LEONARD MICHAELS
313
The remark was inconsistent with her profession, even if Inger was
still young, only a semi-pro, but it was the way she said "could," exactly
as Beard had said it, that bothered him. He detected hostility in her imi–
tation, and he was afraid that he'd underestimated Inger, maybe provoked
a distaste for his character that was irredeemable.
He'd merely expressed his feelings, merely been sincere, yet some–
how offended her. Her reaction was unfair. He didn't even know what
he'd said that was offensive. Worse yet, he was afraid that he'd established
with Inger the same relation he'd had with his ex-wife. In twenty-five
years of marriage, she'd had many fits of irrational hostility over his most
trivial remarks. Beard could never guess what he might say to make her
angry. Now in another country, in love with another woman - a prosti–
tute, no less - Beard was caught up in miseries he'd divorced.
"The more things change," he thought, "they don't."
Inger knew nothing about Beard's marriage, but she'd heard that
one's clients sometimes become attached, and it was hard to get free of
them. Beard was only her fifth client. What troubled her particularly was
that she'd upset Beard more than she might have expected. He sounded
deranged, shouting in the crowded restaurant, "I'll pay double," and slap–
ping the table. How embarrassing. What had the waiter thought? She felt
slightly fearful. "You are a sweet man," she said. "Very generous. Many
women in Germany would be yours for nothing."
"I prefer to pay for you. Can't you understand?"
She understood but shook her head no, astonished and reproachful at
once. "I understand that you are self-indulgent. If I were like you, I
would soon become dissolute. My life would be irregular. I would feed
my monkey table scraps instead of monkey food, because it gives me
pleasure. She would then beg every time I sit down at the dinner table.
It
would be no good for her or for me."
"I'm not your monkey."
"You think you're more complicated."
Beard was about to smile, but realized Inger wasn't making a joke.
Her statement was flat and profoundly simple. Beard wasn't sure what she
intended. Maybe she was asking a question. But it seemed she really saw
in Beard what she saw in her monkey, as if all sentient beings were
equivalent. She put him in mind of Saint Francis of Assisi.
As had happened several times during his acquaintance with Inger, he
was overcome by a sort of mawkish adoration. His eyes glistened. He'd
never felt this way about a woman. Spiritual love. At the same time, he
had a powerful desire to ravish her. Of course he'd done that repeatedly
in the hotel room, in the bed, and on the floor, and each time his desire
had been satisfied, yet it remained undiminished, unsatisfied.
