The Love Object

by Edna O'Brien

  ‘It is pleasant to bash my little brother up under water,’ a young boy said, his voice at once menacing and melodious.

  She smiled and went down steps where there was a kitchen, and sleeping quarters with beds for four. He followed her. He looked, inhaled deeply and murmured.

  ‘Take it out,’ she said, ‘I want it now, now.’ Timorous and whim mad. How he loved it. How he loved that imperative. He pushed the door and she watched as he struggled to take down the shorts, but could not get die cord undone. He was the awkward one now. How he stumbled. She waited for one excruciating moment and made him wait. Then she knelt and as she began he muttered between clenched teeth. He who could tame animals was defenceless in this. She applied herself to it, sucking, sucking, sucking with all the hunger that she felt and all the simulated hunger that she liked him to think she felt. Threatening to maim him she always just grazed with the edges of her fine square teeth. Nobody intruded. It took no more than minutes. She stayed behind for a decent interval. She felt thirsty. In the window ledge there were paperback books and bottles of sun-oil. Also a spare pair of shorts that had the names of all the likely things in the world printed on them – the names of drinks and capital cities and the flags of each nation. The sea through the porthole was a small, harmless globule of blue.

  They passed out of the harbour, away from the three other boats and the settlement of pines. Soon there was only sea and rock, no reedy inlets, no towns. Mile after mile of hallucinating sea. The madness of mariners conveyed itself to her, the illusion that it was land, and that she could traverse it. A land that led to nowhere. The rocks had been reduced to every shape that the eye and the mind could comprehend. Near the water there were openings that had been forced through by the sea – some rapacious, some large enough for a small boat to slink in under, some as small and unsettling as the sockets of eyes. The trees on the sheer faces of these rocks were no more than the struggle to be trees. Birds could not perch there, let alone nest. She tried not to remember the swimming lesson, to postpone remembering until the afternoon, until the next lesson.

  She came out and joined them. A young girl sat at the stern, among the cushions, playing a guitar. She wore long silver spatula-shaped ear-rings. A self-appointed gipsy. The children were playing ‘I Spy’ but finding it hard to locate new objects. They were confined to the things they could see around them: By standing she found that the wind and the spray from the water kept her cool; The mountains that were far away appeared insubstantial, but those that were near glinted when the sharp stones were favoured by the sun.

  ‘I find it a little unreal,’ she said to one of the men. ‘Beautiful but unreal.’ She had to shout because of the noise of the engine.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean by unreal,’ he said.

  Their repertoire was small but effective. In the intonation the sting lay. Dreadfully subtle. Impossible to bridle over. In fact the unnerving thing about it was the terrible bewilderment it induced. Was it intended or not? She distinctly remembered a sensation of once thinking that her face was laced by a cobweb but being unable to feel it with the hand and being unable to put a finger on their purulence felt exactly the same. To each other too they transmitted small malices and then moved on to the next topic. They mostly talked of places they had been to and the people who were there; and though they talked endlessly they told nothing about themselves.

  They picnicked on a small pink strand. He ate very little and afterwards he walked off. She thought to follow him, then didn’t. The children waded out to sea on a long whitened log and one of the women read everybody’s hand. She was promised an illness. When he returned he gave his large yellowish hand reluctantly. He was promised a son. She looked at him for a gratifying sign but got none. At that moment he was telling one of the men about a black sloop that he had loved as a child. She thought, What is it that he sees in me, he who loves sea, sloops, jokes, masquerades and deferment? What is it that he sees in me who loves none of those things?

  Her instructor brought flat white boards. He held one end, she the other. She watched his hands carefully. They were very white from being in water. She lay on her stomach and held the boards and watched his hands in case they should let go of the board, the boards kept bobbing about and adding to her uncertainty. He said a rope would be better.

  The big fish had had its bones removed and was then pieced together. A perfect decoy. Its head and its too-near eyes were gone. On her advice the housekeeper had taken the lemons out of the refrigerator so that they were like lemons now rather than bits of frozen sponge. Someone remarked on this and she felt childishly pleased. Because of a south wind a strange night exhilaration arose. They drank a lot. They discussed beautiful evenings. Evenings resurrected in them by the wine and the wind and a transient good will. One talked of watching golden cock pheasants strutting in a backyard: one talked of bantams perched on a gate at dusk, their forms like notes of music on a blank bar; no one mentioned love or family, it was scenery, or nature or a whippet that left them with the best and most serene memories. She relived a stormy night with an ass braying in a field and a blown bough fallen across a road. After dinner various couples went for walks, or swims, or to listen for children. The three men who were single went to the village to reconnoitre. Women confided the diets they were on, or the face creams that they found most beneficial. A divorcée said to her host, ‘You’ve got to come to bed with me, you’ve simply got to,’ and he smiled. It was no more than a pleasantry, another remark in a strange night’s proceedings where there were also crickets, tree frogs and the sounds of clandestine kissing. The single men came back presently and reported that the only bar was full of Germans and that the whisky was inferior. The one who had been most scornful about her swimming sat at her feet and said how awfully pretty she was. Asked her details about her life, her work, her schooling. Yet this friendliness only reinforced her view of her own solitude, her apartness. She answered each question carefully and seriously. By answering she was subscribing to her longing to fit in. He seemed a little jealous so she got up and went to him. He was not really one of them either. He simply stage-managed them for his own amusement. Away from them she almost reached him. It was as if he were bound by a knot, that maybe, maybe, she could unravel, for a long stretch, living their own life, cultivating a true emotion, independent of other people. But would they ever be away? She dared not ask. For that kind of discussion she had to substitute with a silence.

