Free Who Are You? by Anna Kavan Page B

headache. But one good thing about the unsteadiness of the light is that it interferes with the rat game. This evening the player gives up after a few unsuccessful slashes, and hurls his racquet into a corner, swearing loudly. A few moments later, she hears the car start and drive away.
    Now she's alone in the house. The servants have all gone to their own quarters, and might be on another planet. Night has brought no relief from the heat. Looking out of her window, she's surprised to see the great clouds racing across the sky, though down here the air is as still as death - the effect is rather uncanny.
She fancies she can still make out the queer metallic film under the hurrying clouds, except when the moon escapes them for a second, showing a sick livid face which is engulfed again almost immediately.
    She slips off the sandals she's been wearing for days — it's far too hot to wear shoes, she hasn't even looked at her shoes lately. Why should she notice, in any case, if they are disarranged ? The servants are often careless about putting things in their right places; she's told them dozens of times not to put books upside down in the shelves, and shown them how to tell top from bottom, but still they go on making the same mistake.
    Taking off her clothes, she goes into the bathroom and turns on the shower; it reluctantly yields a thin trickle of scalding water, which gradually cools to tepid — supplies are getting low. The water refuses to run cold, and this luke-warm spray only makes her hotter than ever. After it, she can't bear to put on even the thinnest nightdress, but drapes the flimsy garment round her shoulders, and sits on the edge of the bed, too hot to lie down.
    The fan in here has also developed a squeak that disturbs her and finds its way into her dreams. She always means to see about getting the fans put right, but hasn't the energy when it comes to the point. She wouldn't be able to sleep in this heat, anyway. Already, directly after her shower, her whole body is burning hot; a rivulet of sweat runs between her shoulder blades, the nightgown sticks uncomfortably to her shoulders. Shrugging it off, she lets the fan play on her naked flesh. The heat is stifling, volcanic, as if masses of lava were pressing against the walls. Her eyes are dry and hot in her aching head; she can't make the effort to read a book, and knows she won't sleep . . . so what can she do ? Shutting her eyes, she presses her fingers against the eyeballs, and sits limply under the fan. Without actually thinking about her husband, she's vaguely relieved because he is not in the house.
    Perhaps she dozes for a few moments — anyhow, there he is suddenly, in the room, right in front of her. Startled, she snatches the nightdress and covers herself; how can she not have heard the car?
    'Why so modest? ' he sneers with a vicious leer. And she knows he's been drinking as usual. There is a dangerous look about him, he looks a bully, a touch of hysteria in his slightly unbalanced air.
    The white trousers he put on for dinner are now crumpled, his shirt is undone to the waist, displaying his hairy chest, which he scratches, raking his fingernails through the reddish fur, as he comes towards her, moving his big, muscular, bony body like a machine which can't be stopped or avoided. He is so close to her now that she can smell his male sweat, mixed with the stale smells of smoke and whisky.
    ‘What about this ?' he demands suddenly, and, to her utter astonishment, flourishes a sheet of writing paper in front of her face, which she recognizes at once by the heading, exclaiming : ‘My letter !' indignantly reaching out for it.
    ‘Oh, no !' jeers the man, snatching it back and stowing it away for future use. ‘So you're planning to rat on me, are you, behind my back ?' His voice has become venomous; he stands over her menacingly, his lips tightly compressed, a muscle twitching above the jawline, his blue domineering eyes madly bright.
    ‘I'm