Free The Comfort of Strangers by Ian McEwan Page B

let his hands drop to his sides. He stood in silence, head bowed as if in prayer. Respectfully, Colin stood a few feet off and regarded the objects which suggested a memory game played at children’s parties.
    Robert cleared his throat and said: ‘These are things my father used every day.’ He paused; Colin watched him anxiously. ‘Small things.’ Once again a silence; Colin combed his hair with his fingers and Robert stared intently at the brushes, pipes and razors.
    When at last they moved on Colin said lightly, ‘Your father is very important to you.’ They arrived once more at the dining-table, by the champagne bottle which Robert emptied into their glasses. Then he ushered Colin towards one of the leather armchairs, but he himself remained standing in such a way that Colin had to turn uncomfortably into the light of the chandelier to see his face.
    Robert adopted the tone of one who explains the self-obvious to a child. ‘My father and his father understood themselves clearly. They were men, and they were proud of their sex. Women understood them too.’ Robert emptied his glass and added, ‘There was no confusion.’
    ‘Women did as they were told,’ Colin said, squinting into the light.
    Robert made a small movement of his hand towards Colin. ‘Now men doubt themselves, they hate themselves, even more than they hate each other. Women treat men like children, because they can’t take them seriously.’ Robert sat on the arm of the chair and rested his hand on Colin’s shoulder. His voice dropped. ‘But they love men. Whatever they might say they believe, women love aggression and strength and power in men. It’s deep in their minds. Look at all the women a successful man attracts. If what I’m saying wasn’t true,women would protest at every war. Instead, they love to send their men to fight. The pacifists, the objectors, are mostly men. And even though they hate themselves for it, women long to be ruled by men. It’s deep in their minds. They lie to themselves. They talk of freedom, and dream of captivity.’ Robert was massaging Colin’s shoulder gently as he spoke, Colin sipped his champagne and stared in front of him. Robert’s voice now had something of the quality of recital, like a child at its multiplication tables. ‘It is the world that shapes people’s minds. It is men who have shaped the world. So women’s minds are shaped by men. From earliest childhood, the world they see is made by men. Now the women lie to themselves and there is confusion and unhappiness everywhere. It wasn’t the case in my grandfather’s day. These few things of his remind me of that.’
    Colin cleared his throat. ‘Your grandfather’s day had suffragettes. And I don’t understand what bothers you. Men still govern the world.’
    Robert laughed indulgently. ‘But badly. They don’t believe in themselves as men.’
    The smell of garlic and frying meat was filling the room. From Colin’s gut there came a prolonged and distant sound, like a voice on the telephone. He eased himself forward, out from under Robert’s hand. ‘So,’ he said as he stood up, ‘this is a museum dedicated to the good old days.’ His voice was affable, but strained.
    Robert stood up too. The geometric lines of his face had deepened and his smile was glassy, fixed. Colin had turned back momentarily to set down his empty glass on the arm of the chair, and as he straightened Robert struck him in the stomach with his fist, a relaxed, easy blow which, had it not instantly expelled all the air from Colin’s lungs, might have seemed playful. Colin jack-knifed to the floor at Robert’s feet where he writhed, and made laughing noises in his throat as he fought for air. Robert took the empty glasses to the table. When he returned he helped Colin to his feet, and made him bend at the waist and straighten several times. Finally Colin broke away and walked about the room taking deep breaths. Then he took out a handkerchief and dabbed at