The Fourth Circle

by Zoran Zivkovic

  When I woke in the morning, unusually late and smelling of sweat more strongly than was customary, Brenda was by me. She first informed me, in her bleating voice, that her younger son had caught a cold because he had not put on dry socks after playing football in the snow, contrary to her explicit advice, so he was away from school that day, "but that's the young ones today, totally out of hand because their mothers have to work while their fathers hang round the pubs," then about the announced price rise of Lipton's tea, a clear twenty pence per box, which drove her to black thoughts about the crash of the British economy if further concessions were made to those vultures from the European Community, "who didn't understand the British spirit, as Maggie had been saying for years, but nobody listens to the voice of reason from a woman any more." Etc.

  It was already past noon when I learned, from one of her marginal remarks, amidst praises for the bird-watching societies, "so typically English," that in the afternoon she would be replaced, not by Sarah, but by Mary, "whose hubby had made it to vice-chairman of the local branch, 'cos he brought a lovely pair of army binoculars from the Falklands, against the rules I must say, and spotted a real golden-crowned woodpecker, very rare in these parts, although he was so excited he forgot to photograph it, so that some rumormongers were saying that he only imagined it because it is the same color as that cheap sherry, what-d-y-call it, although it was common knowledge that Arthur had become a real teetotaller; they do say that when he was young he liked a glass or two and led rather a wild life, but since he met Mary he'd change absolutely, had Arthur. Some women are lucky, not like me...."

  So Sarah's on duty again tonight.

  SHE WAS PUNCTUAL as always. She appeared a few minutes before 10 p.m., exchanged a few parting sentences with Mary about my condition, which as far as Mary was concerned was the same as usual. For me it only meant that I have really become a total cretin, whose fears and anxieties are interpreted as contented placidity even by those who know me and who bear me no ill will.

  I pretended to fall asleep, but even if I had been in a coma, Sarah would not have abandoned her scheme. This time there was no hesitation. I heard her fumbling with the VCR. Then she sat next to me on the bed and caught me by the hand, patting it gently, as if to comfort a child about to get an injection: "There, there, this will hurt a little but it's for your own good." This opened my eyes more efficiently than if she had begun to shake me.

  The recording was already being played: last night's foreplay filled the screen, and I, for some reason, struggled to suppress my excitement. Sarah just sat pas-sively; I glanced at her several times, and it seemed to me that she was irresolute and hesitant. In any case, she did not start anything, least of all any new foreplay.

  When the recording came to the place where last night's business had stopped, the picture changed suddenly. It was still my room, but now Sarah was in the foreground, and I was in the background, asleep. This must have been recorded some time before dawn. And then, instead of mumbled fragments, the story began properly. Sarah had had to record it, not just because it was easier for her to tell it that way, but also because she enjoyed seeing herself on the screen. Now she could be not a tearful viewer of Casablanca but a participant in it. And the role of Rick was, naturally, given to me. How could I have refused?

  The subject of this film, too, was unbearably sentimental. With many sighs, which did not seem in the least artificial, she started to pour out a melodramatic tale of a sensitive young woman, innocent and virtuous, totally unsuited for this age of vice; men see in her only the image of carnality, while she pines for true love, which sadly, survives only in old movies, novels, and rare TV serials. Because of this, she withdraws more and more into herself, isolates herself in her loneliness, begins even to contemplate the worst, before Providence comes to her rescue. She is hired as nurse to a famous scientist, "the greatest physicist of modern times" (what's that got to do with it?) and soon discovers that they are kindred spirits. (That's the last time I'll try to convey any message by grimaces and facial twitches.) He lies immobile in bed, broken by a terrible illness, abandoned by all, even by his wife, who surely intends to find somebody else. ( O f course she does.

  That was our agreement, after all. Any other course o f action would be unnatural. Jane can only be frustrated by her thing about martyrdom, but I think she needs it to ease her conscience.) His children avoid and neglect him. (Nonsense: they're the only people who treat me normally.)

