In America by Susan Sontag Read Free Book Online Page B

me.”
    â€œSo”—he sighed—“it isn’t Stefan you wanted to consult me about.”
    She shook her head.
    â€œThen let me guess,” he said, venturing a smile.
    â€œYou’re making fun of me, my old friend,” Maryna said somberly. “Women’s nerves, you’re thinking. Or worse.”
    â€œI?”—he slapped the desk—“I, your old friend, as you acknowledge, and I thank you for that, I not take my Maryna seriously?” He looked at her sharply. “What is it? Your headaches?”
    â€œNo, it’s not about”—she sat down abruptly—“me. I mean, my headaches.”
    â€œI’m going to take your pulse,” he said, standing over her. “You’re flushed. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a touch of fever.” After a moment of silence, while he held her wrist then gave it back to her, he looked again at her face. “No fever. You are in excellent health.”
    â€œI told you there was nothing wrong.”
    â€œAh, that means you want to complain to me. Well, you shall find me the most patient of listeners. Complain, dear Maryna,” he cried gaily. He didn’t see the tears in her eyes. “Complain!”
    â€œPerhaps it is my brother, after all.”
    â€œBut I told you—”
    â€œExcuse me”—she’d stood—“I’m making a fool of myself.”
    â€œNever! Please don’t go.” He rose to bar her way to the door. “You do have a fever.”
    â€œYou said I didn’t.”
    â€œThe mind can get overheated, just like the body.”
    â€œWhat do you think of the will, Henryk? The power of the will.”
    â€œWhat sort of question is that?”
    â€œI mean, do you think one can do whatever one wants?”
    â€œ You can do whatever you want, my dear. We are all your servants and abettors.” He took her hand and inclined his head to kiss it.
    â€œOh”—she pulled away her hand—“you disgusting man, don’t flatter me!”
    He stared for a moment with a gentle, surprised expression. “Maryna, dear,” he said soothingly. “Hasn’t your experience taught you anything about how others respond to you?”
    â€œExperience is a passive teacher, Henryk.”
    â€œBut it—”
    â€œIn paradise”—she bore down on him, her grey eyes glittering—“there will be no experiences. Only bliss. There we will be able to speak the truth to each other. Or not need to speak at all.”
    â€œSince when have you believed in paradise? I envy you.”
    â€œAlways. Since I was a child. And the older I get, the more I believe in it, because paradise is something necessary.”
    â€œYou don’t find it … difficult to believe in paradise?”
    â€œOh,” she groaned, “the problem is not paradise. The problem is myself, my wretched self.”
    â€œSpoken like the artist you are. Someone with your temperament will always—”
    â€œI knew you would say that!” She stamped her foot. “I order you, I implore you, don’t speak of my temperament!”
    (Yes she had been ill. Her nerves. Yes she was still ill, all her friends except her doctor said among themselves.)
    â€œSo you believe in paradise,” he murmured placatingly.
    â€œYes, and at the gates of paradise, I would say, Is this your paradise? These ethereal figures robed in white, drifting among the white clouds? Where can I sit? Where is the water?”
    â€œMaryna…” Taking her by the hand, he led her back to the settee. “I’m going to pour you a dram of cognac. It will be good for both of us.”
    â€œYou drink too much, Henryk.”
    â€œHere.” He handed her one of the glasses and pulled a chair opposite her. “Isn’t that better?”
    She sipped the cognac, then leaned back and gazed at him mutely.
    â€œWhat is