was she. As the film progressed, he gradually began to hitch her skirt up, so that his hand was resting not upon skirt but upon stocking, and then his hand began to creep up the stocking. She had never had this happen to her before, and she was not expert, in this area, in the art of procrastination, and in no time at all he had managed to slip his hand inside the stocking top of her offside leg. He was breathing heavily, and she was not herself
unmoved. And she had to admit to herself that she was also faintly, dimly, desirably worried, for she could not tell when or if he would stop. She glanced, covertly, at her watch, and saw to her relief that the feature film had only ten minutes to run; she thought she could last ten minutes.
And she just about managed it. As his hand started once more to ascend the bare slope of her thigh, she tightened, immeasurably, her knees, and his hand halted. The film was nearing its climax: despite herself, and despite her incomprehension, her attention had been caught, and she was at last following it. Two assassins were cornered in a shabby hotel bedroom, awaiting inevitable retribution. And then, suddenly, one of them spoke a sentence which she understood. One of them said, grimly, sparingly, desperate, to the other:
‘Il n’y a plus rien à faire,’ and Clara, in the exquisite delight of understanding, relaxed the grip of her knees, and his hand, obedient, stirred itself once more. The assassins were shot, and Clara wrenched herself away, and the man murmured to her desperately, ‘Laschemi fare, laschemi fare,’ and Clara equally stricken, could not let him, and the credits came up, and the lights came up, and he let her go, and she straightened her coat and pulled her skirt tightly down over her knees, and that was that.
They walked out together, and stood there in the street, and Clara looked once more at her watch. ‘I have to go,’ she said, in English. ‘Il faut que je m’en aille.’
‘Oh, non non non,’ he said anxiously. ‘Viens. Viens boire quelqu’chose, viens avec moi. J’ai une chambre tout près, une chambre à moi …’
‘Non, je ne peux pas,’ said Clara, realizing miserably that he did not believe that she would not go. She liked him, for all his heavy breathing; she did not like misunderstanding. And she had somehow thought that he would have known that she could not go.
‘Tu peux, tu peux,’ he repeated.
‘Mais non, je ne peux pas, je dois partir. Tout de suite. Le Lycée se ferme à onze heures.’
He had taken it, now, that she was not going; she expected to see resentment blossom, but he did not resent it.
After ten minutes, he took her hand. She allowed it to be taken, and it grew warm in his grasp. Their two hands lay warmly together upon her lap. Then he released it, and took a hold of her knee. She was used to this, and did not flinch. Her eyes firmly glued to the screen, she sat, and she endured and enjoyed. After a while, he withdrew his hand, put his arm round her shoulders, and pulled her towards him, and kissed her. She did not much like his way of kissing, for it was hot and suffocating, and she was glad when he stopped, and released her, and reverted to his grip upon her knee. He was more interested in her knees, and so was she. As the film progressed, he gradually began to hitch her skirt up, so that his hand was resting not upon skirt but upon stocking, and then his hand began to creep up the stocking. She had never had this happen to her before, and she was not expert, in this area, in the art of procrastination, and in no time at all he had managed to slip his hand inside the stocking top of her offside leg. He was breathing heavily, and she was not herself
unmoved. And she had to admit to herself that she was also faintly, dimly, desirably worried, for she could not tell when or if he would stop. She glanced, covertly, at her watch, and saw to her relief that the feature film had only ten minutes to run; she thought she could last ten minutes.
And she just about managed it. As his hand started once more to ascend the bare slope of her thigh, she tightened, immeasurably, her knees, and his hand halted. The film was nearing its climax: despite herself, and despite her incomprehension, her attention had been caught, and she was at last following it. Two assassins were cornered in a shabby hotel bedroom, awaiting inevitable retribution. And then, suddenly, one of them spoke a sentence which she understood. One of them said, grimly, sparingly, desperate, to the other:
‘Il n’y a plus rien à faire,’ and Clara, in the exquisite delight of understanding, relaxed the grip of her knees, and his hand, obedient, stirred itself once more. The assassins were shot, and Clara wrenched herself away, and the man murmured to her desperately, ‘Laschemi fare, laschemi fare,’ and Clara equally stricken, could not let him, and the credits came up, and the lights came up, and he let her go, and she straightened her coat and pulled her skirt tightly down over her knees, and that was that.
They walked out together, and stood there in the street, and Clara looked once more at her watch. ‘I have to go,’ she said, in English. ‘Il faut que je m’en aille.’
‘Oh, non non non,’ he said anxiously. ‘Viens. Viens boire quelqu’chose, viens avec moi. J’ai une chambre tout près, une chambre à moi …’
‘Non, je ne peux pas,’ said Clara, realizing miserably that he did not believe that she would not go. She liked him, for all his heavy breathing; she did not like misunderstanding. And she had somehow thought that he would have known that she could not go.
‘Tu peux, tu peux,’ he repeated.
‘Mais non, je ne peux pas, je dois partir. Tout de suite. Le Lycée se ferme à onze heures.’
He had taken it, now, that she was not going; she expected to see resentment blossom, but he did not resent it.
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