The Pregnant Widow

by Martin Amis

  Kenrik said, “What’s that mean?”

  “Mussolini is always right.”

  “The thing is, man, I haven’t been alone for twenty days, and I … Do you ever get that—when you don’t know who you are?”

  Well, no, thought Keith. Though I’m feeling, now, as if I’m floating in and out of myself. “Sort of,” he said.

  “… All right. I’m in your hands. Lead on.”

  4

  SENTIMENTAL EDUCATION

  They entered the cave of carpentry across the alley from the pet shop. The drinkers, in their fleeces, as if disguised as sheep. Kenrik said,

  “I’m quite good at this by now. Buon giorno. Due cognac grandes, per favore. That’s for me. What’re you having?”

  The two of them stood at the counter, watched by six or seven pairs of ancient eyes. Kenrik drained his first glass in one, and shuddered. They felt no need to lower their voices; they lit cigarettes and Keith said,

  “Can we begin?”

  “Yeah. Wait. Nicholas sends his love. And did you get that package? Nicholas doesn’t like me, does he. He thinks I’m useless. He thinks I’m a useless little prick.”

  “No,” said Keith—but there was something in this. What is it you see, his brother often asked, in that useless little prick? He’s a lush, a flop, and a snob. I know. With him you can take a holiday from being high-minded. You are high-minded—it’s not a pretence. But it tuckers you out. And every now and then you need a holiday. There was something in this too. When he answered his brother, Keith emphasised Kenrik’s expressiveness—and the fact that he attracted girls. He attracted Lily. Keith’s eyes widened over the foam of his beer for a second. “Nicholas,” he said, “thinks you’re cool. Now can we start?”

  “Start.”

  “You fucked the Dog!”

  “… Yeah, I fucked the Dog. But it wasn’t my fault. I had to fuck the Dog.”

  “I knew it. The instant I saw you, I thought—He fucked the Dog! And I told you not to fuck the Dog.”

  “I know you did and I wasn’t going to. I mean, I’m not stupid. I saw what fucking the Dog did to Arn. And Ewan. And I was going to be spending forty-two nights with her. I knew how serious it was. We even had a long talk on the ferry and we solemnly agreed I wouldn’t fuck the Dog—I mean, we agreed to go on being just good friends. I was determined not to fuck the Dog. But I had to fuck the Dog. Ancora, per favore. I’ll explain.”

  Their camping trip began sunnily, Rita in her MGB, Kenrik waiting with his kitbags (the pegs, the tarps), bright and early one morning, three weeks ago. They caught the twelve o’clock boat from Folkestone to Boulogne. Taking it in turns, and stopping twice for snacks, they drove until midnight, south. Kenrik said,

  “And it was cool. She’s an excellent travelling companion, the Dog. A real rattle, but very good fun—and incredibly fearless. And she pays for everything. You know my fifty quid? I lost it.”

  “Horses.”

  “Roulette. By the time I got to France, I didn’t have enough money to get back to England. Anyway. I thought, This was a terrific idea. I like and respect the Dog, and we’re just really good friends. And I told myself, All you’ve got to do is remember one thing. Don’t fuck the Dog. Anyway. Then we found a site—you know, you just stick your head out and say, Cam-peeng? This was south of Lyon. And then in the tent … In the tent it was so hot. It was really unbelievably hot.” He shrugged. “It was so hot I fucked the Dog. There.”

  “Mm,” said Keith. Keith, too, was twenty years old. And he did see that a really unbelievably hot tent, with Rita in it, would more or less take the matter out of your hands. “Mm. Yeah, in a very hot tent. And what was it like?”

  “Astonishing. We were still at it when the Germans started queueing for the showers.”

  “… Then what went wrong?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Yeah, that’s what they all say.”

  “All right, I fucked the Dog. So what. I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”

  “Yeah, that’s what Arn said. No one wants to talk about it.”

  “Maybe that’s why people go on doing it. Go on fucking the Dog. If word got out, they’d stop … I keep trying to see it as a rite of passage. Something you just have to go through in life. Fucking the Dog.”

  Keith said vaguely, “Or something you do when you’re very jet-lagged.”

  “Uh?”

  “Garth. My tutor. When he came back from New Zealand. He said he took his wife to the park, on a lead, and then fucked the dog.”

  Kenrik said vaguely, “Or something you do at cards.”

  “Uh?”

  “You know. Bridge or something. His high spades put him in an excellent position to fuck the dog.”

