550
PARTISAN REVIEW
more dissolute than negligent. The torn neck fierce. Her posture
and expression stiff, impassive, with no sign of resignation but rigid
with effort to contain herself, the idea she had of something between
us . Finally, she stirred, reaching to her purse, snapping it open . She
removed a long pearly comb and drew it through her hair in a swift,
automatic motion, then stopped, glanced at me, startled, as if re–
membering suddenly where she was.
"May I?" she said, her tone confused. "I don't usually comb my
hair in public. I must have imagined nobody could see me ." She was
then crying; long gleaming tears; flowing in the way of children .
"You are there, aren't you?"
"Let me do it ."
She stared for a moment, then seemed almost to relax, to come
down through miles of feeling as she handed me the comb and bowed
her head. I combed her hair, trailing layers of dumb solicitude .
When she left I put my elbows on the desk, my face in my
hands. I let time pass and tried to think but discovered no issue, only
a picture of her inserting the comb into her purse , clicking it shut ,
standing, walking to the door in three brisk steps as if she had
somewhere definite to go. The books and papers on my desk seemed
unreal, meaningless clutter, but, gradually, as the office darkened,
they gained substance and sense. I began gathering them together,
putting them in order, as if with love .
About two weeks later, I received a note on heavy beige paper.
It was written in a fine, small hand with no ego-distorting pressures .
She said that she'd dropped all classes. Apologized for wasting my
time. Thanked me for being patient . Under her name, squeezed into
the corner, was her phone number. I read the note again, looking for
more than it said, but the smooth clear script, with its even pressure
throughout , expressed nothing inadvertently. I folded it, put it into
my pocket, reached for the phone and dialed, surprised that I had
memorized the number without trying. There was no answer. I lis–
tened to the ringing, monotonous ringing, day after day, until it
became a sound of emptiness and futility in myself. I had only to dial
her number to begin feeling I'd misspent my life making idle ges–
tures, repeating them for no reason, though I always felt less anxious
afterwards . I phoned from my office, from gas stations, drugstores ,
movie houses . . . .
One afternoon, on the way out for lunch with Henry, I said , "A
student of mine lived in Africa and came back with a parasite. She
calls it Nigerian fluke ."
