Chapter Twenty-Seven
Monsieur Lapin-Défunt, meanwhile, was sat up in bed, unable, once again, to sleep. The bed shook a little as Petunia rolled over, inducing in him the slightest twinge of seasickness. Wafting from her unconscious flesh was her unique bouquet, which had so inflamed his nostrils when first they courted, and which, even now, despite the insufferable damage they’d inflicted on each other’s souls since then, aroused him. Her breathing, momentarily interrupted during her roll, resumed its languorous rhythm. She had, without intending to, presented her back to him. In the dimness, he contemplated her form. Her outline was as perfectly drawn as an ageless sculpture; her neck, exposed from her splashing trails of unbound hair, retained all the vulnerable innocence of her youth; and her total shape, moulded into the thin sheets, was as if ingeniously crafted to unmoor a man’s reason from his skull.
He wanted her.
But he knew what would ensue had he tried to wake her.
He thought of Deirdre.
He dressed and set off, in the hope he might, once again, find her crying in some broom cupboard. A gambler by nature, he hadn’t sought to compute the odds. But sure enough, in the cavernous emptiness of the ballroom, a theatrical weeping warbled through the dark.
“Say! What’s all this about, then?” he chuckled, and came over to comfort her. She was splayed on the dancefloor, her dress fanned out like a cupcake wrapper, arms wilted bonelessly as if frozen in a photograph of a ballerina expired mid-performance.
“Go away. . .” she moaned without conviction.
“As you wish, mademoiselle.” He backed away, but her swan’s head suddenly rose.
“Don’t go.”
He stopped, and smiled. “As you wish.”
Her face couldn’t really be seen; only the glowing stalactites of tears on either cheek, and the thinnest hint of her eyelashes above them. “I bet you never cry, do you, monsieur?”
He strolled closer. “I? Well. . .even the hardest of hearts, when confronted by a painting of merciless beauty. . .or a poem whose intimate, devastating wisdom chimes so exactly with your own that it shames you. . .or a—”
“A girl?”
“Well. . .I am French.”
She exhaled a sad excuse for a laugh.
“That’s more like it! Nobody can be miserable twenty-four hours a day. At least, I presume.”
He’d reached her by now, and extended his hand, which she took, and he helped her rise.
“No, no. I do take breaks for lunch.”
Anything if not a gentleman, he loosened the grip on her fingers, so that she might withdraw them at any time. To his surprise, she did not.
“How did you find me?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I followed the whiff of maudlin self-pity.”
“That’s the fragrance of my life, I’m afraid.”
“But you do keep a sense of humour about it, I’ve observed.”
“There are rocks of mordant awareness somewhat stymying the rush along the rapids towards the fall, true. They really only serve to crank up the terror.” She yawned, and sat back down on the floor, this time folding her legs beneath her, the chalky moonlight through the window picking out a lonely bare ankle, which did not escape the gentleman’s notice.
“If I understand your metaphor correctly, that means you haven’t plummeted to the very bottom just yet. May I?”
She nodded, and, lowering himself awkwardly, he sat down beside her, then proceeded to pull at his shirt cuffs and adjust his trouser legs so as to retain some respectability.
He stared through the dark at her blank, white-less eyes. He spoke softly, and with total honesty: “I do wish I could get into your head. I feel it would be horrifying and sublime—like facing God Himself.”
“I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate the comfort you’re trying to give. But I’m afraid I’m something of a hopeless cause.”
“Hopeless causes carry the greatest honour. Didn’t you know?”
Her face turned, in some direction, and the moonlight found nothing to illuminate, so, although he could still hear her breathe, she had as well as disappeared. “How can I thank you?” she asked. “May I relieve you?”
“‘Relieve’ me? Whatever do you mean by that?”
“You know. Erotically.”
“I—I’m not sure I understand.”
“I could use my hand. Or, if you prefer, my mouth.”
Flustered and ashamed, offended at the effrontery and bluntness, he rose. “I am a gentleman, mademoiselle!”
“Does that mean you prefer to think and do these things, but not to discuss them?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what any of it means. Good night. I hope you feel better.”
He huffed back to his room, muttering to himself, undressed, and got into bed. His wife lay as he’d left her. He softly lowered the sheet from over her, and, seeking to rouse her, ran his palm up and down the back of her thigh. But she kicked at him, blindly striking his groin, in her sleep, like an annoyed mare. Wincing, he drew the sheet back over her and lay on his back. Strangely, and uncharacteristically, he felt a mild revulsion at the notion of touching himself, so stared at the ceiling till dawn.