Her left arm was as hard, heavy and cold as stone. It was the first thing she felt, even before she opened her eyes. She didn’t move a muscle, for she knew the slightest movement would release her circulation and she would have that uncomfortable sensation of feeling the blood flowing back into her frozen veins.
Vegetating in her half-asleep state, she immersed herself completely in thinking about her numb arm, this arm that could just as easily belong to Carmen. Babe had Carmen’s arm and Carmen had Babe’s arm, a flesh-and-blood arm with which, now that Babe’s whole body was paralyzed in a state of mineral well-being, Carmen had grabbed hold of Bobby’s penis in order to fill her hand with his morning erection.
Babe also allowed her whole soul to immerse itself in Carmen’s body, in order to receive her hard, satisfying soul in return. For their bodies were now two connected vessels, two dens where, like thieves, their souls could hole up and stash their booty.
Bobby heard the bell and immediately came up with a dream to keep reality at bay: he was waiting for a train, but instead of stopping in the station, the train hurtled through, its whistle blowing piercingly. He started to run, trying to leap onto it as it went past, even though he knew that this was not only pointless but extremely dangerous.
The bell rang again. Bobby raised himself on his elbow and then gave a start, surprised to find Carmen lying there next to him, naked. On the other side, Babe sat on the bed and began gently to stroke an arm, while looking at her husband with an almost frightening expression of depravity. He had never seen her like this; she was unrecognizable. It radiated from her face—it was like she was possessed.
“My God,” he said, “that must be Tommy. It’s midday already! I’m going!”
But scarcely had he uttered these words when Babe took hold of his penis and started to massage it languorously. Bobby was unable to recall the last time she had done this with such conviction, the last time they had spent the entire night completely naked, that they had slept so late on a Sunday morning. And yet it was as if it had been this way forever, as if his whole life had consisted of nothing else, as if the doorbell had rung only in a dreamworld, a distant world containing everything that was outside the house, outside his sex, things that had never really existed, except as distractions on the way to this moment of truth, this moment where there was nothing but sex, this moment stuffed full of sex, which was also an eternity, since night and day, past and future would be no more, there would be nothing but a present swollen with desires and replete with pleasures.
“I’ll go,” said Babe. “Be a good boy and take care of Carmen … She’s hungry …”
As she kissed her on the lips, she opened Carmen’s mouth in the shape of an O and drew her husband toward her. “She’s hungry …” He entered with a single thrust, straightening his back with a groan of satisfaction. Babe got dressed, never taking her eyes off Carmen’s distorted, ecstatic face.
After they had rung a second time, Tommy and his girlfriend Carroll sat down on the steps of the veranda and lit a cigarette. The wood was still damp, but the sky was now cloudless, and the sun beat down. A strong smell of vegetation and rain-soaked earth bloomed like a monstrous flower over the whole yard. Shirley Gordon appeared on her doorstep, her fat flesh barely covered by a saucy black see-through number.
“Hi, Tommy,” she simpered. “Aren’t your parents home?”
“They must be asleep. Their cars are there.”
“Asleep—them? Don’t you have a key?”
“I lost it.”
“My dears, I can’t let you sit out there, soaking your behinds … Come and have a coffee …”
“No thanks,” Carroll cut in. “I’m sure they’ll come.”
And as she stood up to ring the bell again, the door opened to reveal Babe, who had thrown on her plum-colored robe, standing there smiling and disheveled.
Ever since he had left home two years ago, Tommy had been coming to lunch on Sundays, either on his own or with the current girlfriend. Usually Babe made Southern fried chicken or, if the weather was good, barbecued pork chops, and from nine o’clock in the morning would be cooking one of her famous desserts, one of the specialities of which she was immensely proud, such as banana cream pie or spiced chocolate zucchini cake—a cake she always made in two tins so that Tommy could take one home with him.
Today, however, there were no cooking smells in the house. Babe showed the two young people into the living room and went off to put the coffee on, excusing herself in an offhanded way that rather surprised them. Bobby still hadn’t made an appearance. Babe turned on the TV and told them:
“Make yourself at home. I’ll need five minutes to take a shower, then I’ll be with you.”
Bobby came downstairs a quarter of an hour later; his hair was wet and he was dressed in sandals, jeans and a white T-shirt. He in turn apologized halfheartedly and went off to pour himself a large cup of coffee. He had rings under his eyes but seemed more relaxed than ever. Tommy felt like a ten-year-old when he was with his father. Instinctively, he felt a bitter jealousy toward him. He’d been looking forward to introducing them to Carroll, who was cute enough to dazzle a blind man. But not only had he and Babe forgotten they were coming, but he barely gave her a second glance, as if he had better things to think about. Sometimes men pretended to ignore Carroll, but that was on purpose, to be contrary, a kind of power game. But Bobby quite simply seemed distracted. Not even indifferent. He was being as attentive as his current state allowed him—it was just that, clearly, he simply wasn’t there.
Babe found the three of them at the kitchen table, nursing cups of coffee. Bobby poured her one, and she started looking round for something with which to rustle up a meal.
“I’ve got tomatoes,” she said, with her head inside the refrigerator. “Apples. Ham. Sausages …”
“That’ll be fine,” said Bobby. “Bring the lot. I’m starving. How about you?”
She dumped the packets in a pile on the table and sat down. Feeling uncomfortable, Tommy got up, set out some plates, glasses and cutlery, got the fruit juice out and set about trying to fry some eggs.
Babe and Bobby wolfed down their food without speaking, still looking very pleased with themselves. Carroll picked at her food, with her chair some distance from the table, unsuccessfully trying to disguise her annoyance under an air of detachment.
“By the way,” Tommy suddenly piped up, talking to his father, “do you know what your porn-star name is?”
“What are you talking about?”
Leaning over his plate, Bobby bit into a tomato, and the juice rolled down his chin.
“Nothing, really. I think Carroll and I had better be going.”
“No, no, I want to know. My porn-star name?”
“Yes. What was your hamster’s name, when you were small?”
“Mickey.”
“And your mother?”
“Karen.”
“Not her first name, her surname.”
“Short.”
“So there you are: Mickey Short. Your porn-star name. The name of your favorite pet plus your mother’s maiden name.”
Carroll turned away with her hand over mouth, trying not to laugh. But no one seemed to notice.
“His porn-star name?” Babe repeated.
“Yeah, the name he’d use if he was a porn star.”
“Then mine would be Dolly Balto!” she cried triumphantly.
“So you had a favorite pet, then?” Bobby said, staring right into the back of her eyes, as if they were all alone in the room.
“When I was small. It was the neighbors’ dog.”
Her voice suddenly seemed to have gone husky. They were making love with their eyes; they stopped eating. Their good humor had given way to a sort of dull, almost palpable impatience. When Tommy and Carroll got up to go, they didn’t try to make them stay, and could barely even summon a “Thanks for coming” or “Come again soon.” As soon as Bobby and Babe had closed the door behind them, they went back up to their bedroom, ascending the stairs slowly, step-by-step, as if they were carrying a great weight.