WALTER ABISH
73
members of the recently formed
Seventeenth of August Group.
My
wife's name kept cropping up. She could be behind it all. But why pick
on the post office? Why mutilate and destroy innocent first-class letters
that may have been carrying checks
to
war widows and other people in
need,
On the evening of the thirteenth I had dinner with Daphne in my
apartment. We listened to the news. We ate sauerbraten. That's the way
it reads in my diary. Dinner with Daphne. I don't keep a journal. I just
jot things down in an office diary. Dinner with Daphne seemed
adequate for my purposes. Explosion at post office, two dead,
Seven–
teenth of August Group
accepts responsibility. Did not call off dinner
with Daphne. Watch news. Make love.
16.
Do you still love her, Daphne asked
Who?
Paula, your wife.
What made you ask me that question?
The first thing Daphne said to me the next morning when I opened my
eyes was, I know nothing about you ... absolutely nothing.
You'll find everything in my books.
Is that true?
No.
Daphne dressed in front of me and then walked
to
the door of my
apartment.
I retain in my mind a picture of her standing at the door. Before
leaving, she turned to look at me, at my possessions, at my apartment
to
which she now had a key. As far as I was concerned, everything was
at a complete standstill, as the brain, feeding on the present, made
room for Daphne, naked, legs parted, absorbing the image with the
same ease as it had absorbed and incorporated the images I had formed
of the explosion at the post office. The image of the explosion and my
making love to Daphne were linked or connected by the date on which
they had taken place, and possibly by a conviction I have always had
that nothing is what it first appears
to
be.
