by Yann Martel
We walked around the cemetery. I translated some of the French epitaphs for her. Her name was Cathy.
The first time we undressed, I was bashful. She interpreted my impotence as a consequence of mourning. She patiently coaxed my penis to an erection. I was a tepid lesbian. But a deeper satisfaction drew me on. A warmth after a long period of cold. The comfort of my own sex. The absence of fear. Our gentle, peaceable ways.
"You're the saddest guy I ever met," Cathy told me once.
I never told her about Tito or about him. We met in the present tense and moved on to the future. How do you explain horror, anyway? And why? Revelation would not thaw the numbness, would only bring on the additional pain of her pain. My soul is like Bluebeard's castle: it has a few locked rooms in it.
She was older than I, thirty-seven to my twenty-nine. She gave no particular thought to her age except with regards to childbearing. She was aware that, if she wanted children, it had to be soon.
Cathy and I travelled to Thailand. It was her choice of country, for the warmth of the sun. Bob and Ben, two Australians who were wearing The Bob and Ben Fuckorama Tour T-shirts when we met them, were on hormonal overdrive. The tits, stomachs, asses and legs of female bodies-for-hire spoke a language they wanted to hear.
We saw a Jack the Ripper movie in a bar. The only emotion it inspired in me was terror. I could not help but identify with the female victims who walked the fogbound streets of London unaware of their imminent death. I imagined this would be the reaction of any woman. But the women in the bar just watched the movie, as passive and entertained as the men.
We stayed on a remote island, practically alone. I liked it there. The sun. Wonderful snorkelling. We played card games and did crossword puzzles.
She lay on her side, her eyes closed. I looked at her, at her breasts. I have no breasts, I thought. I lay down. A hand came up from behind me and gently touched my hip; I moved close to her. I could feel her breasts against my back. I moved closer still and her breasts went through me -- I had breasts. She liked the name Adam for a boy -- she wanted a boy. I fell asleep.
CHAPTER TWO
I AM THIRTY YEARS OLD. I weigh 139 pounds. I am five foot seven and a half inches tall. My hair is brown and curly. My eyes are grey-blue. My blood type is O positive. I am Canadian. I speak English and French.
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
YANN MARTEL was born in Spain in 1963. After studying philosophy at Trent University and doing various odd jobs, he began to write. He is the prize-winning author of a short story collection, The Facts behind the Helsinki Roccamatios and, most recently, the bestselling Life of Pi. He lives in Montreal.
