Your equipment, Margaret thought, as the sounds of Katya Kabanova came on. Yes, what about your equipment? God, when did I become such a vulgarian? she wondered. Well, I'm only seeking the truth, seeking the good, seeking happiness. The good is happiness. The rational and appetitive, together, seek happiness. The rational is appetitive.
The music rolled through the room like a wave, bigger than a live orchestra. The floor beneath her vibrated. They listened, Martin pacing, standing here, then over there, checking a wire, turning a knob, while Margaret lay on the couch. After a few minutes, Martin lifted the arm from the record, switched off the turntable and said, "Now listen, I play for you a CD. One of my friend's CDs. I don't know what this is. They are all the same. All horrible. Listen..."
Margaret heard the rhythm of scratching records and a harsh voice.
"Face down, ass up, that's the way we like to fuck—"
Martin turned it off.
"I am sorry," he said. "I did not know."
"That record caused the French Revolution," Margaret said.
Martin kneeled beside her.
"Are you well, Marguerite?"
"Don't I look well?"
"Yes, of course, again, but—"
"You look well, Martin."
She put her hand up, curled it around the back of his neck, felt the soft, longish hair there. She pulled him down to her. "I have to know," she said.
"Know what?"
"The truth."
She took his glasses, the thick-framed, oddly shaped glasses, and put them down beside her.
"Marguerite—"
"Can you see?" she said.
"A little. I can see you."
"And I can see you." She put both arms around his neck and pulled his face to hers. She kissed him on the lips.
"Ah, you really are drunk," he said.
"Yes."
She kissed him again. His lips, the moist, thin lips shaped in a slight, superior pout.
"Marguerite, I think it is time I took you to bed."
"Yes," she whispered, kissing his neck. "Yes, do."
He lifted her up. He was carrying her. Her head was pressed against his shoulder. She felt his belly. He breathed heavily.
He carried her across a little hall and deposited her in a soft bed.
"Martin," she said, holding his hands as he sat on the edge of the bed. She ran one hand across the smooth pink shirt, taut across his belly. She felt the silky material of his pants against her arm. His glasses were still in the other room. His hair hung down, straight down, as he leaned above her.
"I have neglected you, my poor little girl," he said. "Fooling with my wires. You have been so patient." He ran his hand over her forehead. "But now I will take care of you. Relax, Marguerite, and I will take care of you."
"I'm very relaxed," she said. "Very relaxed." She moved her head in the pillow to show how very relaxed she was. The room began to spin. "Very, very, very relaxed." She held his arm tightly as the room spun faster. "Very, very..." She held him now with both hands, as if she were drowning, which she was, she just wasn't sure what she was drowning in. It was too light to be water, too thick to be air, too invisible, too murky...
"Darling..." he said urgently.
"Relaxed..."
When she woke up, she was alone in a soft bed in a small room bright with sunshine. A pigeon cooed outside. Her head pounded. She sat up slowly.
Where the hell am I?
She remembered. She was in a rich man's house. A house with speakers the size of tollbooths. A house with couches and wine, much too much wine. Maybe I'm an alcoholic, as well as a lesbian and an adulterer, she thought.
An adulterer? What had it been like? Had she enjoyed it? She couldn't remember. It was a curse, this memory of hers. Here she had gone to all this trouble, had betrayed her husband, her wonderful husband (he had been wonderful, hadn't he?), had ventured out on a perilous road in pursuit of wisdom and truth, had waited for hours, hungry and bored, while her lover soldered wires together, had surrendered her virtue shamelessly—and now she couldn't remember?
Her skirt and blouse and jacket and stockings were hung neatly over the back of a chair. She seemed still to be wearing her underwear. Interesting.
The sun came in through the sheer white curtains. She closed her burning eyes. She heard footsteps and opened them.
"You're awake?"
She mumbled. Or grunted. Maybe it was more like a groan.
"You need to recover, yes? It was quite a night. You are really something!"
"I am?" she said thickly. I feel like really something. Really something left to rot really somewhere.
Martin had brought her some orange juice. Sweet of him. But as Margaret looked at him, she thought, over and over again, What have I done? And why have I done it? I am in the wrong bed with the wrong man. I'm not even in the right house. Or in my right mind. I have made my wrong bed. Now I must lie in it. Is it a lie? Or is this truth? Who cares, anyway? I want to go home and rest my head. But I have no home. Not anymore.
"You should not drink wine, Margaret."
"No."
"You did some things you would not do without wine, I think."
Uh-oh.
"But now, you must get up, eat some small something, drink some coffee—"
"Coffee."
"I will make you coffee."