Slow Man - Coetzee J. M. (книги хорошего качества .TXT) 📗

'Perhaps. But there is nothing wrong with my memory, and I have no recollection of such an experience.'

'Well, old friends or not, why not see what you can achieve together, you and Marianna? Given the extraordinary circumstances of the case, I will take it on myself to arrange a meeting. You need merely wait and prepare yourself. Be assured, if there is any proposal I will put it to her in a way that will allow her to come without losing self-respect.

'A final word. Let me suggest that, whatever you and she get up to, you get up to it in the dark. As a kindness to her. Think of your bed as a cave. A storm is raging, a maiden huntress enters seeking shelter. She stretches out a hand and meets another hand, yours. And so forth.'

He ought to say something sharp, but he cannot, it is as if he is drugged or bemused.

'Of the episode of which you claim to have no recollection,' Costello goes on, '- the day when you might or might not have taken her photograph – I would only say, be a little less sure of yourself. Stir the memory and you will be surprised at what images rise to the surface. But let me not press you. Let us build your side of the story on the premise that you have had only that single glimpse of her, in the lift. A single glimpse, but enough to ignite desire. From your desire and her need, what will be born? Passion on the grandest of scales? One last great autumnal conflagration? Let us see. The issue is in your hands, yours and hers. Is my proposal acceptable? If so, say yes. Or if you are too abashed, just nod. Yes?

'Her name is Marianna, as I said, with two ns. I cannot help that. It is not in my power to change names. You can give her some interim other name if you wish, some pet name, Darling or Kitten or whatever. She was married, but after the stroke of fate I described her marriage broke up, as all else broke up. Her life is in disarray. For the present she lives with her mother, the woman you saw with her, the crone.

'That is sufficient background for the time being. You can get the rest from her own lips. Two ns. Once upon a time a pig-farmer's daughter. Her toilette is in disarray as is everything else in her life, but that can be forgiven, who would not make the occasional mistake, dressing in the dark?

'Agitated but clean. Since her surgery, her extremely delicate surgery, quite unlike the gross butchery of amputation, she has become morbidly scrupulous about cleanliness, about the way she smells. That happens with some blind people. You had better be clean for her too. If I speak crudely, forgive me. Wash yourself well. Wash everywhere. And put away that sad face. Losing a leg is not a tragedy. On the contrary, losing a leg is comic. Losing any part of the body that sticks out is comic. Otherwise we would not have so many jokes on the subject. There was an old man with one leg / Who stood with his hat out to beg. And so forth.

'Be advised, Paul: The years go by as quickly as a wink. So enjoy yourself while you're still in the pink. It's always later than you think.

'And no, the other Marijana, the nurse woman, was not my idea, if that is what you are wondering. There is no system for these things. Marijana of Dubrovnik, your unsuitable passion, arrived via your friend Mrs Putts. Nothing to do with me.

'You don't know what to make of me, do you? You think of me as a trial. Much of the time you think I am talking rubbish, making things up as I go. Yet you have not rebelled, I notice, not yet. You tolerate me in the hope that I will give up and go away. Don't deny it, it is written on your face, plain for all to see. You are Job, I am one of your unmerited afflictions, the woman who goes on and on, full of plans for saving you from yourself, gab gab gab, when all you crave is peace.

'It does not have to be this way, Paul. I say it again: this is your story, not mine. The moment you decide to take charge, I will fade away. You will hear no more from me; it will be as if I had never existed. That promise extends to your new friend Marianna as well. I will retire; you and she will be free to work out your respective salvations.

'Think how well you started. What could be better calculated to engage one's attention than the incident on Magill Road, when young Wayne collided with you and sent you flying through the air like a cat. What a sad decline ever since! Slower and slower, till by now you are almost at a halt, trapped in a stuffy flat with a caretaker who could not care less about you. But be of good heart. Marianna has possibilities, with her devastated face and the remorseful lust that grips her. Marianna is quite a woman. The question is, are you man enough for her?

'Answer me, Paul. Say something.'

It is like a sea beating against his skull. Indeed, for all he knows he could already be lost overboard, tugged to and fro by the currents of the deep. The slap of water that will in time strip his bones of the last sliver of flesh. Pearls of his eyes; coral of his bones.

FIFTEEN

MARIJANA CALLS. Even before she speaks he knows what she is going to say: that she is sorry, but she cannot come today. A problem with her daughter. No, not Ljubica: Blanka.

'Can I help?' he asks.

'No, nobody can help.' She sighs. 'I come tomorrow for sure, OK?'

'Trouble with her daughter,' muses Elizabeth Costello. 'I wonder what kind of trouble that might be. Still, no cloud without a silver lining. The woman I mentioned, Marianna, the blind one – you can't keep her from your thoughts, can you? Don't dissemble, Paul, I can read you like a book. It so happens that Marianna is at a loose end today. Does not know what to do with herself. Be in the cafe on the corner, Alfredo's I think it is called, at five this afternoon, and I will bring her to you. Dress up, even if she can't see. I will bring her, then I will bid adieu. Don't ask me how I do these things, it's not magic, I just do them.'

Costello stays away all afternoon. At four-thirty, as he is about to leave the flat, she reappears, breathless. 'A change of plan,' she says. 'Marianna is waiting downstairs. She does not like the idea of Alfredo's. She is being' – she gives an exasperated snort – 'she is being difficult. May I use your kitchen?'

She returns from the kitchen bearing a little bowl of what looks like cream. 'Just a paste of flour and water. It goes over your eyes. Have no fear, it will not hurt you. Why must you wear it? Because Marianna does not want you to see her. She insists. Here, bend down. Keep still. Don't blink. To hold it in place, a lemon leaf over each eye. And to hold the leaves in place, a nylon stocking, freshly washed, I promise, knotted behind your head. You can slip it off at any time you wish. But I would not recommend that, truly I would not.

'So. All done. I am sorry it is so complicated, but that is how we human beings are, complicated, each in our own unique way. Now, if you will settle down and wait, I will fetch your Marianna. Do you feel you are ready? Do you feel up to it? Yes? Good. Remember, you must pay her. That is the arrangement, that is how she keeps her self-respect. A topsy-turvy world, isn't it? But it's the only one we have.

'As soon as I have delivered her I will slip away and allow the two of you to get to know each other better. I won't be back until tomorrow or even the next day. Goodbye. Do not worry about me. I'm a tough old bird.'

She is gone. He stands facing the door, leaning on his frame. There is a murmur of voices from the stairwell. The door-latch clicks again.

'I am here,' he says into the dark. Despite his unbelief, his heart seems to be hammering.

A gliding, a rustling. The scent of the damp leaves over his eyes overpowers every other smell. A pressure on the frame, which he feels through his hands. 'My eyes are shut, sealed,' he says. 'I am not used to being blind, bear with me.'