The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [505]
‘Matthew, are you in love with me?’ she asked.
‘Well, yes,’ he muttered, blundering in the direction from which the voice had come. But he found the shadows were empty and again he heard her laughter from where he had just been a moment before; and her voice asked mockingly: ‘Are you in love with me, Matthew?’
‘Please,’ he said. ‘Where are you?’
‘First you must answer. Are you in love with me?’
‘Yes, oh, that is …’
‘How much?’
‘Well …’ Matthew found a handkerchief and mopped his steaming brow. He felt somewhat unwell again.
‘Here I am, over by the swimming pool. Come and look at the moon’s reflection. That water is so still tonight!’
Matthew left the shadow of the trees and went to where she was sitting on her heels at the edge of the pool gazing down at the bright, motionless disc of the moon stamped like a yellow wax seal on the surface of the water. He attempted to put his arm round her but immediately she drew away, saying that there was something he must do first. She told him but he did not understand what it was.
‘What?’
‘Yes, you must jump into the water with your clothes on.’
‘I must do what?’ cried Matthew in astonishment. ‘Are you joking?’
‘No, you must jump in with your clothes on’
‘But really …’
‘No, that’s what I want you to do.’
Matthew said crossly: ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m going to bed now so … goodnight!’
‘Wait Matthew, wait!’ pleaded Joan. ‘Wait!’
Matthew paused. The edge of the pool was rounded and raised a little, like the rim of a saucer. Joan was now walking along it, arms outstretched like a tight-rope walker. As he watched she allowed herself to lose her balance and fall backwards into the moon’s reflection. There was a great splash and a slapping of water against the sides of the pool. Joan, smiling, lay back against a pillow of water and did one, two, three strokes of a neat overarm backstroke which caused her to surge out into the pool with a bow-wave swirling back on each side of her head. Matthew shook his head in bewilderment, scattering drops of perspiration, as if he himself had just stepped out of the pool. But really, this was the limit! He was invaded by a feeling of unreality. Moreover, the moon and the stars had begun plunging and zooming in the heavens. Any moment now he would collapse if he did not reach his bed and lie down. He plodded back over the moonlit lawn which tilted now this way, now that, like the deck of a ship in a storm, and on through the dark corridor of trees, pausing only to vomit into the shrubbery.
‘Wait, I’m coming too,’ came Joan’s distant voice. ‘I still haven’t got my handbag.’
But when he had wearily clambered up the steps of the May-fair Building and once more dragged open the creaking door of the verandah he found another surprise waiting for him. So slippery had reality become to his grasp that, for a moment, it seemed to him quite likely that the young woman who came forward, smiling, to greet him, was Joan who had somehow managed to rearrange time and space to her convenience and arrive back there before he did. It was not Joan, however, but the Eurasian girl with dark-red hair whom