  She stole into their rooms to find clues to their private selves – to see if they had brought sticking plaster, indigestion pills, face flannels, the ordinary necessities. On a dressing table there was a wig block with blonde hair very artfully curled. On the face of the block coloured sequins were arranged to represent the features of an ancient Egyptian queen. The divorcée had a baby’s pillow in a yellow muslin case. Some had carried up bottles of wine and these though not drunk were not removed. The servants only touched what was thrown on the floor or put in the wastepaper baskets. Clothes for washing were thrown on the floor. It was one of the house rules like having cocktails on the terrace at evening time. Some had written cards which she read eagerly. These cards told nothing except that it was all super.

  His secretary, who was mousy, avoided her. Perhaps she knew too much. Plans he had made for the future.

  She wrote to her doctor:

  I am taking the tranquillizers but I don’t feel any more relaxed. Could you send me some others?

  She tore it up.

  Hair got tangled by the salt in the sea air. She bought some curling tongs.

  One woman, who was pregnant, kept sprinkling baby powder and smoothing it over her stomach throughout the day. They always took tea together. They were friends. She thought. If this woman were not pregnant would she be so amiable? Their kind of thinking was beginning to take root in her.

  The instructor put a rope over her head. She brought it down around her middle. They heard a quack-quack. She was certain that the plastic duck h
ad uttered. She laughed as she adjusted the noose. The instructor laughed too. He held a firm grip of the rope. She threshed through the water and tried not to think of where she was. Sometimes she did it well; sometimes she had to be brought in like an old piece of lumber. She could never tell the outcome of each plunge; she never knew how it was going to be or what thoughts would suddenly obstruct her. But each time he said, ‘Lovely, lovely,’ and in his exuberance she found consolation.

  A woman called Iris swam out to their yacht. She dangled in the water and with one hand gripped the sides of the boat. Her nail varnish was exquisitely applied and the nails had the glow of a rich imbued pearl. By contrast with the pearl coating the half-moons were chastely white. Her personality was like that too – full of glow. For each separate face she had a smile and a word or two for those she already knew. One of the men asked if she were in love. Love! She riled him. She said her good spirits were due to her breathing. She said life was a question of correct breathing. She had come to invite them for drinks but he declined because they were due back at the house. Some lawyers had been invited to lunch. She heard this without any regret and as she swam back to the shore, her poodle, who was waiting, yapped and she yapped back, mimicking its sound exactly. Those who had known her previously remarked on her new gaiety. At dinner he brought it up again. There was mention of her past escapades, the rows with her husband, his death which was thought to be a suicide and the unpleasant business of his burial which proved impossible on religious grounds. Finally his body having to be laid in a small paddock adjoining the public cemetery. Altogether an unsavoury story, yet dangling in the water had been this radiant woman with no traces of past harm.

  ‘Yes, Iris has incredible will power, incredible,’ he said.

  ‘For what?’ she asked, from the opposite end of the table.

  ‘For living,’ he said tartly.

  It was not lost on others. Her jaw muscle twitched.

  Again she spoke to herself, remonstrated with her hurt: ‘I try, I try, I want to fit, I want to join, be the someone who slips into a crowd of marchers when the march has already begun, but there is something in me that I call sense and it baulks at your ways. It would seem as if I am here simply to smart under your strictures.’ Retreating into dreams and monologue.

  She posed for a picture. She posed beside the sculptured lady. She repeated the pose of the lady. Hands placed over each other and laid on the left shoulder, head inclining towards those hands. He took it. Click, click. The marble lady had been the sculptor’s wife and had died tragically. The hands with their unnaturally long nail fronts were the best feature of it. Click, click. When she was not looking he took another.

  She found the accounts books in a desk drawer and was surprised at the entries. Things like milk and matches had to be accounted for. She thought, Is he generous at the roots? The housekeeper had left some needlework in the book. She had old-fashioned habits and resisted much of the modern kitchen equipment. She kept the milk in little pots, with muslin spread over the top. She skimmed the cream with her fat fingers, tipped the cream into small jugs for their morning coffee. What would they say to that! In the evenings when every task was done the housekeeper sat in the back veranda with her husband, doing the mending. They had laid pine branches on the roof and these had withered, and were tough as wire. Her husband made shapes from soft pieces of new white wood, and then in the dark put his penknife aside and tickled his wife’s toes. She heard them when she stole in to get some figs from the refrigerator. It was both poignant and disturbing.

