Don't Ask Me If I Love (17 page)

“You see,” I said uncertainly, digging my nails into the wall and scratching pieces of white paint, “I get a funny feeling a lot of the time. Everybody tells me how fantastic my father is, what a terrific time I have, and how grateful I should be to be me. I have the notion that I am expected to be somebody, to achieve something, and yet, at the same time, I think it isn't really me who is expected to do all that. It is just my role. I am not a person. I am a part that has to be played. And then, when I do try to play that part, and be special, because that is what it demands, not to be common, then people say, ‘Ah, he thinks he can do anything just because his father is rich and influential. He thinks that this makes him so bloody original and gives him all the right in the world.' “

“Well?”

“Well,” I said, and walked a bit around the room, “if everybody feels compelled to say that everything always comes my way, then I'm damn well going to make it come my way. That's the only way that's left to me. Can't you see? I've got to be rough and not give a damn about anything or anybody in order to get away with it. Because I don't really have it made. People just act as though I do. It isn't me who has it made. But I do have to do something about it, fast. Otherwise, it will hurt too much, when I'm finally left in the lurch. I am not trained to be happy just being anybody. I am not equipped for it.”

“How do you know if you never tried?” Joy asked.

“I cannot try.”

She played with a long, yellow curl that fell down on her neck, rolling it around her thumb and undoing it again.

She stood up and stretched her body, her face still hot, and her eyes sparkling. She raised one hand and removed the pin that held her hair up. It fell down to her shoulders; she had long hair.

“How does Ram fit into the picture?”

“Ram was O.K.,” I said, “while he lasted. That is probably why he didn't last long. So he also let me down.”

I laughed.

“I'm such a sad little boy. Everyone fails me.”

She came and stood close to me, leaning on the wall by my side.

“You're so beautiful,” I said. “I'd hate to see you fade away. But you will though, won't you?”

“I don't know.”

“I know.”

She put her hand on the back of my neck and pulled me to her. She kissed me on my mouth, sucking my breath, then she pulled away.

I breathed hard.

“You've got to care for people,” she said. “Because only people count for anything in this world.”

Above us, the rain hammered violently on the roof.

“If you want to swim, this is your night,” I said.

“Not right now.”

I put my hand on her blouse but she backed away, shaking her head.

“No.”

I let my hand drop down and waited.

“I won't sleep with you. I won't make love to you.”

“Why not?”

“I don't want to.” She shrugged. “I had too much of it in the past, I guess.”

“Oh.”

We stood looking at each other, not moving, but still very close. She seemed to be thinking of something because her eyes got dreamy again. Her hands rested at the sides of her body. I gazed at their long, thin shape. She had no rings. I touched them gently and moved my fingers slowly along her arms and up to her shoulders. She was quiet, breathing softly. Her eyes never left my face. I moved my fingers down and started undoing the buttons of her blouse. She still didn't move. The remote mellow expression on her face did not change. It was all very peculiar. I was not entirely aware of what I was doing. I took off her blouse and unhooked her bra. It slipped over her body and fell slowly to the floor. Her breasts were full and as tanned as the rest of her body. I put out my hand and caressed the smooth skin, very lightly.

She still didn't talk, she just closed her eyes.

My hand moved down her body, slowly, till it reached the thick blue cloth of her pants.

Joy opened her eyes and shook her head. Her face was set and grim, almost unfamiliar.

My hand froze for a moment on the slope of her stomach; then it dropped down. I stooped and picked up her bra, and handed it to her, together with her blouse.

“We should be in the movies,” I said. “This would have been one hell of a memorable scene.”

She put the bra on and turned for me to hook it.

“I don't know,” her back said to me. “Melodramas are not exactly ‘in' now.”

Hooking her bra didn't improve the situation but there didn't seem to be any other choice, so I did it.

“Thanks.”

She turned back to me, starting to put her blouse on. She laughed. It sounded like whiskey on the rocks.

