Free The Catastrophist: A Novel by Ronan Bennett

gravely. “I think America is a good place.”
    “I think so.”
    “In America you are respected for what you achieve. The color of the skin is immaterial.”
    I feel torn; to collude in this is both patronizing and dishonest, but at the same time I have no desire to interfere with a fantasy which may, for all I know, be central to making an intolerable life here tolerable.
    I ask instead what he intends to do once he has finished his studies in psychology, psychiatry, pedagogy and physics.
    “I shall become a lawyer,” he says with a grin.
    “I see,” I respond, nodding uncertainly. “Why do you want to be a lawyer?”
    “To defend the poor people against injustice.” He smiles, with a mischievous sparkle this time, and adds: “And to have an office on Park Avenue with six pretty secretaries.”
    He starts laughing. So do his brothers, though I am not certain they have understood. After a while I get the impression they may be laughing at me.

c h a p t e r   n i n e
    The time will come when I am no longer engrossed in her idea. That time may be soon, but it has not come yet.
    She is on her side facing the wall with her knees drawn up, feet free from the tangle of the sheet. The room is airless and hot. I undress and get in beside her, molding against the contours of her narrow back and hips. In an automatic movement, she lifts her wing-folded arm to allow me to put a hand on her breast. It’s our way of sleeping together. She has solace fingers between her legs.
    “Did you file your story?”
    I brush aside a strand of hair and kiss the nape of her neck.
    “The Sûreté were preventing journalists to use the telex, but I got a boatman to take me to Brazzaville.”
    Her voice is remote and wounded, the dregs of the argument lie between us still.
    “Where have you been?”
    “With Stipe.”
    She makes a little grunt. She is not impressed.
    “He’s not what you think,” I say.
    “The Americans and the Belgians are on the same side. They are enemies of the independence movement.”
    “Maybe it’s more complicated than that,” I suggest.
    “That is very naive.”
    Pots and kettles, but I want to placate. I lean over and kiss her ear. She does not move, she does not respond to me. Her eyes are shut.
    “Inès,” I say softly. “I came here for you.”
    “Let’s not talk about this now.”
    “When will we talk about it?”
    She makes a little sleepy sound. I squeeze her breast gently and press against her hips. In London—during our first year at least—she would have turned to me, hungry and ready. Tonight she uses sleep.
    “Inès,” I whisper.
    I listen to her breathe as she settles into her own deep stillness, her refuge where I cannot go. I close my eyes and hold her tightly. Inès . . . Inès . . . You were fast and I was slow. You used to say before we lived together, When can I see you, when can we meet? You used to say, You can’t even imagine how much I love you, don’t forget. And I answered, Never. I said,
Mai, mai
—the way you taught me. When we first became lovers I had no intention of falling in love. I liked you, I was charmed by you and I wanted you, but I did not want to love you—different reasons, different things. Too complicated, too unsettling. I am slow. It takes time with me. And you—your declaration was fast, it caught me unawares.
I am already loving you
. Mine was, as is my way, slower. It took time—in Belfast and in Donegal, in Rome and Bologna, and finally in London.
    You sleep beside me. At this time of night, after the day we’ve had, all this takes on the self-pitying proportions of a tragedy, but the truth of my situation is banal; it happens every day, to others. Now it’s happening to me. It is painful, it is sad. I said,
Mai
. I said it quietly, I meant it. Now you who demanded have forgotten your question, and wait for no answer, want none.

    We met at a party at my publisher’s house in London. She was on her way to Ireland for
L’Unità
after