The Pregnant Widow by Martin Amis Page B

the day had time to change.
    “I saw something.”
    “Where?”
    “Should I go and look?”
    Adriano burst up like the Kraken, with a tremendous snort and a tremendous swipe of his silvery quiff. And he didn’t seem like a small thing, the way he stirred the whole pool as he pounded back and forth, the way he whisked the whole pool with his golden limbs.
    B ut it was true—what Lily said in the dark that night. And Keith wondered how the two of them managed it. Thereafter, during lunch, tea, drinks, dinner, coffee, cards, Scheherazade and Adriano never once stood up at the same time.
    As they were trying to go to sleep Keith said,
    “Adriano’s cock’s all balls. I mean his cock’s all bullshit.”
    “It’s the material. Or it’s just the contrast of scale.”
    “No. He’s got something down there.”
    “Mm. As if he’d upended a fruitbowl into it.”
    “No. He’s got a hi-fi set down there.”
    “Yes. Or a drumkit.”
    “It’s just the contrast. His cock’s all balls.”
    “Or maybe it’s not.”
    “He’d still be ridiculous.”
    “There’s nothing ridiculous about a big cock. Believe me. Sleep well,” said Lily.

4
STRATEGIES OF DISTANCE
    Dear Nicholas, he thought, as he insomniated by Lily’s side. Dear Nicholas. Do you remember Impy? Of course you do.
    It was this time last year, and we had the house to ourselves for the weekend, and Violet came earlier than you did, on Friday afternoon, with her new beau.
    Violet:
“Keith, say hello to Impy.”
Me:
“Hello, Impy. Why are you called Impy?”
Violet
(in whom, as you’re aware, there is no aggression, no malice, no ill will): “Because he’s
impotent!”
    And Impy and I stood there, unsmiling, while Violet lost herself in symphonic laughter … Soon afterwards she came into the garden with two glasses of fruit juice.
    Me:
“Vi, listen.
Don’t
call Impy Impy.”
Violet:
“Why not? It’s better to make a joke of it, don’t you fink? Otherwise he’ll get a complex.”
    This being her sense of what it was to be modern. She was sixteen. You know, I often used to wish I had a girlfriend who looked exactly like our sister. An idea unavailable to you. Blonde, soft-eyed, white-toothed, wide-mouthed, her features and their soft transitions.
    Violet:
“He likes being called Impy. He thinks it’s funny.”
Me:
“No. He
says
he likes it. He
says
he thinks it’s funny. When did you start calling him that?”
Violet:
“On the first night.”
Me:
“Jesus. What’s his real name?”
Violet:
“Feo.”
Me:
“Well call Impy Feo. I mean Theo.”
Violet:
“If you say so, Key.”
Me:
“I say so, Vi.”
    Why does she still have trouble with the
th
sound? Remember her transpositions?
Ackitt
for attic.
Kobbers
for because. Navilla ice cream.
    Me
(thinking I had to spell it out): “Make a real effort, Vi, and call Impy Theo. You should build him up. Then you might find there’s no
reason
to call Theo Impy. Call Impy Theo.”
Violet
(quite wittily):“… Should I start calling Impy Sexy?”
Me:
“It’s too late for that. Call him Theo.”
Violet:
“Feo. All right, I’ll try.”
    And she was very good. During dinner that night, and all the next day, did you
once
hear her call Impy Impy? Me, I held out high hopes for Impy. Slender and tremulously Shelleyan, with vulnerable eyes. I could imagine him reading or even writing “Ozymandias.” I looked to Impy as a force for good. Then came Sunday afternoon.
    You:
“What’s going on?”
Me:
“I’m not sure. Theo’s in tears upstairs.”
You:
“Yes, well some bloke, some shape, just knocked on the kitchen door. One of those guys who’s very fat but hasn’t got an arse. Vi said,
See you, Impy
, and off she went. What does
Impy
mean?”
    Oh Nicholas, my dear—I’d been hoping I wouldn’t have to tell you.
    Me:
“So that’s why she calls him Impy.”
You:
“… All right, she’s young. But you’d think
she’d
want to keep that reasonably quiet.”
Me:
“I know. I mean, if it was the