  Keith said, “No, you were right the first time. A test of character. Part of your sentimental education. There comes a moment when every young man has to …”

  “Has to put away childish things.”

  “Has to show what he’s made of.”

  “And fuck the dog.”

  There was a silence. Then Kenrik said thoughtfully,

  “You know the way you and me go on about chicks? That’s the way she goes on about guys—guys she’s fucked. Guys don’t fuck her. She fucks them. But listen. We don’t go on like that about chicks to chicks, do we. Jesus.”

  Kenrik and Keith always told each other absolutely everything (every bra-clip, every zip-notch), so out of sheer habit Keith said, “In the tent, how did you get undressed, or were you already—”

  “No, man, I can’t talk about it … It’s all I can think about—I’m kind of writing it in my head. But I can’t talk about it.”

  Writing it? Nicholas further despised Kenrik because his mental development came to a halt at the age of seventeen (when he got thrown out of the best school in London). And he never read anything. Looking at Kenrik, many were deceived by the pure jawline and the arty cheekbones. As Lily was deceived … With dragging reluctance, Keith said,

  “Oh yeah. You know that night you spent with Violet. I just want to ask you one thing. And no details. But did she enjoy it, d’you think?”

  “Enjoy it? Uh, yeah … Actually, to tell you the truth, I can’t remember. I mean, I couldn’t remember the next day either. It was after that party. Signore. Ancora, per favore. Grazie. When she woke up she said, You were a bit of a naughty boy last night. So I suppose something or other must’ve happened. And then I tried to be a bit of a naughty boy in the morning too. But I couldn’t manage it. Sorry.”

  They talked about Violet, and about the castle; and Kenrik, who was not afraid of feminine beauty, said,

  “Is that the exquisite one with the tits? Christ. You hardly ever see a face like that on a figure like that. Well you don’t. I suppose that’s why she needs all that neck. Imagine how much you’d have to fancy yourself to make a pass at Scheherazade.”

  “You fancy yourself.”

  “Up to a point. I quite like the other one too. The one with no hair and the arse. And the swimsuit. Like Mum’s.”

  They finished their drinks, and Keith showed him the village sights (principally the church and the rat), and Kenrik said,

  “So how’s it going with Lily?”

  They started up the steep lane just ahead of a herd of goats—or ewes and lambs, the colour of city snow, shuffling, bobbing, like a loom.

  “I want to talk to you about Lily. See, it’s to do with her sexual confidence. And I thought you might be able to help me out.”

  “How?”

  It was a Friday, and this was the idea: they’d have a late lunch, or an early dinner, or a meat tea, around five thirty, and then, for the willing, there’d be a trip, sponsored by Adriano, to some sort of nightclub in Montale. So, at any rate, Keith was indifferently informed by Gloria, who sat alone in the courtyard with her sketchpad on her lap.

  Kenrik said, “Where’s Rita?”

  “She’s sleeping. Everyone’s having a siesta. Shall I show y
ou where?”

  “Christ no. I’ll just hang around upstairs. If I may. With a glass of something.”

  Keith climbed the tower. He planned to prep Lily—and to nudge reality in the direction he wanted it to take, eliding with his interests, as he saw them … He thought of Rita at the pool, her doubled, tripled nudity. Rita reminded him, most anti-erotically, of Violet at ten or eleven—very slender, but in that sheath of plump flesh, in that birthday suit.

  Lily was standing at the window, looking out. She turned.

  He said, “Something’s wrong.”

  “I bet you and your friend think that’s very funny. Don’t you know what it means?”

  For a moment Keith felt that he was already thwarted and exposed—because he had never seen Lily as angry as this. She said,

  “You liar. Why’s she called the Dog?”

  “What? … Why shouldn’t she be called the Dog? I mean among friends.”

  “She’s gorgeous!”

  “Well,” he said, “in her way maybe. All right, she’s gorgeous. I never said she wasn’t.”

  “Then why’s she called the Dog? Don’t you know what it means?”

  “Dog? What?” He listened, and said, “Well it might mean that in America. In England it just means dog. We all call Rita the Dog. Nicholas calls Rita the Dog. It’s because she—she reminds you of a dog.”

  “How?”

  “Christ. She acts like a dog.” He went on slowly, “Rita acts like a dog. She’s all bustle. The way you can see her tongue quivering. As if she’s lightly panting all the time. And the way she constantly wiggles her arse. As if she’s wagging her tail. She wiggles her arse like a dog.”

  “She doesn’t wiggle her arse!”

