Free [Revolutions 03] The Newton Letter by John Banville Page A

unreal.
    “That’s that, then.” Her face was a tear-stained
blur. I took her in my arms. She was hot and damp, as
if every pore were a tiny tear-duct. “I want to tell you,”
she said, after a time, “when you hit me that day and
walked out, I lay in their bed for ages making love to
myself and crying. I kept thinking you’d come back,
say you were sorry, get a cold cloth for my face. Stupid.”
    I said: “Who is Michael’s father?”
    She showed no surprise. She even laughed: was that
all I could say? “A fellow that used to work here,” she
said.
    “What was his name?”
    “I don’t remember.”
    “What became of him?”
    “He went away. So did the girl. And Charlotte
adopted the child. She couldn’t have any, herself.”
    No. No .
    “You’re lying.”
    But she wasn’t really listening, her ear was turned
to the steady trickle of misery that had started up inside
her. She laid her forehead against my cheek. “You
know,” she said, “sometimes I think you don’t exist at
all, that you’re just a voice, a name—no, not even that,
just the voice, going on. Oh god. Oh no,” furious with
herself, yet powerless to stop the great wet sobs that
began to shake her, “Oh no ,” and wailing she came apart
completely in my arms, grinding her face against mine,
her shoulders heaving. I was aghast, I was—no, simply
say, I was surprised, that’s worst of all. Behind her,
darkness stood at the window, silent, gently inquisitive.
She drew herself away from me, her face averted. “I’m
sorry,” she said, gasping, “I’m sorry, but I’ve never
given myself like this to anyone before, and it’s hard,”
and the sobs shook her, “it’s hard. ”
    “There there,” I said, like a fool, helplessly, “there
there.” I felt like one who has carelessly let something
drop, who realises too late, with the pieces smashed all
around him, how precious a thing it was, after all. A
flash of lightning lit the window, and the rain started
up again with a soft whoosh. She wiped her nose on the back of her hand. The tears still flowed, as if there
would be no end, but she was no longer aware of them.
“I suppose you’re sick and tired of me,” she said, and
lay down, and turned on her side, and was suddenly
asleep, leaving me alone to nurse my shock and my cold
heart.
     

    WE MUST assume that Edward did go that night
into town, and not to the village, as was later to be
suggested. The evidence against the latter possibility is
twofold. First, there was the direction in which I had
heard him drive away. Had he been headed for the village,
the sound of the car would have faded quickly as
it dropped below the brow of the hill; instead of which,
it was audible for a considerable time, a fact consistent
with the motor travelling westward, along the main
road, the slope of which is much less pronounced than
that of the hill road, leading to the village. Second, there
is the quite considerable amount of drink which, it
would later be obvious, he had consumed. At that stage
the publicans of the village, both in the hotel, and in the public houses with which the place is generously endowed,
knew better than to serve him the endless double
whiskeys which he would demand.

    However, his going to town—to coin a phrase—will not account for the considerable lapse of time between
closing time (11:30 p.m., summer hours) and his
return to Ferns at approximately 2:30 a.m. As to what
occurred in those “lost” hours, we can only speculate.
Did he meet a friend (did he have any friends?) to whose
house they might have repaired? The town does not
boast a bawdy-house, * therefore that possibility can be
eliminated. The quayfront then, the parked car, its lights
aglow, the radio humming forlornly to itself, and from
within the darkened windscreen the stark suicidal stare?
Could he have sat there, alone, for some three hours?
Perhaps he slept. One would wish him that blessing.
    I can’t