Authors: Frederic Lindsay
He
caressed
her
shoulder
with
his
lips.
'I'm
not
frightened
anymore.'
Hearing
his
own
words,
he
believed
them.
It
was
true
that
fear
had
become
a
habit,
faint
and
unacknowledged
as
a
fluttering
in
the
blood.
Sometimes
a
sound
can
go
on
for
so
long
that
you
only
realise
it
is
gone
when
suddenly
you
feel
the
silence
like
a
presence.
He
was
full
of
gratitude.
'You
don't
have
to
worry.
We
won't
see
one
another
again,'
she
said.
'You
can
go
home
to
your
wife.'
'My
wife's
gone
away,'
he
reminded
her.
'To
Shreveport –
in
Louisiana.'
Hadn't
he
explained
that
to
her
earlier?
Like
an
impulse
of
disloyalty,
he
put
aside
the
idea
that
she
might
be
stupid.
'I'm
going
out
there
to
join
her.'
To
the
New
World.
'I
don't
think
I'll
ever
come
back.
Why
should
I
–
why
should
we
come
back?'
If
Clare
would
not
have
him,
he
would
find
a
place
to
live;
he
would
find
a
job.
It
was
not
as
if
he
had
no
skills
or
was
a
man
with
nothing
to
offer.
'A
man
wants
to
be
where
he
has
ties – and
my
daughter
lives
there.'
'Ties?'
'To
someone
you
love.'
Tentatively,
he
murmured,
'Like
you
perhaps
and
the
friend
who
comes
here
.
'
'Last
night,
lying
where
you
are.'
He
felt
the
warmth
of
her pressed
along
his
side.
'He
told
me
this
joke.
It
was
about
a
butcher
who
was
asked
to
circumcise
a
little
Jewish
boy
on
a
desert
island – only
he
didn't
know
what
“circumcise” meant,
and
he
did
something
else.
You
can
imagine.'
He
did
not
want
to.
'I
don't
know
why
someone
would
want
to
tell
a
joke
like
that.'
'It
saved
his
life.
He
was
in
a
concentration
camp
and
a
lot
of
them
broke
through
the
wire.
This
was
in
the
winter,
he
says,
and
in
the
middle
of
a
forest.
At
first
he
could
hear
the
others
moving
all
round
him
and
then
it
was
quiet.
He
fell
into
a
hole
full
of
snow
and
thought
he
wasn't
going
to
be
able
to
crawl
out.
They
hadn't
been
given
much
to
eat –
that's
what
he
said.
In
the
morning
some
peasants
found
him,
an
old
father
and
three
sons.
They
had
been
going
about
all
night
hunting
for
the
prisoners
and
killing
them.
They
didn't
like
Jews.
Lying
on
the
ground
the
first
thing
he
saw,
when
they
came
out
from
among
the
trees,
was
the
blood
on
their
boots.
They
would
have
kicked
him
to
death
too,
but
he
remembered
this
joke
and
it
made
them
laugh.
He
said
it
was
the
only
joke
he
ever
remembered,
and
that
was
because
the
boy
who
had
told
it
to
him
when
he
was
at
school
had
made
fun
of
him
for
not
understanding
it.
He
isn't
Jewish,
you
see.'
Had
he
thought
he
was
charming
her
into
taking
him
into
her
home?
A
word
came
into
his
head –
seduction – an
old
word –
and
tears
of
humiliation
threatened
him.
'I'm
sorry,'
he
said.
'I
need
–
I'm
not
–
'
He
stumbled
over
saying
that
he
was
unwell.
'You
know
where
it
is,'
she
said.
'Would
you
like
me
to
come
with
you?
Would
you
like
me
to
wash
it
for
you?'
He
sat
on
the
furred
cover
of
the
lavatory
and
spat
a
curd
of vomit,
all
that
he
could
manage,
into
the
basin.
He
told
himself
that
when
he
felt
better
he
would
leave
with
dignity.
The
brown-yellow
smear
slipped
down
the
smooth
porcelain.
He
turned
on
the
tap
gently
so
there
would
be
no
noise
and
the
water
slid
down
and
took
most
of
it
away.
With
the
edge
of
his
finger
he
pushed
the
last
of
it
into
the
stream.
He
wished
that
he
could
go
home
and
that
Clare
would
be
there.
He
stood
up
and
pressed
a
towel
against
his
face.
It
was
warm
from
the
rail
and
he
took comfort
from
it.
He
wanted
his
wife
and
she
had
left
him
alone.
From
the
round
mirror
above
the
rail,
circled
by
its
single
coil
of
fluorescent
light,
his
face
stared
back
at
him.
Clare
had
gone
away.
No
one
could
blame
him.
Whatever
happened
now,
the
stranger
watching
with
a
white
circle
in
each
eye
told
him
,
nobody
could
blame
you.