Free Staring at the Sun by Julian Barnes Page A

was demonstrated, and again Jean thought, lubricated by mucus? Perhaps it was a tube of mucus jelly. Then she was upended, as if she’d chosen the wrong machine at a fun fair, and ordered to relax. She relaxed by floating, then flying away from what was happening to her. She was in a black Hurricane and the clouds were streaming past. Sun-Up Prosser had had a wicker seat installed in his cockpit and was taking her for a ride; it wasn’t just whooping cough, he said, that could be cured by flight. And he would show her his trick. Uncle Leslie had a good trick with a cigarette, but Prosser had an even better one with the sun. Here we go now, look over there past my shoulder, across the black wing, watch it rise, watch it rise. And now, down we go, down another ten thousand feet and wait for it, watch, the sun comes up once more. The ordinary miracle occurs. Do it again? No, not unless you want to join the submarine boys.
    “You try.” Relaxing had made things easier for Dr. Headley’s demonstration; the only trouble was, Jean hadn’t listened to a word of it. Now, as she tentatively grasped the slippery cap, compressed it into a figure eight and began to feed it into herself with no clearsense of direction, she concentrated and tensed. Dr. Headley, squatting on a stool and holding her wrist, was trying to guide her. Let’s get it over with, Jean thought at one point, and pushed hard. Ouch. Ouch.
    “No, no, silly girl. Now look what you’ve done. It’s all right, just a bit of healthy blood.” Dr. Headley was busy with a towel and some warm water. Then after a while she said, “Shall we go on?”
    Jean slipped back to a bright, cloudless dawn over the Channel and listened to Dr. Headley as if over the R/T. This side up, figure eight, neck of the womb, rim fitting neatly, comfortable, then later, hook the finger, pull. Instructions for some aerial manoeuvre. This made it all seem less humiliating; and less to do with her. “You may bleed just a little more,” said Dr. Headley.
    Then Jean was given final instructions on using the cap. When to put it in; how long afterwards to take it out; how to wash it, dry it, powder it, and put it away in its tin until next time. This reminded her of Father and his pipe: he always seemed to spend much longer filling and cleaning and poking it than he ever did smoking it. But perhaps all pleasures were like that.
    On the blacked-out train from Paddington, she found herself wondering if she had, as she supposed, lost her virginity. Had she? She felt as if she had—or rather she felt as she imagined she would if she had done so in the normal way. She felt burst; she felt interfered with. The rift in the lute —she didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded right. In her handbag was a small cardboard box; she didn’t know what to think about it. Was it a protector or an aggressor? Was it a protector that helped aggressors like Michael? Had she lost her virginity to it—or to a cousin from the same batch at the factory? Was she being silly and melodramatic? It was all for Michael, anyway. Worse things could happen. Worse things were happening—and most of them to men. You had to do your bit, didn’t you?
    The box in her handbag intimidated her; it made the ticketcollector at the station loom like a customs officer. Any contraband with you, missie? No, nothing to declare. One explosive device. One rifted lute. One slightly bloodstained nether garment.
    Dr. Headley and the box had made everything seem certain and immutable. But this certainty didn’t bring confidence. She didn’t find herself looking forward to being in bed with Michael. Of course she loved him, of course it would be all right; of course he would know everything, and instinct would make up for any mutual ignorances. It would be beautiful; it might even be spiritual, as some people said; but what a pity some parts of it had to be so matter-of-fact. And would this matter-of-factness interfere with her responses?