  He wiped the sweat off his lip. “… Actually you’re right. She doesn’t. She’s stopped wiggling her arse. She used to, but she’s stopped. I’ll ask her about it—I’ll get her to wiggle her arse for you. And you’ll be reminded of a dog. I swear.”

  “Oh, Keith, why aren’t I beautiful?”

  And she so rarely used his name … And there was nothing to say in answer to this terrible question. There was nothing to do but step forward, into it, and hold her and stroke her hair.

  “Why aren’t I beautiful,” she said in that circling voice of hers. “Scheherazade’s beautiful. Rita’s beautiful. Even Gloria’s beautiful when she smiles. Everyone’s beautiful. Why aren’t I beautiful …”

  You will be, he kept saying. And they lay down together, then she slept. And he too experimented with it—the siesta, the nap, sleep, the visit to insanity, in the hours of broad daylight … When Lily woke, he attentively watched and gossiped with her as she bathed and dressed; and he kept patiently telling her how pretty Kenrik thought she looked.

  “Lovely and brown,” he told Lily as they came down the stone steps at half past five. “And you’ve lost weight. That’s what he said. And your eyes shine.”

  “Mm. I’m sorry. It’s just that I was looking forward to a dog.”

  “I’m sorry too. I honestly didn’t know about this dog business. By your rule, then, the Dog should be called the Fox.”

  “She looks like a fox.”

  “Yeah, but it’s too late now.” And Rita didn’t act like a fox. Ambivalently but unmistakably, Rita was somehow man’s best friend. “So the Dog it is.”

  “Did Pansy talk like that? And was she the one who never had pubic hair?”

  “No. But she had Rita’s accent. And she had that funny way with her mes. Pass me nightie. I’m starving, me. It’s nice. I like the way they talk.”

  “Well half of you’s from up there, isn’t it … I can tell Kenrik’s not very happy,” said Lily as they came out into the courtyard, “but we still don’t know why you mustn’t.”

  “Mustn’t? Oh yeah. That’s right, we don’t. Amazing though, isn’t it, in a way. Time and time again I told him. Time and again.”

  “You drummed it into him.”

  “I drummed it into him. And he knows perfectly well that you mustn’t. And on the very first night, the very first night, what’s the very first thing he does?”

  “He ups and fucks the Dog.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And that’s exactly what you mustn’t do.”

  They had the food laid out on the sideboard, and the young ones shuffled along its length—cold meats, salads of spinach and potato and bean, proximities, possibilities, body scents, hands, hair, haunch. One by one, at the table, the various figures subsided into place. And you knew for sure that a line would be crossed: Kenrik, with his leaden eyelids, and Rita, with her coercive vividness, already guaranteed it. Not a slippage of genre but a change of certificate. No unaccompanied minors—this would be rated X. Everyone already knew for sure that a line would be crossed.

  Adriano turned to Whittaker. “Propose a toast, my friend!” he cried.

  Whittaker shrugged and said, “To heterosexuality.”

  So for a while, under Rita’s superintendence, the girls talked about the number of children they hoped to have, Rita herself wanting six, Scheherazade four, Gloria three, Lily two.

  “No,” said Rita. “Eight, me. No. Ten.”

  They all seemed to pause before this vision of prolific maternity. But then Lily said,

  “Well you’d better get on with it, hadn’t you.”

  “Oh I am, pet, I am. These are me fucking years. I’ll get all that out of me system, and then I’ll buckle down. One a year.” Rita abruptly gulped and said, “Ooh, Gloria love. How can you wear that bra in these temperatures? Aren’t the poor darlings gasping for breath?”

  In a rare concession to the heat, Gloria was wearing a light blouse with an elliptical neck; both collarbones were indented by broad straps of a surgical dun. She glanced downward and sideways, and coloured. She said softly,

  “It’s just more comfortable.”

  “You won’t catch mine up in one of those things.” Rita swiped a finger through the air. “Now nobody blurt the obvious. I’ve got two backs, me—and I’m glad! Tits can be … mwa, I know, but they’re always in the bloody road. Even in bed.” Rita turned to Scheherazade with her dolphin smile. “Eh, sort, I wouldn’t even want your two. Naygo chay-gance. How would I do me limbo?”

  Whittaker said, “I don’t think I quite get it about bras. The politicisation of bras. What’s this bra-burning business with the sisters? I thought bras were your friends.”

  “They uh, they impose uniformity,” said Lily. “That’s why they’re meant to be bad.”

