Troubles - James Gordon Farrell [160]
“I’m cold,” Sarah said with a shiver. “Let’s go inside.”
In the darkened room the Major took hold of Sarah’s arm and, in concert with his strange mood, kissed her sadly yet optimistically. It was one of those nights, he had the feeling, when everything isn’t (as it usually seems to be) already settled; when one doesn’t have to say to oneself: given your character and my character what harmony shall we ever be able to achieve?
“The moon will be coming up soon. Let me show you my favourite room.”
As he opened the door of the linen room a great exhalation of hot air enveloped them. The night was mild, the kitchen ovens had been burning for several hours at full blast while the supper was being prepared, so behind this closed door the temperature had been mounting steadily all afternoon. Still, Sarah had said she was cold. The Major stepped inside and lit the candle beside his nest of pillows on the floor. He gestured for Sarah to sit down in the depths of the cocoon. She looked faintly surprised but did so, murmuring: “It’s frightfully warm in here.”
The Major was full of determination but uncertain quite how to proceed. He would have liked to take his coat off for a start (indeed he would have liked to take all his clothes off) but was afraid lest Sarah might put an unfortunate construction on any removal of clothes. He took his place in the nest beside her and for a few moments they kissed, thereby making real a scene which the Major had frequently evoked in his imagination. The reality however, turned out to be less satisfactory than the scene he had pictured. In hardly any time he was sweating profusely; his shirt clung to his back and his collar itched unbearably. Sarah was clearly also suffering from the heat; her brow was damp and shiny; as she raised a hand to brush away a stray lock of hair that was threatening to creep between their kissing lips he noticed that a dark stain had appeared under the arm of her grey silk dress. At any moment, he was afraid, she might decide that the heat was too much. While with a trace of desperation he continued to kiss her, he nerved himself to say what he had to say, to speak the words on which his happiness depended. He cleared his throat and...but no, he retired again for one final revision of the words in his mind.
Presently Sarah disengaged herself and said: “I’m afraid my dress will get crumpled.” She hesitated for a moment, half expectantly, then with a sigh she got to her feet. The Major leaped up also and, mopping the perspiration from his brow, said jerkily: “Look here, I want you to be my wife.” He could say no more. He could not move. He stood waiting there like a pillar of salt. He could see, however, that it was going to be no go.
Sarah’s face had taken on a bitter, sly expression he had seen many times before. She said crossly: “Oh, I know you do, Brendan.” For a while neither of them said a word, then she added: “This heat is frightful. I shall have to go and wash my face.”
She turned away. The candle on the floor threw hulking shadows over the ceiling and the walls.
“Really, you’re such a child. You haven’t any idea what I’m really like...Oh, I’m sure you mean well, but it’s quite out of the question...D’you know that I’m a Catholic? Of course you do. But do you even know what a Catholic is? You probably think it’s some sort of superstition or black magic or...But no, forget all that, that’s not what I want to say. It doesn’t matter whether or not I’m a Catholic. It’s simply impossible, d’you understand? And for heaven’s sake stop staring at me with sheep’s eyes like that! You’re not the man I want and that’s all there is to it...That’s that. So please don’t mention it again. I thought you were cured of all that nonsense. Now I’m going to wash my face!”
“But why not?