“Our Father who art in Heaven,” she said, much amused. “And here you are alone with me and you can't get anything out of it. That must be terribly frustrating.”

I decided to shrug again.

“O.K., O.K.,” I said. “Let's all get drunk, and then maybe we can sit and chat.”

“Got Campari?” she asked, catching her breath with difficulty. “I mean, have you got Campari?”

“No.”

She wrinkled her nose at me.

“Gin O.K.?”

“Man's drink.”

“He-man's drink.”

She made a face. It still didn't make her look bad.

“O.K.,” she said. “Let's take a go at it.”

She placed the seat of her pants on the floor and the rest of her slumped down with it. She leaned comfortably back on the wall and peered at me expectantly.

I went to the kitchen and brought the ice bucket, along with two glasses and a brand-new bottle. I put all that carefully on the floor near her and sat down.

I poured two glasses full, and gave her one.

“To the Russians,” I said, raising my glass. “South of the border.”

She shook her head in dismay.

“No, I won't drink to that.”

“O.K. To our brave soldiers. I hope that will do.”

“That's better,” she said solemnly and gulped a good mouthful. It didn't have any effect that could be seen. I wasn't sure I could take alcohol that easily.

“What do you actually think will happen with all those Russians and things?” she asked soberly. “You are losing ten soldiers a week, aren't you?”

“Probably.”

She watched me closely.

“Let's not be too superior and indifferent again,” she said.

I swallowed some gin. It burned its way pleasantly down my throat.

“As a matter of fact, I do care,” I said. “But I do not know what will happen. Furthermore, I wish to state that my father, the man himself, says he doesn't know, and that is something.”

She played with the glass and frowned.

“But what do you think will happen?” she asked doggedly.

I gave up.

“I don't think they will ever take us. Anyway, they will never take us alive.”

She raised her eyebrows and took another swig.

“No, I guess not.”

I didn't like the subject, so I took the bottle in one hand and the glass in the other and gave it a substantial treatment. Within the next ten minutes, I drank about a third of the bottle and commenced to feel warm and homey. I even began to relax.

“Tell me a little about yourself,” I said to Joy. “Tell me the story of your life. Tell me your problems. Tell me anything.”

“O.K.,” she said. “Why not? But I'll just help myself to another tiny one, if you don't mind.”

I put the bottle in her lap. She opened it, took a gulp that would have killed a sailor and screwed the top back on. She placed the half-empty bottle carefully on the floor within reach. Then she turned to me.

“I was born,” Joy said, “in a little town in the state of Washington, called Greenwood. It is such a small town that it is almost a village. And there is nothing there except a whole lot of woods. It is a very quiet place, very conservative, and very provincial, but it is not so bad, if you go for that type of thing.”

As she talked her gaze wandered over to the french windows and then returned to me to see how I was taking it. I was taking it rather well and she shifted her eyes back to the sea and went on talking.

“My father was a lawyer. I mean, he still is a lawyer. And he wasn't doing badly, but there wasn't a lot for him to do. You can't imagine how quiet those places can be. He was also conservative, but, of course, not as backward as many people there. Anyway, one day he decided to pack up his family and belongings and move to New York. He had a brother there, who was also a lawyer and they decided to form a team. So, when I was fourteen, we all moved to the big city, my father, my mother, my sister, and me.

“I was,” she said solemnly to the windows, “a pretty smart girl. I was a good student and I was well liked. I was awfully happy when we left Greenwood because I felt I was buried alive there. I wanted to be modern and sophisticated and up-to-date and in the center of action and God knows what. I had finished school at the head of my class and I was also the first girl to try marijuana.”

She looked at me and smiled without happiness.

“Of course, smoking then wasn't what it is today. It was quite something, especially for girls. I was against all the well-established traditions of the older generation. I loathed them.”

She laughed.

“That's a pretty good word, ‘loathed'.”

“Not bad,” I said.

I couldn't make out if she was drunk, but she seemed to be losing her good spirits.

