Heroine by Gail Scott

Author:Gail Scott
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781770566064
Publisher: Coach House Books
Published: 2019-09-29T16:00:00+00:00

Love’s Eye

Late November. Unseasonably warm. I’m waiting on the balcony in the fog. Suddenly I see the street lights shut off. (Can a progressive woman sink so low?) I light the fifteenth cigarette. Unable to believe it. Morning again and you’re not home yet. Then just as I’m thinking that your return, the thing I want most in the world, will never happen, a taxi arrives. Flicking on its overhead light as you get out. I love the way you enter a room. Filling the space with your straight back, your wide shoulders. Once I dreamed you wore silver boots. Oh God, I can smell her sex on you.

‘What, still up?’ you ask, furious. From the mountain all night long they’ve been playing that interminable waltz. I say: ‘Please, before we sleep, let’s walk in the park.’ Trying to feel okay. After all, you’re home with me. For a moment I feel free. With the wind in my eyes I can keep silent. Not say anything forbidden. Keep a lid on the strain. Discretion in love is all-important. Permitting the mystery to be maintained. Until it occurs to me, maybe next time you won’t come home to me again. D’s so beautiful. (Or is it someone else?) Deliciously round. That night of la Saint Jean, when already I knew you two would later disappear in the crowd, she suddenly said (proudly): ‘You’re so skinny. Chez nous les femmes sont faites comme les paysannes.’

We cross the park. In front of us passes the poet who loves little boys. Probably coming from a party somewhere. Yes, because at the far end of the damp velvety green grass appears Québec’s most famous improvisational actress. In a pink silk pantsuit. Her red hair curled over her white forehead. Two magnificent Irish setters straining on a leash beside her. Also, with his long curls blowing back from his bald crown, the actor who later incarnated Riel. You can tell they’re really stoned. So crazy, so free. Ils savent prendre des risques avec le corps. I want to be like them, to hell with jealousy. Freedom is built on generosity. Leaning toward you, my lips graze your ear and whisper: ‘Let’s go in.’ We have to be fast. We have thirty minutes before that little Chilean girl we still look after now and then rings the bell. When you penetrate it hurts. Slowly, less from passion than from habit our skins warm. The orgasm’s not long in coming. Not long and not strong. ‘How was it?’ you ask, collapsing on my chest. ‘Wonderful,’ I answer, almost crying. The doorbell rings. Perfect timing.

I just need to get calm enough to sleep. First, though, through half-closed eyes, I watch you pull the tight jeans over the flat stomach (and lovely bulge below). Admiring the virility of your body. How without rest it can work all day on increasing shots of coffee. Turning out little black-and-white images for the revolutionary newspaper. The comrades loved that sequence you did on east-end Montréal.

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