The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [187]
And all the time, even while he listened to the reassuring tones of his own voice, he could feel the extraordinary sloth of the hurt muscles of his smile, unable now to prevent himself from thinking of Bolton and Sarah making love. But perhaps, finally, the searing quality of this thought had a good effect. It helped to cauterize his festering emotions. At first he imagined that Sarah, with brutally parted thighs, was being violated—but later, simply worn out with caring, he became hard-hearted with this weakness and said to himself harshly: “Look, she wouldn’t do it if she didn’t enjoy it!”
True, Sarah was a woman. Therefore she was physically suited to accommodate men. There was no violation, except to the Major’s feelings.
On his way to bed the Major, who had by now stayed in so many different rooms at the Majestic that he very often became confused, absent-mindedly presented himself at the door of a room he had been occupying a few days earlier. In the light of a candle he was astonished to see a young girl standing naked by the wash-basin. Without embarrassment she turned and smiled at the startled Major—who withdrew with a hasty apology. There must be a new guest in the hotel whom he had not yet come across! But surely that was impossible, for nowadays the servants came directly to him for their instructions. He found the incident most puzzling.
He had reached his room (the right one this time) before he realized who this new guest must be. It was simply one of the maids who had been obliged to move out of the servants’ wing. And this was the very matter that he had spent the evening discussing with the old ladies.
Later, lying in bed, he mused: “She could have been a lady for all the difference there was...Of course, without clothes on everybody looks the same. They look just like we do.” And he remembered thinking on some occasion during the war how, with all the distinctions of class effaced, one dead body resembles another...and...and...
These democratic notions must have soothed him, for he began to feel drowsy. Yet even as, hands in pockets, he strolled peacefully away into the tall waving grass of sleep, baleful yellow eyes were watching him, and then...Ah! The thought of Sarah once more pounced and clawed his sensitive heart.
“You really sympathize with Sinn Fein in many ways, is that not so? No, no, don’t bother to deny it, Major. With me... och, I’m just a useless old man, you know, everyone says so...with me you don’t have to pretend. Well, you must leave now before it’s too late. This wretched affair in Ireland is none of your doing. No doubt you haven’t helped matters, but that’s neither here nor there. Now, if you’ve a grain of sense, you’ll leave while you still have a chance.”
“I can’t leave with the way things are. The hotel’s in a dreadful mess.”
The Major had called on old Dr Ryan to ask his advice on what should be done with Edward, about whom he was becoming progressively more concerned. Edward was seldom to be seen these days. He spent a great deal of time out of doors engrossed in some work he had undertaken in the grounds (not even Seán Murphy had been able to tell him just what this work was). Once, on his way up the drive, the Major had glimpsed Edward’s massive silhouette standing on the topmost roof, outlined against a bank of white cumulus clouds over Wales. On another occasion, while feeding the dogs in the yard (Evans the tutor had left on the day after the ball without waiting to be sacked, taking with him all Mr Norton’s silk shirts which had been drying on a line), he had heard harsh laughter echoing