  He longs for warmth, affection, and most of all for love, but all that is denied him. The young woman knows this because his eyes shine, as do hers, when he gets the chance to watch romantic films. (Help!) As they watched, they grew close to each other. Tenderly, he held her hand as his eyes spoke of his feelings. ( I f I'd been able to hold anything, it would have been the remote control, to stop the bloody recording.) She returned this love with all her heart, overjoyed that her dream of love had finally come true. ( I hate Casablanca!) But this love, like all great loves, was destined to be short-lived. His greedy, jealous wife learns of the affair and prepares to dismiss the young woman, fearing the loss of privileges that go with her husband's reputation. (Rubbish! Jane is not like that at all, quite the contrary. Sarah must have invented this bit. I think I saw a similar plot line in one o f those stupid serials o f hers....) The young woman despairs and thinks of poisoning first him, then herself, but realizes that this would not be fair.

  (Definitely not. Not in that order.)

  Ultimately she finds a solution: if they cannot stay together, she will take with her a lasting reminder of him, something that will be the firmest possible token of their love, binding beyond the grave. ( I knew there was bound to be a grave in this somewhere.) She will give birth to his son. A son who might also become a great physicist, to continue his father's work. (Nonsense. Judging by the two sons I already have, there's not a chance. Physics doesn't attract Robert and Timmy at all. Lucy's the only one who shows any talent for maths.)

  He agrees enthusiastically (sic!), telling her that she is the last woman in his life. (Although I certainly did not tell her any such thing, this part about "the last woman"

  could nevertheless be true, unless Jane decides to pander to me, to increase her own martyrdom.) They are getting ready for their first and only night of love; the young woman takes care that it should be in the 24-hour period of her greatest fertility.... So that's the puzzle. I am to become a father one more time, and the fateful night is now before me. How can I defeat Sarah's plan? No way, I'm afraid. The only solution is for me to try to avoid arousal, to think of something else, physics maybe; but she has already demonstrated how able she is. Under her lips and tongue, physics does not help much, regardless of whether this is the fault of the weirdos at the video club or not....

  To make it all fit and proper, the recording of Sarah's story ended with the closing scene of her favorite movie. Editing was clearly one of her fortes. Indeed, was there any more appropriate lead-in to the sad ending of our relationship than the parting of Ilse and Rick? But there was no more time for modesty. Sarah went to the video, turned it off and switched the camera on. The whole thing is to be preserved for posterity, then. How appropriate.

  Turning to me she began to repeat the performance that I had seen only on the screen the previous night. The swaying hips, the slow unbuttoning of the nurse's uniform, the hair falling free, the removal of the black fishnet stockings with the purple garters, the final divesting of the two scraps of underwear, also black, in vivid contrast to her extremely white skin.

  Seeing her fully naked for the first time—literally—in the flesh, I thought for a moment what a pity it was that such a body should be wasted on an invalid like me. This was probably a defense mechanism, an effort to keep down the excitement by humiliating myself, but to no avail. Sarah's nude body defeated all would-be suppression by willpower or similar tricks, or so my loins unmistakably told me.

  Sarah had proof of this as soon as she grabbed the bedcovers and flu
ng them off me. There was no need for long foreplay, starting with the big toe and ending with my eyes. All was ready. But while this reflex tumescence was for me an admission of defeat, for Sarah it was the final confirmation of her eccentric erotic fantasy in which I was a willing accomplice.

  Very affectionately, she caressed my hair, then climbed on the bed and straddled me nimbly. As I penetrated her smoothly in one easy slide, assisted by her own excitement, she bent so that her lips were close to my ear and began to whisper disconnected words in which I recognized only her desire to give me more confidence and calmness. I felt silly then, like a hesitant girl about to lose her virginity with an experienced lover who was trying to cajole her.

  Another humiliating impression this, but it did not dampen my excitement.

  Quite the opposite. I knew the climax had to be close, but I did not want to surrender without a fight, and I had at my disposal only one last futile weapon: physics. Sarah's hips were now pumping up and down, faster and faster, and the contractions of the cylindrical muscles had achieved a regular rhythm. Drops of sweat glistening on her forehead and on the tips of her cheeks gave her face an unusual radiance.

