Night Read Online Free PDF Page B

didn’t burn her smalls.
    â€œSlag,” he said, as she hefted the coal across the floor; and he asked the Fates how long were they married. A lifetime he said.
    â€œStill, we had a good time last night, didn’t we?” she said, bold as brass. Not lacking in gumption. Menlike women to do their warring for them. The canny Scythians choose to use their mares in warre service rather than their stone horses. She proceeded to dish up a late dinner, a mutton hash, without deference to me. The upshot was he gave me his, she gave him hers, while she ate directly from the casserole. To her I was more or less invisible, simply not there. That was prior to our debauch. But as things warmed up and he filled my glass until it foamed over, she took cognisance of me, she admired my hairstyle, but said to make no mistake about it, that she came first, that she was number one, that she was Mrs Finney. He told her for fuck’s sake to belt up.
    â€œI might let you have him,” she said, “Idon’t particularly want him, except for his balls now and then.” She asked where I got my clothes, my couture. She said she would have considered modelling except that she was into the breeding racket, big deal, ha ha ha. It seems they had four children, none of whom I saw and only one of whom I heard. A mewl.
    Nick’s wife has another ruse, another bit of henpecking, she insists Nick carry a wad of notes in case they are suddenly discharged from their posts as managers, in case they must flee, and then, because he is in possession of such exorbitant sums, it stands to reason, he can’t have a stroll alone, he has to be escorted by her or by the tiddleywinks. I wouldn’t like to tread on her corns again.
    But in the morning she was loath to let him see me out. She told me to get my own fucking taxi and hitch up with my own man. She doesn’t know that I likeguerrillas, men on the move, stonemasons like Moriarty, and a volunteer called McKann. I only know McKann by hearsay but I often think he’s the one, the destiny for me. I saw photos of him, very still and mild, like a crock of milk, and yet he burns with a fierce indignation like a burning bush. I might meet him in the woods, in Arcadia.
    *

I am reaching for the pushbell.
    I am reaching for the pushbell. Imagine that for an amenity. There is even a fireplace here and fireirons and a basket grate. It is a boudoir. There is a love seat. Just before rain the soot falls. The gales are in fits and starts, a sum of all the gales from all the chimneys in the world, Coose, Alaska, the unpeopled climes. The soot makes a scurrying sound like mice marching. Sometimes in half sleep I imagine that it is mice and that they have got into a boot or my suède shoe and are lying there in ambush. In the mornings I gather up the soot on a piece of cardboard. No rain tonight but a storm brewing. Marvellous feeling, as if everything in nature is going to erupt. I might end up in China or Tasmania. Without even looking I can tell what it is like outside in the garden, very grave though blowy, the big dark trees towering, the magnificent sweep of the lawns, everything pointing towards the stars and everything rooted but by no means reconciled. Now if it were a summer’s night I might don a shawl and have a stroll out there and when summer comes I shall and will. I pity those at sea. It’s nice to be here, installed, snug. I would ring this cursed pushbell except that Icannot bear the denouement. It is not going to be answered, no flunkey is going to rush up here with smelling salts or camomile tea, and say “Yes, ma’am,” or “No, ma’am”. It is white, cold and sphere-shaped and I expect that it has a little battery inside it. I touch it and suddenly it is ringing me and my fingers are pins and needles and the electricity is getting to my palm. I drop it and repair to the far side of the bed. It is now on a pillow abandoned. This side of the bed is freezing and