The Fourth Circle (20 page)

It was clear that she had no intention of doing anything further about it as she quickly sat down in the chair again after first moving it slightly away from my bed, as if to separate herself from me, and focused her attention on one of her books, her face perfectly serene and innocent as she read: the very picture of a nurse who had just tended conscientiously to all the wants of the patient en-trusted to her care and now had some free time to devote to herself.

I was not so much troubled by the fact that she left me unsatisfied at the height of arousal to which she had deliberately brought me—a condition that naturally caused me the utmost discomfort—as I was angered by my total inability under the circumstances to concentrate on the matter that was now only a step away; I was denied the opportunity to climb that last step separating me from the top, from the plateau of light.

The feeling of twofold frustration, of multiple anticlimax, lasted a long time. I passed a night of troubled dreams, waking frequently but escaping back into sleep as soon as I saw Sarah's stony form next to the bed, tirelessly and chastely bent over her book.

When I woke in the morning, unusually late and smelling of sweat more strongly than was customary, Brenda was by me. She first informed me, in her bleating voice, that her younger son had caught a cold because he had not put on dry socks after playing football in the snow, contrary to her explicit advice, so he was away from school that day, "but that's the young ones today, totally out of hand because their mothers have to work while their fathers hang round the pubs," then about the announced price rise of Lipton's tea, a clear twenty pence per box, which drove her to black thoughts about the crash of the British economy if further concessions were made to those vultures from the European Community, "who didn't understand the British spirit, as Maggie had been saying for years, but nobody listens to the voice of reason from a woman any more."
Etc.

It was already past noon when I learned, from one of her marginal remarks, amidst praises for the bird-watching societies, "so typically English," that in the afternoon she would be replaced, not by Sarah, but by Mary, "whose hubby had made it to vice-chairman of the local branch, 'cos he brought a lovely pair of army binoculars from the Falklands, against the rules I must say, and spotted a real
golden-crowned woodpecker, very rare in these parts, although he was so excited he forgot to photograph it, so that some rumormongers were saying that he only imagined it because it is the same color as that cheap sherry, what-d-y-call it, although it was common knowledge that Arthur had become a real teetotaller; they do say that when he was young he liked a glass or two and led rather a wild life, but since he met Mary he'd change absolutely, had Arthur. Some women are lucky, not like me...."

So Sarah's on duty again tonight.

SHE WAS PUNCTUAL as always. She appeared a few minutes before 10 p.m., exchanged a few parting sentences with Mary about my condition, which as far as Mary was concerned was the same as usual. For me it only meant that I have really become a total cretin, whose fears and anxieties are interpreted as contented placidity even by those who know me and who bear me no ill will.

I pretended to fall asleep, but even if I had been in a coma, Sarah would not have abandoned her scheme. This time there was no hesitation. I heard her fumbling with the VCR. Then she sat next to me on the bed and caught me by the hand, patting it gently, as if to comfort a child about to get an injection: "There, there, this will hurt a little but it's for your own good." This opened my eyes more efficiently than if she had begun to shake me.

The recording was already being played: last night's foreplay filled the screen, and I, for some reason, struggled to suppress my excitement. Sarah just sat pas-sively; I glanced at her several times, and it seemed to me that she was irresolute and hesitant. In any case, she did not start anything, least of all any new foreplay.

When the recording came to the place where last night's business had stopped, the picture changed suddenly. It was still my room, but now Sarah was in the foreground, and I was in the background, asleep. This must have been recorded some time before dawn. And then, instead of mumbled fragments, the story began properly. Sarah had had to record it, not just because it was easier for her to tell it that way, but also because she enjoyed seeing herself on the screen. Now she could be not a tearful viewer of
Casablanca
but a participant in it. And the role of Rick was, naturally, given to me. How could I have refused?

The subject of this film, too, was unbearably sentimental. With many sighs, which did not seem in the least artificial, she started to pour out a melodramatic tale of a sensitive young woman, innocent and virtuous, totally unsuited for this age of vice; men see in her only the image of carnality, while she pines for true love, which sadly, survives only in old movies, novels, and rare TV serials.
Because of this, she withdraws more and more into herself, isolates herself in her loneliness, begins even to contemplate the worst, before Providence comes to her rescue. She is hired as nurse to a famous scientist, "the greatest physicist of modern times"
(what's that got to do with it?)
and soon discovers that they are kindred spirits.
(That's the last time I'll try to convey any message by grimaces and facial
twitches.)
He lies immobile in bed, broken by a terrible illness, abandoned by all, even by his wife, who surely intends to find somebody else.
( O f course she does.

That was our agreement, after all. Any other course o f action would be unnatural. Jane
can only be frustrated by her thing about martyrdom, but I think she needs it to ease her
conscience.)
His children avoid and neglect him.
(Nonsense: they're the only people
who treat me normally.)

He longs for warmth, affection, and most of all for love, but all that is denied him. The young woman knows this because his eyes shine, as do hers, when he gets the chance to watch romantic films.
(Help!)
As they watched, they grew close to each other. Tenderly, he held her hand as his eyes spoke of his feelings.
( I f I'd
been able to hold anything, it would have been the remote control, to stop the bloody recording.)
She returned this love with all her heart, overjoyed that her dream of love had finally come true.
( I hate
Casablanca!) But this love, like all great loves, was destined to be short-lived. His greedy, jealous wife learns of the affair and prepares to dismiss the young woman, fearing the loss of privileges that go with her husband's reputation.
(Rubbish! Jane is not
like that at all, quite the contrary. Sarah must have invented this bit. I think I saw a similar
plot line in one o f those stupid serials o f hers....)
The young woman despairs and thinks of poisoning first him, then herself, but realizes that this would not be fair.

