Free Director's Cut by Arthur Japin Page A

attention might drift and she might slip away from him again. Every few minutes, he used his fingers to drip some moisture onto her lips, which were still bleeding in two places.
    â€œSweet,” she mumbled finally, with a swollen tongue that had been caught between her molars on both sides.
    â€œShouldn’t you take something?”
    She nodded, but shrugged.
    â€œForgot.”
    â€œHow can you forget something like that?”
    â€œIt makes me dopey. Don’t want you thinking I’m dopey.”
    â€œDopey?” Maxim kissed her on the forehead as easily as he had when she was unconscious. She rolled over onto her side and pulled up her legs; it hurt. He brushed the sand off her back, which was moistwith sweat, turned toward her, and snuggled up closer. “Let me reassure you …,” he continued. “Dopey, you weren’t.”
    â€œI’m glad,” said Gala, and a little later she added, “I don’t want to miss anything, anywhere.”
    â€œMe neither,” Maxim replied eagerly. Suddenly he couldn’t bear the idea of having neglected so many aspects of life. As if he had walked past with his eyes shut. Now that Gala was calm and the tension was ebbing away, he had difficulty restraining his tears. With one ear on the sand, he could hear the waves coming in. The water made a sucking noise as it washed back between the grains. Gradually the realization sank in that, during the whole adventure, he had scarcely given himself a second thought. Just as in his scenes on the stage with Gala, he had done what he had to do without being conscious of himself doing it. He took that for maturity—acting autonomously without having to think about it—and considered the compulsion to take yourself by the hand and ponder the consequences of every deed as something childish, a rigidity he would eventually grow out of. He tried to remember whether he had ever lost himself in someone so completely before. I’ve got to stick close to Gala, he thought, and learn to see as she does.
    â€œSo, she has finally deflowered you, has she?” As charming as ever, the Pole shouted it out from the other side of the lecture theater. Everyone noticed that the tension between Solange and Monsieur Arnaux had disappeared from one rehearsal to the next. Their seduction scene had become somehow self-evident. It was no longer a brazen demonstration of intimacy. Although Maxim still massaged her breasts and Gala writhed as requested, the piquancy of their acting had given way to restrained tenderness, something the director couldn’t use at all.
    â€œDarling, I of all people know that de Dutch man needs a helping hand,” she said to Gala, “but couldn’t you wait until after de premiere? You look like an old married couple!”
    Since their night on the Amsterdam beach, Maxim and Gala had seen each other every day. After lectures they popped into a tearoom to eat cakes, one night they went to the cinema, and Wednesday afternoon saw them stretched out on the red plush of the Concertgebouw staircase, listening to a free performance by the renowned residentorchestra. When they wanted to go for a drink afterward, Gala suggested the museum of modern art, whose restaurant lay on the other side of the square, surrounded by a large pond. Instead of walking around to the main entrance, she took off her shoes, tucked the hem of her long skirt up under her belt, and stepped into the water, terrifying a school of carp.
    â€œCome on,” she said, wading toward the restaurant, “if you know where you want to go, why take a detour?”
    Maxim had never even walked on the grass if there was a sign telling him not to, but he didn’t want to be a spoilsport. Encouraged by the people at the outdoor tables, he kicked off his shoes and rolled up his trousers. With Gala he wasn’t afraid to show himself anywhere.
    Arriving at an outdoor café, they settled down for a