  “Bras make everyone’s the same,” said Scheherazade. “Breasts vary. Bras turn every girl into a kind of sweater girl.”

  “And that would never do,” said Gloria. “No, we can’t possibly have that.”

  She seemed disinclined to continue, but Rita said, “Go on, duck. Speak.”

  “All right,” she said and gave her cough. “Huh-hm. So it’s just coincidence, is it, it’s just the merest coincidence, is it, that not wearing a bra makes your breasts about ten thousand times more noticeable? Bras keep breasts still.”

  “… She’s right, you know,” said Rita, with a nod at Scheherazade. “I’ll be ogling yours all night. And Jesus, kid, when you move—seeing you cross a room’s like watching a fucking thriller. Will they, won’t they? And you,” she told Gloria, “you look like you’ve got a fair pair swaddled away in that bloody hammock. You ought to whip it off, some nights, bint, and give us all a gawp. If you were in proportion, mind, you’d be even fuller than Schez! You don’t drink, do you, love. Me neither. Unlike some. Unlike some miserable little soaks I know … Right. Seconds, me. And thirds in a minute. I eat like a pig and I never gain. Girls hate me for that, Lil. And who can blame them? Anyone need feeding?”

  Adriano, showing much white of eye, held up his plate.

  “What are you on, Sebs darling—the beef? That’s the spirit. Anyone else?”

  Kenrik sat slumped at the head of the table, with his arm curled protectively round a pitcher of wine.
The other hand was conducting a series of very slow experiments with its fork. Keith said,

  “Oh yeah, Rita. I was wondering. What happened to your wiggle? You’ve stopped wiggling. You’ve lost your signature wiggle. Show Lily. Wiggle your arse.”

  Rita wiggled. And she did: she reminded you of a dog—she looked like a dog looks when you put on your overcoat and reach for the lead. “Again.”

  Rita wiggled again and said, “Ow. Oof. No, Keith, I’ve got me reasons. Stay there and I’ll tell you for why. I’ll just ease meself … Oof.” She leant forward. “No more wiggling. See, the thing is, Keith, I’ve never been buggered so much in me life.”

  Kenrik’s dropped fork hit his plate with a crack.

  “And it’s not just him either,” said Rita with a jerk of her chin. “And it’s not against me will or anything. Call me a pillow-biter, but all’s fair in love and war. Seb, is that sufficient, or could you fancy another chunk? No. It’s not just Rik. None of them can seem to stay out of there for long. And I know why. It’s because I’m a boy. I’m a boy, me. I’m a boy.”

  Keith looked round the table. Lily, narrow-eyed and narrow-mouthed. Scheherazade, erectly concentrated. Gloria, emanating a potent coldness. Whittaker, frowning, smiling. Adriano, a child in shock. Rita said,

  “I’m a boy. No tits. And no arse.”

  “And no waist,” said Lily.

  “Bless you, skirt, I almost forgot. And no waist. So they’re more or less duty-bound to turn me over, aren’t they. Especially if they’re that way inclined in the first place. Like Rik … It takes him back to his schooldays, see. He thinks about the captain of cricket. It’s the only thing that makes it stiffen. It’s the only thing that makes it stir. Isn’t it, love … Oh dear, everyone’s gone quiet. Have I put me foot in it again?”

  Kenrik picked up a knife and lightly tapped its blade on his glass. The hum, the soft chime, took three or four seconds to fade.

  “The first time it happens,” he began, “… the first time you and Rita make the beast with two backs … you think this is something you’ve dreamt of all your life. You think: So this is what a fuck is … All the others—they weren’t fucks … This is what a fuck is … But she’s not a boy … She’s a bloke … No, not even. Dirty as hell, I’ll give her that, and resourceful too—I’ll give her that. But no feeling for it … The first time it happens, you reach out a hand. Then the next thing you know, she’s got her thumb up your bum and one of your nuts down her throat. And the other one tucked behind her ear for later. And all four eyelashes are batting at your tip. Her eyelashes. Then you do everything else. That’s the first time, and it’s great. And then it’s … You know what she does? She shakes you awake in the middle of the night, and if you’re too tired then she seriously tells you you’re queer. You hate women. Whereas, in fact, she hates women. And she hates men too. Keith. Keith. Imagine shaking Lily awake, and if she doesn’t come across she’s a dyke. Or a snob. Or frigid. Or religious. No mere guy behaves like that. No guy who isn’t already locked up behaves like that. And she thinks she’s such a great fuck. And she is. But she’s not. No talent for it. No talent … Because no … No sympathy. There.”