“Anyway, I loathed religion, money, and virginity. When I was seventeen I jumped into bed with a Negro boy who hung around in the neighborhood, a relatively nice guy, incidentally; but that hadn't been important. I was having a pretty good time, feeling grown up and experienced and all that. But it wasn't as good as I had expected it to be.”

“No meaning,” I said through the bottle.

“Yeah, that's it,” she said. “The point was—one of the points was—that my parents wouldn't stand for my attitude. To my father I had become worse than a slut. He wouldn't stand any wild behavior and I was quite wild at that time. They grow some rather conservative people in Greenwood, Washington, and they are stubborn ones. Probably they know that if they adopt a new outlook, the logic and understanding of their world will be ruined. They will lose their ability to enjoy it in their own way. They will have to change their views, standards, and way of comprehending. It's not easy for people who are not young, who don't grow into it. My mother took his side. She was too weak not to take his side, in anything. She utterly depended on him. It used to outrage me. And the upshot was that I left home slamming the door behind me.”

I poured another shot and offered it to her, but she shook her head, so I took it myself. I was dizzy and swimming in slow circles over the room. I thought of Joy, all alone, leaving her home on a cold rainy day, and the thought filled me with sadness. I put my head in her lap. I wanted to say something suitable and comforting, but I couldn't find the words.

“Then what did you do?”

“I went to Berkeley and studied psychology for three years. The first summer I was away, my sister went to England on vacation. I think she was fed up with home herself. Anyway, she met an Englishman and married him and settled there. She lived happily ever after.”

“What is her name?”

“Lynn,” she said. “Or rather Lynda. Her husband is a medical student. They live in London.”

“And what became of Joy?” I asked, feeling sweet melancholy taking over. “Whatever happened to Joy?”

She straightened her legs out under me, banging her knees against my back.

“I was coming to that,” she said.

I turned my face to her blouse and closed my eyes.

“Joy stayed in Berkeley for three years, leading a wild, crazy life,” she said softly. “I had what you might call a ‘self-actualization mania.' That's a term they use a lot in those books. I had to do everything and understand everything. That is, about myself. I was afraid to miss something. It never quite left me, but it changed its form. I started disliking the modern sophisticated America as much as I resented the rigid old one. They are forming the two extremes now. You can either be for law and order, against Negroes and any liberal cause or general freedom, or you can be with the new left and for socialism and bringing down everything that exists, the good, together with the bad. Some believe in just being against everything, and not contributing anything, anywhere. I was getting to be really sad. People are going wild because they don't know what to do and that makes even less sense.

“I used to be quite loose during those years, going out a lot with different guys and sleeping with most of them, because I used to think that it was artificial to be strict. After all, what's wrong with having fun? But, I was also getting sad about the emptiness of everything, feeling that it all was going to the dogs. So, probably as a reaction, I was getting romantic and concerned. Deep inside, I thought there just had to be more to life and I knew I had to try and find it.”

She stopped. “Does it often storm like this?” she asked suddenly.

“No. This is quite unusual.”

My head was filled with an alcoholic version of America reforming the world, attaching labels of meaning to each of its items, instead of prices. For some reason it made me think of religion.

“Probably Jesus was born on a night like this,” I said.

“Your knowledge of the New Testament …”

“My opinion is as good as anyone's, especially now, when I have vision. But you were saying?”

She placed her arms on my chest, her hands resting lightly on my sleeve.

“After I had finished my third year, I went back to New York. Not visiting my family there, and without much of a plan. One day I was riding on a bus, somewhere near Harlem, looking around in the streets and getting depressed. There were three young Negroes in the backseat behind me. They were making all kinds of dirty remarks about me, which I ignored. One of them kept repeating, ‘Milking white cow, milking white cow,' and I thought he was probably retarded. When I finally got off the bus, they got off too, and followed me, still making their remarks, and not in a low voice, either. I thought they might try something, but I didn't give much of a damn. I was walking slowly, taking a good look at the small, filthy streets. I wanted to get a better understanding. See what I mean?”