The Age of Reason by Jean-Paul Sartre Read Free Book Online Page A

look young.’ He felt an impulse to tear it up.
    ‘There’s something odd about you,’ said Lola: ‘what’s the matter?’
    ‘I’m all in,’ said Boris. ‘I’ve got a pain in the top of my head.’
    Lola looked anxious. ‘You aren’t ill, dear? Would like a cachet?’
    ‘No, it’s nothing, I shall soon feel better.’
    Lola took his chin and raised his head.
    ‘You look as if you were angry with me. You aren’t, are you? Yes, you are. What have I done?’
    She looked distraught.
    ‘I’m not angry with you — don’t be silly,’ protested Boris feebly.
    ‘You are, but what have I done to you? You’d much better tell me, because then I shall be able to explain. It’s sure to be some misunderstanding. It can’t be anything serious. Boris, I do implore you, tell me what’s the matter.’
    ‘But there’s nothing.’
    He put his arms round Lola’s neck and kissed her on the lips. Lola quivered. Boris inhaled a perfumed breath, and felt against his mouth the moist nakedness of her lips. His senses thrilled. Lola covered his face with kisses: she began to pant a little.
    Boris realized that he desired Lola, and was glad: desire absorbed his black ideas, as it did ideas of any other kind. His head began to whirl, its contents sped upwards and were scattered. He had laid his hand on Lola’s hip, he touched her flesh through the silken dress: he was, indeed, no more than a hand outstretched upon that silken flesh. He curved his hand slightly, and the stuff slipped between his fingers, like an exquisite skin, delicate and dead: below lay the real skin, resistant, elastic, and glossy as a kid glove. Lola tipped her cloak on to the bed, flung out two bare arms and clasped them round Boris’s neck; she smelt delicious. Boris could see her shaven arm-pits, powdered with bluish black dots, minute but clearly visible, like the heads of splinters thrust deep into the skin. Boris and Lola remained standing, on the very spot where desire had come upon them, because they had no longer strength to move. Lola’s legs began to tremble, and Boris wondered whether they would not both just sink down on to the carpet. He pressed Lola to him, and felt the rich softness of her breasts.
    ‘Ah,’ murmured Lola.
    She was leaning backwards, and he was fascinated by that pale head and swollen lips, a veritable Medusa’s head. And he thought to himself: ‘These are her last good days.’ And he held her yet more tightly. ‘One of these mornings she will suddenly collapse.’ He detested her: he felt his body against hers, hard and gaunt and muscular, he clasped her in his arms and defended her against the years. Then there came upon him a moment of bewilderment and drowsiness: he looked at Lola’s arms, white as an old woman’s hair, it seemed to him that he held old age between his hands, and that he must clasp it close and strangle it.
    ‘Don’t hold me so tight,’ murmured Lola happily. ‘You’re hurting me. I want you.’
    Boris released her; he was a little shocked.
    ‘Give me my pyjamas: I’ll go and undress in the bathroom.’
    He went into the bathroom, and locked the door: he hated Lola to come in while he was undressing. He washed his face and his feet, and amused himself by dusting talcum powder on his legs. He had quite recovered his composure, and he thought to himself: ‘It’s fantastic.’ His head was vague and heavy, and he hardly knew what he was thinking about. ‘I must talk to Delarue about it,’ he decided. Beyond the door she awaited him, she was certain to be undressed by now. But he did not feel inclined to hurry. A naked body, full of naked odours, was something rather overwhelming, which was what Lola would not understand. He was now about to be engulfed into an enveloping and strong-savoured sensuality. Once in it, all would be well, but before — well, a fellow couldn’t help feeling a bit nervous. ‘In any case,’ he reflected with annoyance, ‘I don’t intend to get involved