  The instructor let go of the rope. She panicked and stopped using her arms and legs. The water was rising up over her. The water was in complete control of her. She knew that she was screaming convulsively. He had to jump in clothes and all. Afterwards they sat in the linen room with a blanket each and drank brandy. They vouched to tell no one. The brandy went straight to his head. He said in England it would be raining and people would be queueing for buses and his eyes twinkled because of his own good fate.

  More than one guest was called Teddy. One of the Teddies told her that in the mornings before his wife wakened he read Proust in the dressing-room. It enabled him to masturbate. It was no more than if he had told her he missed bacon for breakfast. For breakfast there was fruit and scrambled egg. Bacon was a rarity on the island. She said to the older children that the plastic duck was psychic and had squeaked. They laughed. Their laughing was real but they kept it up long after the joke had expired. A girl said, ‘Shall I tell you a rude story?’ The boys appeared to want to restrain her. The girl said, ‘Once upon a time there was a lady and a blind man came to her door every evening for sixpence and one day she was in the bath and the doorbell rang and she put on a gown and came down and it was the milkman, and she got back in the bath and the doorbell rang and it was the breadman and at six o’clock the doorbell rang and she thought I don’t have to put on my gown it is the blind man and when she opened the door the blind man said. “Madam, I’ve come to tell you I got my sight back.” ’ And the laughter that had never really died down started up again and the whole mountain was boisterous with it. No insect, no singing bird was heard on that walk. She had to watch the time. The children’s evening meal was earlier. They ate on the back veranda and she often went there and stole a sardine or a piece of bread so as to avoid getting too drunk before dinner. There was no telling how late dinner would be. It depended on him, on whether he was bored or not. Extra guests from neighbouring houses came each evening for drinks. They added variety. The talk was about sailing and speeding, or about gardens, or about pools. They all seemed to be intrigued by these topics, even the women. One man who followed the snow knew where the best snow surfaces were for every week of every year. That subject did not bore her as much. At least the snow was nice to think about, crisp and blue like he said, and rasping under the skis. The children could often be heard shrieking but after cocktail hour they never appeared. She believed that it would be better once they were married and had children. She would be instated by courtesy of them. It was a swindle really, the fact that small creatures, ridiculously easy to beget, should solidify a relationship, but they would. Everyone hinted how he wanted a son. He was nearing sixty. She had stopped using contraceptives and he had stopped asking. Perhaps that was his way of deciding, of finally accepting her.

  Gull’s eggs, already shelled, were brought to table. The yolks a very delicate yellow. ‘Where are the shells?’ the fat lady, veiled in crepe, asked. The shells had to be brought. They were crumbled almost to a powder but were brought anyhow. ‘Where are the nests?’ she asked. It missed. It was something they might have laughed at, had they heard, but a wind had risen and they were all getting up and carrying things indoors. The wind was working up to something. It whipped the geranium flowers from their leaves and crazed the candle flames so that they blew this way and that and cracked the glass sconces. That night their love-making had all the sweetness and all the release that earth must feel with the long-awaited rain. He was another man now, with another voice – loving and private and incantatory. His coldness, his dismissal of her hard to believe in. Perhaps if they quarrelled, their quarrels, like their love-making, would bring them closer. But they never did. He said he’d never had a quarrel with any of his women. She gathered that he left his wives once it got to that point. He did not say so, but she felt that must have been so, because he had once said that all his marriages were happy. He said there had been fights with men but that these were decent. He had more rapport with men; with women he was charming but it was a charm devised to keep them at bay. He had no brothers, and no son. He had had a father who bullied him and held his inheritance back for longer than he should. This she got from one of the men who had known him for forty years. His father had caused him to suffer, badly. She did not know in what way and she was unable to ask him because it was information she should never have been given a hint of.

  After their trip to the Roman caves the children came hom
e ravenous. One child objected because the meal was cold. The servant, sensing a certain levity, told her master and the story sent shrieks of laughter around the lunch table. It was repeated many times. He called to ask if she had heard. He sometimes singled her out in that way. It was one of the few times the guests could glimpse the bond between them. Yes, she had heard. ‘Sweet, sweet,’ she said. The word occurred in her repertoire all the time now. She was learning their language. And fawning. Far from home, from where the cattle grazed. The cattle had fields to roam, and a water tank near the house. The earth around the water tank always churned up, always mucky from their trampling there. They were farming people, had their main meal in the middle of the day, had rows. Her father vanished one night after supper, said he was going to count the cattle, brought a flashlamp, never came back. Others sympathized, but she and her mother were secretly relieved. Maybe he drowned himself in one of the many bog lakes, or changed his name and went to a city. At any rate he did not hang himself from a tree or do anything ridiculous like that.

  She lay on her back as the instructor brought her across the pool, his hand under her spine. The sky above an innocent blightless blue with streamers where the jets had passed over. She let her head go right back. She thought, If I were to give myself to it totally, it would be a pleasure and an achievement, but she couldn’t.