  Think, Stephen, think!

  The strings become tense.... Gravity fits in by.... I must.... All four forces are just different aspects of...the same...Sarah, I hate you.... The colors and smells of quarks.... Time is defined by a cycle, a repetition.... The quantum state of singu-larity.... Slow it down, it will be premature.... Black holes, white holes.... The space-time shortcut opens.... Spin must be opposite.... Of course! It all fits, if we only assume.... Your nipples are perfectly round, like…. I know

  where...the

  missing mass.... Sum over histories.... That's it, that's it, around! In a circle.... The Circle!.... My God! The Universe is.... Connection, a link.... No! Not yet, damn you!

  Wait.... Wait! It's coming.... The Big Bang....

  Two things happened simultaneously. Sarah reared, jerking her head back and thrusting her quivering breasts forward and upward; her hands were leaning on my weak shoulders, digging her twitching fingers with their long, sharp nails into the limp tissue; from her lips issued a throaty, muffled "Stephen!" followed by deep panting, rasping, moaning sounds, from the very bottom of the entrails, from the center of her being, from the black, blind spot in which are united all the sinews and all the threads, life and death....

  And I, I broke through into the open, on to the plateau. Into the light. It was blazed and dazzled, a jagged bolt of lightning, a ringing harmony of the spheres, limpidity to the rim of the world. The rim dissipated into emptiness, melted into an exclamation, into the edge of The Circle, into the arrow of time driven deep into Sarah's soft being. Then there was nothing, nothing all the way to the far horizon and those who were waiting for me out there.

  120

  The Fourth Circle

  CIRCLE THE THIRD

  1. A GUEST IN THE TEMPLE

  WE HAVE A visitor.

  Though his arrival was unexpected, even by me, Sri did not seem surprised at all, or if he was surprised, it was pleasantly. Now my friend has male company, which obviously pleases him more than does mine, so he's happy while I feel neglected. Ah well, serves me right for being so gullible—like all women in fact.

  As if men's feelings were made to last.

  I know I should pay him back in kind. He richly deserves it, but I still manage to restrain myself, though I don't know why. The only thing he has earned from me is total contempt—or worse—especially after how he behaved regarding the baby.

  He let me see it just that one time, and then only for a short while. I thought I would die of pain when he tore me away from the crib and started asking heartless questions about alleged hermetic viruses, wild programs, and similar absurdities, as if this were not a real baby, afflicted with Down's Syndrome though it may be. So what if it is? Sri least of anyone has the right to blame me for that. If he'd devoted more attention to me, if everything else hadn't been more important to him—his silly meditations in the first place—I would never have been forcibly inseminated by that stunted monkey.

  I had a premonition from the very onset of pregnancy that this crossing with the primitive genes of the Little One would come to no good; I kept telling myself, in my rare moments of sobriety, that I ought to abort, but in the end that damn maternal instinct prevailed. That's the worst curse that God—never mind which one, all gods are males—uses to punish women. That's why I hate them all.

  The baby seemed to be stretching its tiny hands toward me, but I know now it wasn't a deliberate act. It was an involuntary twitch. It doesn't recognize me as its mother, and that hurts more than Sri's indifference. I tried secretly to approach it several times, in defiance of Sri's cruel ban, but each time I suffered the same disappointment. Perhaps that's what Sri wanted to spare me when he forbade me to see the baby again after that first, traumatic time.

  But, no, I'm deluding myself. He's nowhere near as thoughtful as that. To him the baby is just a peculiar program malfunction that he would have destroyed long ago if he weren't so intrigued as to how it came about. Before our guest arrived, Sri had, to my horror, gone poking about the crib several times, totally unfeeling, not caring a whit for my desperate cries and pleas to leave the baby alone. Now, luckily, he has no more time: he is devoting himself entirely to his new friend, which does not surprise me in the least.

