STOP ME BEFORE I TELL MORE
—There was this traveling salesman, see—
* * * *
COLD-SKINNED. Anyone who touched him remarked on it. Skin as cold as the Beadsman on St. Agnes’s Eve. As cold as the hymen of a virgin witch.
Not ugly, not handsome. Not much to speak of. Between tall and short, slim and fat, lined and smooth. Eyebrows, thick, were noticeable; eyes were not.
You couldn’t have called him a Willy Loman type because Willy Loman hadn’t been invented yet. You wouldn’t anyway since he was shy, promoted the product with reluctance, and had been shunted off to an unlucrative sales route by a compassionate district manager. He hated the road. All roads. Dirt, asphalt, concrete, patches of blobbed tar. He feared the miles ahead and drove with his eyes staring steadily down at a point just a few feet in front of the car.
* * * *
—and one dark night—
* * * *
All light switched off above, below, and to the side. Weak headlights that needed adjustment picked out a triangular section of monotonous gravel. Cold seeped in through the cracked rear window and entered his cold body at the neck. His eyes ached from staring at the road. He wanted to stop and rest but knew he would freeze in place if he did. What vengeful God had made the Great Plains so vulnerable? There must be a place near but in pitch blackness it was impossible to make out any outlines. He was well-read enough to ponder the meaninglessness of a death practically on the doorstep of an unseen farmhouse.
* * * *
—his car breaks down on this lonely road, see—
* * * *
Without even a wheeze or a decent dying gasp. Just rolled to a graceless stop. Wearily he leaned his head against the steering wheel, right up against the horn which blew or choked with a long echo that seemed to travel far without encountering a human ear. He sat up. The draft caught him a particularly frosty blast on the back of the neck. He listened for some sound, then began to pound the horn like crazy for comfort.
Finally he decided that freezing in motion was probably better than freezing still, and he left the car to hunt for shelter.
* * * *
—comes finally to this farmhouse—
* * * *
Hardly aware he had been going uphill, he came near the crest and saw the single light shining in the distance. Unshaped and too far away to tell whether it was a fire, another headlight (perhaps with another salesman cursing another dead car), or a window. Over the crest and downhill to the glittering beacon he ran. The shuffle of his shoes against the gravel sounded like rapid asthmatic breathing.
* * * *
—runs all the way to the farmhouse and knocks—
* * * *
Where? The light from the window was so weak it didn’t illumine the shape of the house or any detail beyond the windowsill. The light source was a lamp in the window, and even with head pressed against glass, he could see very little of the room. A patch of wall seemed faded and grease-stained.
Then should he knock on the window? Or holler? Such actions were too aggressive. But he just couldn’t stand there and die.
Hand over hand, palms pressed against wall siding, he began to make his way along the house. He caught one sliver in the side of a palm, another more painful one in the web between thumb and forefinger. He stepped into a rosebush, thorns punctured his calf. He couldn’t refrain from cursing. A sound came from inside the house, something like a shin banging against a chair.
He reached the corner of the house and felt his way to the door. He knocked once. The door opened. A fat man blocked some of the glaring light that flowed out at him.
* * * *
—farmer comes to the door and asks—
* * * *
“Who’s out there?”
The voice seemed gruff, billy-goatish, angry. He retreated three paces, almost wishing he could run back to his car and freeze in peace.
“Speak up, boy. I got a gun sittin’ here by the door powerful enough to blast you to double-smithereens before you get outta the light.”
“No don’t!”
He stood still, trying to look as niceguy as possible.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Leonard Brack and my car broke down just up the road.”
“We got no phone but you can . . .”
* * * *
—farmer took him in and—
* * * *
“. . . spend the night here and I’ll drive you up to the gay-rage in the mornin’. Come in and get warm, boy.”
Once in the house and seated by a flaming gas heater, Leonard enjoyed the rediscovery of warmth. The farmer, Cyrus McConnell, fed him coffee and dull conversation.
* * * *
—well, this farmer had two beautiful—
* * * *
“What is it, papa?” came a soft voice from somewhere above.
“Come on down and see for yourself.”
Hopping footsteps followed skipping footsteps down a stairway to the hall. Two shapely forms came through the doorway.
“This here’s my two daughters:
“Jeanie—”
Who was tall and blond with the kind of pretty farm-girl face found on tractor calendars and in almanac illustrations.
“—and Joanie.”
Who looked exactly like Jeanie except for her raven-black hair.
“They’re twins.”
Which didn’t really have to be pointed out.
* * * *
—each o’ these babies was built like a—
* * * *
“Brick shi—” Leonard stopped suddenly, realizing he was thinking aloud.
