Housebroken (11 page)

But the man was interested in the truth. He said: “Are you serious?” And the woman, who felt as if she was sitting in a roller coaster, decided to test the safety bar of her seat, gripping it with both hands to see how strong it was.

“Yes,” she said, “I'm dead serious.”

“I didn't know you felt that way.”

“Neither did I,” said the woman.

“I thought there was something between us that went beyond calculations,” said the man, and the woman, whose roller coaster had crossed the abyss and was at the beginning of a new ascent, said: “There's no such thing as no calculations. Everyone makes calculations, all the time. Their entire life.”

“But I thought that when people loved each other they were beyond all that.”

“So did I,” said the woman.

“You should have said something. You should have said something before I gave up my apartment. It was a bargain. I'll never find anything like it again. You could have told me two weeks ago, if that was what you felt.”

“That's what you care about?” asked the woman. “That lousy apartment? And you talk about calculations!”

And something told her—someone who had been working at the theme park for years—that this was the moment to get off the roller coaster, before it rose to the height of its arc and began a new drop, which on any serious roller coaster was sure to be more extreme than the one before. And that someone was generous enough to whisper: Listen, he said the word
love,
he said “when people love each other.” But because of the other passengers shrieking she couldn't hear him.

“Look,” she said, “our guests are coming in half an hour. There's no point in continuing this conversation now.”

“No, there isn't,” he said. “And to tell you the truth I don't know if there'll be any point later either.” And all at once the safety bar opened, and the old man in charge of the roller coaster, who was disappointed in her, said: Get up, the ride's over. You weren't injured, but you can't get on again. And she burst into tears, the tears of a child who'd fallen off a swing, but the man felt no pity for her. He stood up, put on his coat, took the keys, and whistled to the dog.

The dog didn't want to go out in the cold. He pricked up one ear, raised his head a little from the rug, and wondered whether to respond to the whistle. There was always the possibility that it was a mistake, that his ears had misled him, that the man hadn't whistled for him. But the man wanted to go out, the cold didn't bother him, and he went into the bedroom, bouncing the key ring in his hand. The dog opened his eyes and wagged his tail, and when he heard the soft, rebuking, reasonable tone, the loving, disappointed tone, and when he heard the woman slamming the bathroom door, he got up and followed the man out.

22

When the man returned from walking the dog, he found the woman sitting on the sofa with his friend. He and the dog had roamed the streets for nearly an hour, going as far as the beach and filling the dog—who had loped reluctantly at his side at first, with the strange limp he had suddenly developed—with a renewed burst of joy and a feeling of adventure. When he saw the promenade spread out on the other side of the street with its brilliant lights he stood up on his hind legs, rested his forepaws on the man's thigh, wagged his tail, and barked approvingly. But the man suddenly turned around and began retracing his steps. The dog went on sitting on the curb, looking alternately at the traffic lights—at the standing figure changing to the walking figure, which he always liked best—and at the man disappearing.

A few minutes passed before the man realized that the dog wasn't at his side. He knew he was late, that the guests had probably arrived, and he began running back to the promenade, sweating inside his overcoat. From a distance he saw the dog sitting with his back to him and staring at the traffic lights. He whistled angrily, one long whistle, and the dog pricked up his ear, turned his head toward him, and limped over with his tail between his legs. He walked home with his new walk, constantly bumping into the knees of the man, who scolded him and told him to hurry up, asking: “What's the matter with you? What's wrong with you today?”

The woman and the friend sat on opposite ends of the sofa, turning their faces and necks and shoulders to each other. When the man came in his friend stood up and embraced him, and then bent down and patted the dog, jiggling his body between her hands and murmuring all kinds of nonsense into his ears. She was his first guest and he didn't know what to do. He held back a little growl in his throat and waited for her to leave him alone. When she let go he limped into the kitchen and drank a little water and then retired to the bedroom, turning his head to look at the guest, who danced enthusiastically around the beautiful table, and at the man, who gazed at it proudly. The guest asked if she could help.

The woman went into the kitchen and the man followed her, asking his friend what she wanted to drink.

“Whatever you have,” said the friend, standing in front of the big bookcase, scanning the contents, and pausing in front of the man's familiar books, touching them with her fingertips.

“Does she know that we're fixing her up with someone?” asked the woman.

“Yes,” said the man, and touched her chin with a finger still cold from the walk.

“Are you talking to me?” asked the woman.

“Of course I'm talking to you,” said the man.

“So does that mean we're friends again?” asked the woman and glanced at the dog's full dish.

“It means that I'm talking to you,” said the man. “Has he eaten today?”

“No,” said the woman. “I gave him his food this afternoon but he didn't touch it. I don't know what is the matter with him. He's in one of his moods.”

The man smiled. “Can I help you with anything?”

“No,” said the woman. “Everything's ready, I just want to check on the potatoes. Get her something to drink, I'll be with you in a minute.”

The bell rang and the man went to open the door. The woman heard the voices of her friend and her friend's boyfriend, and the man's voice introducing himself and saying: “Nice to meet you.” She emerged from the kitchen and hugged her friend, and the man took the bottle of wine they had brought and admired it loudly and put it on the table, next to his two bottles. The woman went back into the kitchen and heard the man's friend asking him all kinds of questions about the wine, and the man and her friend's boyfriend answering with long explanations.

Her friend came into the kitchen, put her hand on her shoulder, and asked: “Have you been crying?”

“Yes,” said the woman, “we had a fight.”

“What about?” asked her friend, tossing the big salad standing on the kitchen table in a glass bowl.

“About nothing,” said the woman. Then she opened the oven door and said: “Have a look and tell me if they're done.”

