Troubles - James Gordon Farrell [116]
Until now, incredible though it may seem, the Major had never considered that love, like war, is best conducted with experience of tactics. His instinct helped him a little. It warned him, for instance, against unconditional surrender. (“Do with me as you see fit, Sarah.”) With Sarah he somehow knew that that would not work. He was learning slowly, by experience. Next time he had a love affair he would do much better. But to the love-drugged Major that was not much consolation.
All the same, he had hopes, mainly of a practical nature. He was wealthy and independent. He had no relations to placate. Sarah was entirely without money; and about her “family” the less said the better, for even his present state of narcosis was powerless to furnish the unspeakable Devlin with attractive qualities. Could the girl refuse such a dazzling opportunity? Well, the Major gloomily fancied that she could —but all the same, and however undernourished, he did have hopes, in spite of everything.
While the Major, with neither chart nor compass, was thus wandering at large through the minefields of love, a letter arrived for him. He recognized neither the postmark nor the handwriting. “Curious!” he mused, and tore it open. It was from a girl he had known before the war. She said that she was going to get married and that she hoped he didn’t mind. (Not only did the Major not mind, for a few minutes he could remember nothing about the girl at all; even the circumstances of their meeting escaped him.) But she had waited for him—that is, if at a certain stage he had made the right move, or rather (the letter was somewhat confused, as if written while intoxicated), any move...that is to say, it had become clear to her, after all one can only wait so long, but she would always think of him, would always remember him with love and affection...one can’t, after all (why should one want to?), pretend that the Past hasn’t happened...tear it out of one’s life by the roots...the fun they had had together. She could close her eyes even now and still see him, Lieutenant Brendan Archer, as she knew he would always be. She hoped he would also. Life goes by so quickly.
The Major did remember her now, of course. She had been someone’s sister, not particularly attractive but with a reputation among the young men of that circle. He was glad that she had managed to find a husband in spite of the reputation (which had turned out to be justified, he recalled). He had liked her, really. She had been a good scout, in spite of the other thing. She had oppressed him, though, by the intensity of her feeling for him, and that was the principal thing he now remembered about her. She had had a tendency to hug him violently, squeezing the air out of his lungs—it’s distressing to be squeezed very hard if you are not trying to squeeze the other person back. One feels trapped. The Major had felt trapped. As to what had inspired this passion he had no idea; in those days, not long after leaving school, he had been an intolerably stuck-up young prig. Well, perhaps that was what women liked. Insufferable young prigs striking attitudes. “But no, I mustn’t be bitter. And the insufferable young prig was me! That should make a difference.” Well! But women liked other kinds of men too. The thought of Edward crossed his mind again. “Women have appalling taste in men,” he decided gloomily.
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