He nodded without turning to her.
“Not feeling light-headed again, are you?” He stiffened. “I’m fine, I’m just listening.” “To?” “The ocean.
“You can’t hear the ocean from here.”
“Yes I can,” he said matter-of-factly. “I can smell it, too.” She came over and sniffed the air. “I can’t smell a thing.” “It’s really amazing. You see that bird beyond that tree?” He pointed. “Where?” she asked. He pointed again. She saw a slight blur. “You sure that’s not a leaf?” “It’s a sand hill crane,” he said. He took her hand and squeezed it. “Remember you taught me how to spot those? A month ago I wouldn’t have seen it at all, let alone the red on its forehead. Or am I confusing two different species? You were always better than I was at this.” She squeezed back. “You’re trying to be nice. I appreciate it.” “B., I’m not trying to be nice.”
“But I do wish you’d put your own laundry in the hamper from now on. “Okay. I will.”
“I’m sorry to be so squeamish. The sheets as well?” “Okay. Mom.”
The moment it was out of his mouth he regretted it. Maybe they were right, Henderson and the others. Maybe he was turning into a wise-ass. “You know I didn’t mean that,” he instantly said. “I’m sorry, B.” Beatrice was pursing her mouth, a sure sign that she was shutting down. Her hand in his was a deadweight and he let it go. “If you want to yell, yell at my autonomic nervous system.” “Am I yelling? You’re the one who’s yelling.” He hadn’t raised his voice at all. Or had he? A fight was coming on, a bad one, and he knew he should leave until the storm blew over. But for some reason he couldn’t move. “I am not your mother,” she said through her teeth. “We could try sleeping in separate beds again,” he said lightly, “if it really bothers you.” “All right,” she said.
“You don’t mean that. I was joking. Come on, B.” “In fact,” she said, turning away sharply, “it might be a good idea if we slept in separate suites.” “Beatrice, stop.”
“Your team is starting to talk.”
“Let them talk. They don’t know we’re sleeping in the same room-this whole wing is off-limits.” “Maids talk.”
“Come on, you’re really being impossible. Come here.” He tried to take her in his arms, but she pushed him away. Tears sprang to her eyes. “It’s an ugliness,” she said.
“Shh. Take it easy…
“I’m old. You’re young. That’s the end of it.” “The end of what? Please. B.? Stop doing this to yourself. I’m no different. I’m me.” She sat down on the terrace and lit a cigarette. Peter recognized the blue pack-Gauloises, Wolfe’s brand. “You’re turning into a jerk. Everybody says so.” “Turning?” he said, trying to smile. “Well, I suppose I should be grateful for that. Since when did you take up smoking, by the way?” “Since I felt like it.” She angrily blew out a stream of smoke. “Was it her again?” “Was it who again?”
“The one you’ve been dreaming about all week. Miss Autonomic Nervous System. The blonde with the big breasts.” “I never said she had big breasts.”
“Okay. You were dreaming about her.”
“Beatrice,” he lied, “I was joking.” He started to touch her hair where it curled over her ears, but then he drew his hand back. “You’re the only blonde I dream about,” he said, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. “Look, if you want to talk about my sexuality-” “Oh, right. That’s really what I’m dying to discuss. You know what? You’re insufferable,” she said as she crushed out her cigarette, stood up and went back into the bedroom. Fine, turn your back on me, he thought, letting a wave of self justifying anger wash over him. What have I done that I couldn’t help doing? Nothing. It’s not as if I never had wet dreams before. Yes, you did when you were fifteen. And it was never the same woman night after night. Okay, B., so you guessed it, he thought, gazing out past the palm trees toward the sound of surf. So what are we going to do about it? It’s a mad affair locked in dreams. It’s nonsense. It’s meaningless. The woman’s face swam up inside his eyes. Damn, he thought.
The dream was coming back. He could feel her hair moving through his fingers, a silken cascade that kept changing color, from blond to black to orange and back again. He traced her firm, receptive flesh, felt the easy weight of her, the supple lines, the perfection of how it all fit together, all of it utterly familiar. Though he fought it, he remembered with breathtaking clarity the ecstatic meltdown that had crowned last night’s appearance. For the first time since she had found him in his dream world, she showed her face clearly. It was at once maddeningly familiar and utterly unknown, with a high forehead, full lips, huge gray eyes with the faintest hint of scar tissue at the supraorbital ridge. Amazing how the mind could do that-invent features, geographies, buildings, landscapes, in minute details, continuously. moment to moment, ab nihilo. Sure, why don’t you turn this into a science project? he thought. Keep forensic notes on her! That’s sure to keep your hormones at bay. But it really had to stop. She was starting to get in the way of his work, appearing even in his creative moments like a spirit who could not bear separation. B., if I had a choice, I’d pluck her out of my consciousness like a weed, he told himself. He walked away from the terrace’s railing. “And since when, by the way, does Wolfe give you his cigarettes?” he called into the apartment. A door slammed somewhere inside.
“Beatrice?” he called.
Almost in denial he walked through the few rooms, thinking he might find her doing something normal, something like brushing her hair or making herself tea. She was gone.
He made no effort to follow. Instead, he sat down and poured himself a vodka from the bottle Beatrice kept in the freezer. He hadn’t had a drink since the operation, but after a Beatrice fight, he deserved one. He tossed it back.
The liquor burned like acid and made him double over as he rushed to the sink to spit it out. My God, he thought, catching his breath, this body has never tasted hard liquor before! Jesus, there was a ton of things he had to teach himself. The only problem was he was no longer sure which part of him would be doing the teaching and which the learning. Then the girl’s face swam up before him once more. This time it filled the sky. 9
It was impossible for Peter to sleep.
It wasn’t simply the absence of Beatrice. Dozens of times in their marriage she had spent whole nights at her lab, on occasion because her work demanded it. Sometimes it was out of pique, but she always returned the next morning. He was used to her storming out on him-he had often stormed out on her himself and spent the night in his lab. In their courting days, whenever they got into one of their wilder arguments, he would drive her home, declare they were through, then drive around the block until she reemerged. Then they would sit silently in the car, sometimes for hours, until one of them surrendered and apologized. She had her father’s stubbornness and pride, and she wasn’t about to yield to any boyish pretender to the throne of modern physics. Her father had been one of those linchpins of the revolution, a colleague of de Broglie and Bohr, a cranky, imperious man who despite his immense charm and influence on funding committees and politicians had little time or patience for his only child. Beatrice had, without quite realizing it, struggled to escape his gravitational field and establish herself as a scientist in her own right. Peter liked to think he had given her the confidence to break away, even though Beatrice, who continued to worship her father, would have denied there was ever a need to rebel. In her eyes her father was a demigod, and Peter was obliged to agree. Her father was Beatrice’s sole blind spot; about Peter she had no such illusions. She simply loved him. His desires were hers, her dreams his, and there wasn’t anything one of them needed the other couldn’t supply, happily and completely. Unless, of course, they were fighting. The arguments happened often enough to keep them on their toes and to keep the marriage from turning stale. From roughly their twenty-fifth anniversary on, the brouhahas never lasted for more than a few hours. But this felt different.
This time, Beatrice had gone and stayed away for two days. She was still on base, of course, sleeping in one of the rooms reserved for visiting brass. But she hadn’t blinked. And neither had he. His mind was telling him to go to her, say whatever was necessary to get them back on track again. But