“He looks nice,” said her friend and poked the potatoes with her finger. “They're done,” she said and licked her finger.

The bell rang again and again the man went to open the door, holding the bottle of wine that had sparked the discussion in the living room, and had already led to a friendly little argument between himself and the woman's friend's boyfriend.

The man's friends came into the living room, apologizing for being late and blaming it on the baby, and behind them stood the single man.

“Look what we've brought,” said the man's friend, and took a bottle of French wine out of a plastic bag.

The man protested and said to the woman: “Look what they brought! You know what an amazing wine this is? What on earth did you bring it for? Are you crazy?”

“Why not?” said the baby's mother. “This dinner party is a historical event.”

“Hysterical,” joked the man, and took the bottle. Now he stood in the living room brandishing the two bottles, and in the middle of all the talk about fine wines the single man was almost forgotten, as he stood next to the table in his coat and read the labels of the two bottles of wine that were excluded from the competition.

Everyone introduced themselves and the woman collected their coats and took them to the bedroom. When she opened the door and entered the dark room the dog raised his head and the woman heard his tail thudding on the mat. She put the coats down on the bed. They smelled of the outside and of cold.

23

The single man was shy. He listened quietly to the animated conversation taking place between the two couples—the man's couple and the woman's couple—who immediately seemed to have found a common language, and to the subconversation going on between the man and the woman about their role as hosts. He also listened to the man's friend, who drank too much wine and tried to force her way into both conversations. He himself hardly said a word, but when he heard there was a dog in the house he asked if he could see him. The man said: “I think he's in the bedroom, should I get him?” And the woman said she thought they had better leave him alone, because he wasn't used to so many people. The single man was disappointed. He loved dogs, he said. If he hadn't lived alone in a small one-room apartment he would have owned a dog or even two. The friend stood up and said: “Come, I'll show him to you,” and the single man stood up and followed her, embarrassed, to the bedroom. The three couples smiled and a silence fell upon the living room. The man put his hand on the woman's hand. He was disappointed in his friend. She was drunk and obvious.

The friend turned on the light in the bedroom and the dog woke up and blinked. He sat up and yawned and stared at the two people standing at the door. The friend said: “Let's pat him,” and she grabbed the single man's hand and dragged him to the dog. The man freed his hand from hers and bent down and stroked the dog. The friend bent over him and the single man and the dog smelled her alcoholic breath. The man stroked the dog's head gently, and the dog licked his hand and the friend rested her hand on the single man's shoulder.

When they returned to the living room everyone wanted to hear about the dog, and the friend talked about him as if he were her dog. She talked about his history, his habits, and what he liked to eat, and immediately everyone started to talk about dogs. It was an excellent subject, because for a moment the single man forgot his shyness and gave them all the benefit of his extensive knowledge about dogs. He was a good-looking man, better-looking than the other men in the room. The men noted the friend's good looks. In spite of the cold weather she was wearing a thin blouse with a low neck, a miniskirt, and black thigh boots. Her lips were painted with dark, brown lipstick, most of which, the women noticed, was smeared on the rim of her glass.

The man knew her body well. Between one blind date and the next, between a one-day affair and a two month-affair, he would go to bed with her and in the morning, as he left, they would jokingly try to guess when the next time would be. The last time had been over six months ago, in the summer, a few weeks before he had met the woman. It was his birthday. Strange, he thought now as he looked at her, strange that he had never thought of her as sexual. She was his friend and he slept with her out of inertia. This evening for the first time he saw her in another light, in a dark alley, in the glare of the headlights of a police car. He thought: Six months ago, if I hadn't known her, if she wasn't a friend of mine, if I'd met her at a party, I would have taken her home and gone to bed with her. He was ashamed of these thoughts, but he was even more ashamed of his friend. He hated to see her like this, seductive and desperate. But now she was part of the past and her aggressive presence in the room was no longer a part of his life. This thought cheered him. He was glad he was at another party now, his party, which was, he felt forced to admit, a celebration of victory.

The single man sat in an armchair and gave a lecture about dogs, and the friend got up and went to the table and poured herself another glass of wine. She didn't go back to her chair. She sat down on the floor at the single man's feet. The single man tried to move the armchair back, but the armchair was too heavy. He felt the friend's back leaning on his legs, her spine and her shoulders rubbing against his knees. Slowly, so as not to attract attention, he crossed his legs. The friend turned her face toward him and smiled, holding her wineglass in the air, until he settled back in the armchair in his new position, and then she rested her head against the leg still planted on the floor. The single man told everybody about the dog he had as a child, a watchdog tied to a chain in the yard, and how the dog had guarded over him, growling at anyone who dared come close. Then the baby's father told them about the little dog he had as a child, which had been bitten to death by another dog, and the single man, who listened attentively and nodded, put his other leg down on the floor too, and suddenly parted them both, so that the friend fell backward. She said: “Oops!” He said: “Sorry!” Now she was obliged to settle for the armchair as a backrest.

The topic of the conversation changed from dogs to cars, and the single man fell silent. The friend turned her face to him and asked: “What kind of car do you have?” and before he had time to reply that he didn't have a car she said: “I love cars. And I love men who drive fast.”

“You haven't even got a driver's license,” said the man, who was sitting on the sofa, filling with hatred for her, his arm around the woman's shoulders.

“And he drives fast!” said the friend, pointing at the man. “You should see him. He drives like a madman! He should have his license taken away. I swear, if we weren't friends, I would turn him in.”

“That's not true,” said the woman. “He's a good driver. Maybe he drives fast, but he's in control.”

And the single man said: “I'm a pretty bad driver. I haven't got a car. I haven't driven for years.”