  There was a moment when I had the impression that he planned to vivisect the baby—well, perhaps he wouldn't go quite that far. Sri certainly can be terribly cruel, but he isn't a monster, though a distraught mother may be forgiven for entertaining the thought. I was tempted to violate a pledge I had made to myself: that I would never again utter a word to the Little One.

  The baby's life was more important than my vanity, and he was its father, after all, even if it was by violence, so it was up to him to do something about it.

  What exactly, I didn't quite know, because Sri is much bigger and stronger. It crossed my mind that I should provoke him into the same state of hysteria he was in when the circle was removed from the screen, while we were making a picture language, because it seemed to me at the time that for a brief period his strength increased tenfold. However, I realized then that I hadn't seen him for quite a while, in fact not since the moment when Sri had allowed me, for the first and last time, to see the baby.

  I recall his grinning foolishly then, but in the excitement of the moment I had no time to reflect, and afterwards the terrible discovery that the baby has Down's Syndrome absolutely shattered me, so that I lost sight of the Little One completely. I mean that literally: he was nowhere in my field of vision, not inside the temple nor in the wide area around it within farthest reaches of my electronic senses. If he'd hidden in some hole, or in the thickets or trees, he couldn't possibly have eluded me; at this moment I have in my field of vision exactly forty-three of his merry brethren who have no idea that I am spying on them, but none of them is the Little One.

  So the gentleman has put his tail between his legs and slunk away, true to himself. And then they say—rely on men! That sort won't let you down only when they don't have the opportunity to do so. The Little One realized he didn't stand a chance in a clash with Sri, so he well and truly ran away to save his own skin. A fat lot he cares for his own child, retarded or not, let alone for me.

  Or perhaps he has a tacit agreement with Sri that the baby should not continue to live? If that's it, then his heartlessness surpasses even Srinavasa's—which would be a colossal achievement and something I'd have sworn, almost until yesterday, was impossible. But if life in a man's world has taught me anything, it is that you must never set a limit to male deceitfulness, because as soon as you do, a man will overstep it. In any case, nothing will ever tempt me to even look at the Little One again, though this will be difficult because of my far-flung system of sensors. But I can at least pretend not to see him.

  If they had somehow carried out their ghastly intent to murder t
he baby on the pretext that it had Down's Syndrome and that this would be best for everyone, it would have been not only vicious and inhumane but also deeply unjust as well.

  The baby does in fact act like a retarded child, incapable of recognizing even its own mother, but it has on at least one occasion demonstrated an awareness of the outside world, a much more complete awareness, in fact, than any of the rest of us have. It was the first to sense the arrival of the guest.

  Which of course I should have been. The whole purpose of my delicate net-work of sensors is to do just that: to register the approach of an intruder in good time and inform Sri. Admittedly, at the time the guest arrived I was not on speaking terms with Sri, but I could have warned him in countless other ways than by voice. I've never before had reason to do so, being able to deal with all uninvited guests myself. Those are likely to be, at the worst, large wild animals, and it's easy for me to scare them to the marrow of their bones with a properly modulated screech. For each species I use a special tone that drives them to flee headlong out of the temple zone.

  If the newcomer were a man, I would first carry out detailed scans to see whether he was armed. Though there is little chance that armed bands would venture this deep into the jungle for plunder, which would certainly not be worth the trouble, it's prudent to take some protective measures, the more so because these come easily to me, as a matter of routine. I have adequate sonic—and other—devices to deter humans from the temple, but their efficacy had been tested only when the system was tried out in the laboratory, since we hadn't yet had a single guest here.

  When one finally turned up, the warning system failed completely. If it hadn't been for the baby, I would have become aware of the guest only when he entered the temple, quietly and unchallenged. I have no explanation as to how it could have happened. I checked the entire system, carefully and repeatedly, but found no malfunctions. It was as though the newcomer just materialized out of nowhere into the clearing in front of the temple. The finely adjusted sensors, which normally detect the presence of the smallest animals and birds, remained totally mute.