Read Online The Lost Language of Cranes by David Leavitt - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Leavitt
Ads: Link
them. She was his wife. And thinking of Alex Melchor, his hand, his eyeglasses, Owen was taken by sudden desire; he bent and kissed her. Then he pulled away. "It was nice running into you today," he said.
"Yes," she said. "Funny, wasn't it?" She went back to hanging his coat on the towel rack.
"I'll be in the living room," he said, walking away from her. Well, he thought, perhaps I've gone to that movie theatre for the last time. He smiled at that thought, remembering the first time—the horror he had felt, the sudden stab of realization that he was, as he had always feared, a homosexual. And what had he done? He had gone flying out of that theatre and straightaway practically raped poor Rose on the living room couch, trying to see her, only her, to force the images from that screen out of his mind. But when he came, it was men he was thinking of, even though he said, "Rose, Rose," and she answered him, "Yes, I'm here, I'm here. I won't let you go." That he had lied to her—that he had built a marriage with her on the basis of a sexual lie—was a regret of such magnitude that he could not get around it; it was therefore one which, at this moment, he chose to ignore. For years, after all, he had told himself that if someone were to ask him, pursue him, if someone were to give him a chance, he would take it. He'd never imagined it would actually happen; he was, after all, a married man, completely heterosexual in the eyes of the world. Now it had. The chance lay in his pocket. Someone named Alex Melchor desired him. It would be simple. He would call. He would call and say—oh, never mind what he would say. He moved across the living room, sat down in his chair, took up his book. He knew he could live off this possibility just as a possibility for a long time; he knew it could keep him going for days now, because a starving man has a different notion of plenty.
Rose sat in the bathroom, staring at Owen's coat. Across the room her face, in the mirror, was obscured by mist. She put her hand to the place on her cheek that Owen had just kissed.
J ERENE , Eliot's roommate, was typing at the kitchen table when Philip and Eliot got home. Her fingers flew across the keys in a whirl of motion, faster than Philip had ever seen. To her left was a pile of color-coded notebooks; to her right, a neat stack of paper, dense with prose. This was the text of Jerene's mysterious dissertation, on which she had been at work for seven years. The current title was "The Phenomenon of Invented Languages," but Eliot had told Philip that it changed every month.
Jerene had been up since seven. In the course of the day she had done the dishes, worked five hours at her job at the library, read three articles, and typed twenty-seven pages. But even though the sun was setting, it was still morning for Philip and Eliot; they shuffled through the door like jet-lagged travelers, people out-of-sync with time. "Ah, the decadence of youth," she said, ripping a sheet from her typewriter with a dramatic flourish. Then she stood up, unbending from her sitting position like a crane stretching itself out to demolish a building. She was just over six feet tall, and her height was accented by her sinuousness. She had long legs, the muscles braided like rope. Short-cropped hair, dark and dense as algae, clung to her scalp.
She slept on a cot in the corner of the kitchen. It had a monastic look about it, the corners tight and angular, the covers smooth, but when Eliot sat down it softened, as if giving in to the temptations of the flesh. "I see you've been your usual productive self today," he said.
Jerene nodded. She had always risen early. A mental alarm clock rang through her nerves every morning, sending through her spasms of anxiety that only work seemed to alleviate. She worked all the time. When there was no work she invented it, or helped other people with theirs.
"What were you writing about today?" Eliot asked. He had taken a cardboard
"Yes," she said. "Funny, wasn't it?" She went back to hanging his coat on the towel rack.
"I'll be in the living room," he said, walking away from her. Well, he thought, perhaps I've gone to that movie theatre for the last time. He smiled at that thought, remembering the first time—the horror he had felt, the sudden stab of realization that he was, as he had always feared, a homosexual. And what had he done? He had gone flying out of that theatre and straightaway practically raped poor Rose on the living room couch, trying to see her, only her, to force the images from that screen out of his mind. But when he came, it was men he was thinking of, even though he said, "Rose, Rose," and she answered him, "Yes, I'm here, I'm here. I won't let you go." That he had lied to her—that he had built a marriage with her on the basis of a sexual lie—was a regret of such magnitude that he could not get around it; it was therefore one which, at this moment, he chose to ignore. For years, after all, he had told himself that if someone were to ask him, pursue him, if someone were to give him a chance, he would take it. He'd never imagined it would actually happen; he was, after all, a married man, completely heterosexual in the eyes of the world. Now it had. The chance lay in his pocket. Someone named Alex Melchor desired him. It would be simple. He would call. He would call and say—oh, never mind what he would say. He moved across the living room, sat down in his chair, took up his book. He knew he could live off this possibility just as a possibility for a long time; he knew it could keep him going for days now, because a starving man has a different notion of plenty.
Rose sat in the bathroom, staring at Owen's coat. Across the room her face, in the mirror, was obscured by mist. She put her hand to the place on her cheek that Owen had just kissed.
J ERENE , Eliot's roommate, was typing at the kitchen table when Philip and Eliot got home. Her fingers flew across the keys in a whirl of motion, faster than Philip had ever seen. To her left was a pile of color-coded notebooks; to her right, a neat stack of paper, dense with prose. This was the text of Jerene's mysterious dissertation, on which she had been at work for seven years. The current title was "The Phenomenon of Invented Languages," but Eliot had told Philip that it changed every month.
Jerene had been up since seven. In the course of the day she had done the dishes, worked five hours at her job at the library, read three articles, and typed twenty-seven pages. But even though the sun was setting, it was still morning for Philip and Eliot; they shuffled through the door like jet-lagged travelers, people out-of-sync with time. "Ah, the decadence of youth," she said, ripping a sheet from her typewriter with a dramatic flourish. Then she stood up, unbending from her sitting position like a crane stretching itself out to demolish a building. She was just over six feet tall, and her height was accented by her sinuousness. She had long legs, the muscles braided like rope. Short-cropped hair, dark and dense as algae, clung to her scalp.
She slept on a cot in the corner of the kitchen. It had a monastic look about it, the corners tight and angular, the covers smooth, but when Eliot sat down it softened, as if giving in to the temptations of the flesh. "I see you've been your usual productive self today," he said.
Jerene nodded. She had always risen early. A mental alarm clock rang through her nerves every morning, sending through her spasms of anxiety that only work seemed to alleviate. She worked all the time. When there was no work she invented it, or helped other people with theirs.
"What were you writing about today?" Eliot asked. He had taken a cardboard
Similar Books
