PARTISAN REVIEW
387
speaking of the Movement. Like the soldier, he has learned to harness
his aggression and employ it to purpose. He has lived the thrill of
random violence and run it aground . He has now read the lexts and
understood. The Comrade has mounted Perfidia and is in her in–
stantly, before she wakes. She is
his
first woman since the War and
he is spent before her body can even yield to its pleasure. Now she
is awake and crying in this, and she is made aware of a black body
spinning from her. In his controlled fury, Kropotkin reminds her she
has never understood. Then too, she is weak and demoralized. He will
take
his
turn, but only in disgust. She jumps from the bed and flicks
open her knife. The soldier immediately disarms her, then demon–
strates how to avoid being disarmed. Kropotkin claims she has learned
nothing about self-defense and must join
his
lectures in karate and
weaponry at the Women's Brigade. Again he tells her she will fail in
her mission. She hasn't the scope, the range, the sense of humor. They
leave her to her migraine. She weeps. She closes, locks the door in
anger and contempt. Somewhere in the night, a night of narcosis, she
awakes, a sleepwalker to her mythology of regret, and leaves the
door ajar once again.
"Your pistol is your lover, ladies. Wear
him
close to you at all
times like a protector.
If
you forget that for one minute, you may
find yourself shot down defenseless."
The women resent his patronizing, but
his
expertise is essential.
He has run these guns himself, armed and taught the entire Brigade.
Then too, he has instructed them in the practice of yoga and isometric
exercises, military calisthenics and jiujitsu. Kropotkin's proficiency and
commitment are legendary in the Movement. His practical fame has
spread like a contagion among the women who have known his pry–
ing palms. Each has had the hatred of him and yet he holds an apo–
calyptic future over them all with his military giftS. Each has dreamed
a secret ice pick in
his
brain, but still spreads before him now in cal–
listhenic humiliation, underarms pouring sweat to
his
signals.
Like a sack he dumped her on the porch of Mother Munch's
and kicked her belly again and again, craving one instant of protest,
one murmur of repudiation to wash him clean. But she continued to
deny it and the torture bent and crippled him. He knew it wasn't
