‘Wasn’t it just the way I said?” Catherine asked.
“Yes,” David said and sat down on one of the stools and put his elbows on the bar.
“It probably would have been enough to burn the clippings,”
220 221
. .
Catherine said. “But I really thought I ought to make a clean sweep.
“You did, all right,” David said.
“Now you can go right on with the narrative and there will be nothing to interrupt you. You can start in the morning.”
“Sure,” David said.
“I’m glad you’re reasonable about it,” Catherine said. “You couldn’t know how worthless they were, David. I had to show you.
“You couldn’t have kept the Kibo one that you liked?”
“I told you I tried to find it. But if you want to rewrite it I can tell it to you word for word.”
“That will be fun.”
“It will be really. You’ll see. Do you want me to tell it to you now? We could if you want.”
“No,” David said. “Not just now. Would you write it though?”
“I can’t write things, David. You know that. But I can tell it to you anytime you want. You don’t really care about the others do you? They were worthless.”
“Why did you do it really?”
“To help you. You can go to Africa and write them again when your viewpoint is more mature. The country can’t be changed very much. I think it would be nice if you wrote about Spain instead though. You said the country was almost the same as Africa and there you’d have the advantage of a civilized language.”
David poured himself a whiskey and found a bottle of Perrier, uncapped it and poured some in the glass. He remembered the day they had passed the place where they bottled Perrier water on the plain on the way to Aigues Mortes and how—”Let’s not talk about writing,” he said to Catherine.
“I like to,” Catherine said. ‘When it’s constructive and has some valid purpose. You always wrote so well until you started
those stories. The worst thing was the dirt and the flies and the cruelty and the bestiality. You seemed almost to grovel in it. That horrible one about the massacre in the crater and the heart lessness of your own father.”
“Can we not talk about them?” David asked.
“I want to talk about them,” Catherine said. “I want to make you realize why it was necessary to burn them.”
‘Write it out,” David said. “I’d rather not hear it now.”
“But I can’t write things, David.”
“You will,” David said.
“No. But I’ll tell them to someone who can write them,” Catherine said. “If you were friendly you’d write them for me. If you really loved me you’d be happy to.”
“All I want to do is kill you,” David said. “And the only reason I don’t do it is because you are crazy.
“You can’t talk to me like that, David.”
“No?”
“No, you can’t. You can’t. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you.
“Then hear me say you can’t say such things. You can’t say horrible things like that to me.”
“I hear you,” David said.
“You can’t say such things. I won’t stand for it. I’ll divorce you.
“That would be very welcome.”
“Then I’ll stay married to you and never give you a divorce.”
“That would be pretty.”
“I’ll do anything I want to you.
“You have.”
“I’ll kill you.
“I wouldn’t give a shit,” David said.
“You can’t even talk like a gentleman at a time like this.”
“What would a gentleman say at a time like this?”
“That he was sorry.”
222 223
. .
“All right,” David said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I ever met you. I’m sorry I ever married you—”
“So am I.”
“Shut up please. You can tell it to somebody who can write it down. I’m sorry your mother ever met your father and that they ever made you. I’m sorry you were born and that you grew up. I’m sorry for everything we ever did good or bad—”
“You’re not.”
“No,” he said. “I’ll shut up. I didn’t mean to make a speech.”
“You’re just really sorry for yourself.”