(Definitely not. Not in that order.)

Ultimately she finds a solution: if they cannot stay together, she will take with her a lasting reminder of him, something that will be the firmest possible token of their love, binding beyond the grave.
( I knew there was bound to be a grave in this
somewhere.)
She will give birth to his son. A son who might also become a great physicist, to continue his father's work.
(Nonsense. Judging by the two sons I already
have, there's not a chance. Physics doesn't attract Robert and Timmy at all. Lucy's the
only one who shows any talent for maths.)

He agrees enthusiastically
(sic!),
telling her that she is the last woman in his life.
(Although I certainly did not tell her any such thing, this part about "the last woman"

could nevertheless be true, unless Jane decides to pander to me, to increase her own martyrdom.)
They are getting ready for their first and only night of love; the young woman takes care that it should be in the 24-hour period of her greatest fertility....
So that's the puzzle. I am to become a father one more time, and the fateful night is now before me. How can I defeat Sarah's plan? No way, I'm afraid. The only solution is for me to try to avoid arousal, to think of something else, physics maybe; but she has already demonstrated how able she is. Under her lips and tongue, physics does not help much, regardless of whether this is the fault of the weirdos at the video club or not....

To make it all fit and proper, the recording of Sarah's story ended with the closing scene of her favorite movie. Editing was clearly one of her fortes. Indeed, was there any more appropriate lead-in to the sad ending of our relationship than the parting of Ilse and Rick? But there was no more time for modesty. Sarah went to the video, turned it off and switched the camera on. The whole thing is to be preserved for posterity, then. How appropriate.

Turning to me she began to repeat the performance that I had seen only on the screen the previous night. The swaying hips, the slow unbuttoning of the nurse's uniform, the hair falling free, the removal of the black fishnet stockings with the purple garters, the final divesting of the two scraps of underwear, also black, in vivid contrast to her extremely white skin.

Seeing her fully naked for the first time—literally—in the flesh, I thought for a moment what a pity it was that such a body should be wasted on an invalid like me. This was probably a defense mechanism, an effort to keep down the excitement by humiliating myself, but to no avail. Sarah's nude body defeated all would-be suppression by willpower or similar tricks, or so my loins unmistakably told me.

Sarah had proof of this as soon as she grabbed the bedcovers and flung them off me. There was no need for long foreplay, starting with the big toe and ending with my eyes. All was ready. But while this reflex tumescence was for me an admission of defeat, for Sarah it was the final confirmation of her eccentric erotic fantasy in which I was a willing accomplice.

Very affectionately, she caressed my hair, then climbed on the bed and straddled me nimbly. As I penetrated her smoothly in one easy slide, assisted by her own excitement, she bent so that her lips were close to my ear and began to whisper disconnected words in which I recognized only her desire to give me more confidence and calmness. I felt silly then, like a hesitant girl about to lose her virginity with an experienced lover who was trying to cajole her.

Another humiliating impression this, but it did not dampen my excitement.

Quite the opposite. I knew the climax had to be close, but I did not want to surrender without a fight, and I had at my disposal only one last futile weapon: physics. Sarah's hips were now pumping up and down, faster and faster, and the
contractions of the cylindrical muscles had achieved a regular rhythm. Drops of sweat glistening on her forehead and on the tips of her cheeks gave her face an unusual radiance.

Think, Stephen, think!

The strings become tense.... Gravity fits in by.... I must.... All four forces are just different aspects of...the same...Sarah, I hate you.... The colors and smells of quarks.... Time is defined by a cycle, a repetition.... The quantum state of singu-larity.... Slow it down, it will be premature.... Black holes, white holes.... The space-time shortcut opens.... Spin must be opposite.... Of course! It all fits, if we only assume.... Your nipples are perfectly round, like…. I know

where...the

missing mass.... Sum over histories.... That's it, that's it, around! In a circle.... The Circle!.... My God! The Universe is.... Connection, a link.... No! Not yet, damn you!

Wait.... Wait! It's coming.... The Big Bang....

Two things happened simultaneously. Sarah reared, jerking her head back and thrusting her quivering breasts forward and upward; her hands were leaning on my weak shoulders, digging her twitching fingers with their long, sharp nails into the limp tissue; from her lips issued a throaty, muffled "Stephen!" followed by deep panting, rasping, moaning sounds, from the very bottom of the entrails, from the center of her being, from the black, blind spot in which are united all the sinews and all the threads, life and death....

And I, I broke through into the open, on to the plateau. Into the light. It was blazed and dazzled, a jagged bolt of lightning, a ringing harmony of the spheres, limpidity to the rim of the world. The rim dissipated into emptiness, melted into an exclamation, into the edge of The Circle, into the arrow of time driven deep into Sarah's soft being. Then there was nothing, nothing all the way to the far horizon and those who were waiting for me out there.

120

The Fourth Circle

CIRCLE THE THIRD