Sparta by Roxana Robinson

Author:Roxana Robinson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux

15

The irony of this, his staying in the guest room with its double bed, was that apparently Conrad no longer wanted sex. Not even with himself, his most skillful and practiced lover. He stayed limp and soft, no matter what secret whispers he summoned up to his inner ear, no matter what lurid images he paraded through his head. Nothing.

He was caught on the surface of his mind. He couldn’t let go, couldn’t sink down to that hot, private place, couldn’t leave the glaring surface of the world.

* * *

Claire arrived late on Friday evening.

Conrad was in the kitchen when he saw the headlights coming slowly up the road, then turning in. He went out to greet her, walking down the lawn through the darkness.

Claire had turned off the engine, but the interior light was still on. She was in a little illuminated capsule, unaware of her visibility. Her head was down, and the light fell on her glossy hair. She was doing something with her bag, and when Conrad opened the door, she looked up, startled.

“Hi.” He waited for her face to turn pleased.

“Hi,” she said, her voice tentative. Her face did not change.

Was this how he made her feel? Ashamed, Conrad squatted beside the open door.

“Hey,” he said softly.

She was rumpled and untidy from the drive. A few fine strands of hair were pasted to her cheek by sweat. Her pink linen blouse was wrinkled, and she looked tired and apprehensive.

“Clairey.” He was nearly whispering. “Do I frighten you?”

She shook her head. He reached out and smoothed her hair, gently pulling the strands away from her cheek. Her skin was hot and soft.

“Maybe a little,” she said.

“Sorry,” Conrad said. “Jesus.”

Her face was faintly silvered with sweat. Tiny freckles stood out, dark points along the ridge of her cheekbones. The column of her throat was straight and fine.

“I know you don’t mean to,” she said, and smiled at him.

“Jesus,” he said again, shamed. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me, too,” she said.

He carried her bag up. Inside, Lydia gave her a welcoming hug and sent her up to get settled. Claire went first up the steep stairs, Conrad behind her with the bag. His face was close to her legs and he could see her smooth bare calves, her ankles, with their mysterious bony knobs and tendons. He could smell her, warm and clean and slightly fruity.

In the room he said, “Here it is, the honeymoon suite.” He’d told her about the ban, Lydia lifting it.

“I’m honored,” she said, looking around. “It’s lovely.”

Claire stood in front of the bureau, with the fraying white cotton scarf over the top of it. She touched the silver luster jug, the soft-bristled hairbrush. She looked at herself in the heavy gilt-framed mirror and smoothed her hair abstractedly. She turned to the window and looked out into the darkness over the meadow. The lilac bushes brushed against the screen, and the curtains lifted in the evening breeze.

“It’s so quiet,” she said, turning back.

“Very,” Conrad said.

She pointed down at the painted floor, with its scattering of faded rag rugs.

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