210
PARTISAN REVIEW
VIII
Three days later, days in which he had tried to work and had
not seen her, not daring yet to face her, he was walking home after
the library had closed for the night. The long walk through campus
to his apartment building in the more residential area was always a
time for reflection; the words from the books would settle, and his
mind would play over them, organizing, harnessing, synthesizing.
But tonight, as so often recently, the crisp creamy pages of the old
journals quickly receded and he found himself thinking about
Marie, her deep eyes, her cheek, how comforting it would be to
touch. The streetlights glowered, turning the sidewalks into blurred
grey streams. His feet moved . The landmarks of the walk went by
scarcely noticed. There was a faint breeze, merciful summer gift
from somewhere, and he savored it on his face when he turned at the
usual corner. Overhead, the moon's wan glow was too weak to
pierce the foliage of the trees . This street was always the darkest. His
selva oscura.
Obscure. Only a few more blocks. One thing he had
determined: he was going to burn his damn Italian dictionary and
scatter the ashes out the window.
Tesoro mio
would be blown east,
it
mio cuore so.fJerente
west, and all the other simpering phrases . . ..
What would it be like to stop at her door and knock? She would
come to answer, possibly aroused from sleep, eyes weary, marked
with the familiar melancholy, growing wider, wary, as he intrudes.
Or was that the word : enters? But she has not invited him. She steps
back and looks at him, and is suddenly conscious of her dishabille .
Or shall we be consistent here: her
disabbigtiatura,
her
disabbiglia–
mento.
Is there such a word? We decree that there is. She steps back.
Her feet, one notices, are bare, with the same pink polish on the toe–
nails. "Terry! It's rather late, isn't it?" But tonight I am a lunatic, I
have surrendered willingly to the moon's influence; it has whispered
and insinuated the whole walk home, thief to thief, and here I am.
But my dear, did you not expect me? It is
I,
me. Will you not ask me
to speak for myself? I have left the script home. Let us improvise.
Let us do something about your dishabille.
Magari .
Shall I steal a
kiss? Taste your naked shoulder, gleaming immaculately under the
electric light? Utter the emotive words, not read them? As she
retreats a few more steps, she is confused but thoughtful, perhaps
with a dawning approval. "Terry, you seem ... different."
The next corner to turn was approaching. For a few moments
he kept his gaze on the sidewalk and listened to the quiet scrape of
his shoes, steadily covering the ground to the presumed destination.
