When he steps outside the strange song of the frogs fills the air again. He climbs the steps leading down towards the pool, so that he can just make out the dark rectangle of water.
The water looks silver from this angle; like liquid mercury. To swim in it, it seems, would transform one. He finds himself beginning to shrug off his clothes, stripping down to his briefs. He is tempted to take off even these; but the possibility of someone else being awake too stops him. The cool night air surrounds him. Now he begins to climb down into the colder embrace of the water, exhaling quickly as it reaches his thighs, his waistband, his chest. He turns onto his back, and pushes away from the edge, the breath tight in his chest. When he glances down at himself his submerged limbs appear pale and unfamiliar, as though they do not quite belong to him. Finally, with an effort of will, he dunks his head and surfaces filled with a strange euphoria. He swims several lengths, up and down. He is beginning to enjoy himself: there is something transgressive about it, this swimming through silver darkness while the rest of the world sleeps.
He briefly thinks that he hears his name called. But then he decides that it must be the strange musical effect of the water in his ears. He ploughs on, making swimmer’s turns at the ends, tucking his body around itself – movements not performed since school, and yet sewn forever into the fabric of him. He is cutting through the water now rather than tussling with it. His body is a graceful, efficient machine. The breath is singing through him. Again, he thinks he hears his name. Again, he decides it is some strange distortion of the wind and water. He swims on. Finally, he surfaces for air. And recoils in surprise when he sees the figure at the end of the pool. He blinks furiously. It is her.
She is definitely awake. They watch each other like two animals, wary, alert. Neither of them speak. Keeping her eyes on his she takes the hem of her nightshirt and in one fluid motion lifts it over her head. He stares. He never saw her like this on that night in Rome: it had been too hot, close, fast. Still, she keeps her gaze fixed on him. She makes no effort to cover herself – and this is the bravery of her, he thinks, her ability to overcome her natural reserve. She is far braver than him. She descends into the water. He moves toward her, and holds out his arms. She steps into them.
Now, suddenly, it is hot, close, fast – far more so than before. More of everything than before. She is biting the skin of his shoulder, her legs are wrapped about his back, and at the centre of everything a pleasure so intense that it is almost agony.
Afterwards, they remain together for several minutes at the corner of the pool. Neither of them speaks. He is amazed by what has occurred. He strokes her wet hair with his hand, feels her ribcage rise and fall against him with her breathing. His mouth is against her neck beneath her ear, where the pulse beats fast beneath the skin.
Later, they lie in his bed, the sheets tangled about them. This time it is slower, more controlled. Until she pushes him over, gently, so that she can move on top of him, her legs tight about him. Both of them, then, make more noise than they should.
Afterwards, in a kind of wonder, he says without thinking: ‘Where did you learn to do that?’ And then the horror of it grips him. He feels repelled by the spectre he has allowed into the room.
31
Her
1948
I have impeccable taste, as our acquaintances say. I know which white burgundy to serve with a lobster dish, which is the best table at Le Pavillon, what to order there. We host dinners at the apartment in New York, at the house in Southampton. Every so often, I will catch sight of myself reflected in the mirror at some event and I will think: she looks like one of them.