“What’s that, son?”
“Ah—brickshi. That’s a traditional Ukrainian greeting.”
* * * *
—salesman ogled the twins up and—
* * * *
“You’re breathin’ heavy, mister,” said Jeanie.
“Like a thirsty heifer,” said Joanie.
“Don’t spook the gentleman, girls,” said the farmer. “Of course he’s breathin’ heavy. He’s tired out from trottin’ over the whole durn countryside.”
Leonard, in nine years on the road, had never before encountered such breathtaking beauty. Packed well, too, including ribbons.
“You’re pale, mister,” said Joanie.
“Like a harvest moon,” said Jeanie.
* * * *
—then the farmer said the salesman could sleep in the guest room provided—
* * * *
“...that you let me lock you in there till dawn.”
The words acted like an emetic on Leonard, as disappointment dissipated his desire. Still, he comforted himself with the thought that the brief sight of these twin delectations would, for a change, give him something more exciting than invoices to think about as he drifted off to sleep. Sneaking one more look at the girls, he cursed fate for always springing on him Surprise without Resolution.
“You look sad, mister,” Jeanie said.
“Like a hound dog that’s just flushed a feather hat,” said Joanie.
* * * *
—locked him in and he went to bed, but sure enough in a minute—
* * * *
Ready to sleep, kept awake only by the dilemma of whether to dream about blond Jeanie or brunette Joanie. Or was it brunette Jeanie and blond Joanie?
Then a warm hand touched his face.
“You got cold skin, mister.”
He sat up straight.
“How did you get in here?”
“That’s my secret.”
“It’s too dark in here. Which one are you?”
“That’s also my secret. Move over.”
* * * *
—so they, you know, made out, all the rest of the night, and it was—
* * * *
An hour and a half of incredible warmth. A journey on apparently familiar roads which turned out to be untraveled. A trip to the moon on gossamer wings. An ecstasy like nothing else he’d ever experienced in his plodding, one step in front of the other life.
She was an energetic delight, some part always in motion until she left him just before dawn. Several times he tried to detect which of the daughters he grappled with, but it was impossible to tell. When she’d departed as mysteriously as she’d arrived, he regretted not knowing which one to thank in the morning.
* * * *
—so next morning he looked for, you know, signs to tell which one it was but—
* * * *
When Jeanie blew in his ear while serving a plate of hash, he thought the issue was no longer in question. Then Joanie blew him a secret kiss.
“You look all perplexed, mister,” said Joanie. “Like a sow with silk purses hangin’ offa its head,” said Jeanie.
* * * *
—so he went away, frustrated by the mystery—
* * * *
Back to the daily monotony. Adventures came few and far between these days. Far between? Between this and what? Well, back to shoving unsuitable material into the greased fingers of sleepy storeowners.
He drove his revived car by the house for one final look. He thought he saw two girls in two windows waving at him.
* * * *
—bugged all the next year by the memory, you know—
* * * *
Waking him suddenly at nights. Making him conscious of plaster cracks forming crooked involved rivers along dingy hotel walls. Causing sweat to appear on his forehead at unusual times.
* * * *
—so one day at twilight he found himself on a familiar road and sure enough there was the same farmhouse—
* * * *
Run, Leonard, run. See (in your mind’s eye) the girls. See Jeanie or Joanie at the window. Stop. That’s not the way. Be cool and calm. They must believe this is just a coincidence, that today you found yourself on a familiar road and sure enough you spotted the house of last year’s kindnesses.
“You’re trembling, mister,” said Jeanie at the door. “Like a apple tree bein’ shook by a nervous boy,” said Joanie in the hallway.
* * * *
—so he was invited to spend the night again and the farmer locked him in again and he waited until—
* * * *
“I startle you again? Mister, your skin’s solid ice.”
His reflexes keener from a year’s planning, he reached for the lamp beside the bed. It clicked sharply but gave forth no illumination.
“I pulled the plug. It’s you, me, and the pitch dark, mister. Move over.”
“Who are you?”
“I’ll never tell.”
* * * *
—and they had, you know, one more hot night of it—
* * * *
Better than last year, as if sharpened by three hundred and sixty-four days of training. Metaphysically, an almost-felt electrical current surging through all outlets and connections. Psychologically, ego-building after so many sleepless frustrated nights but also nerve-racking due to the silly confusion of identity. Philosophically, a hasty reshuffling of old values to accommodate new situational contexts.
* * * *
—and he tried to find out which twin had his tony—
* * * *
“Hey Jeanie!”
“You can’t trick me into telling.”
“Why not?”
“That’s my secret.”
“Why is it so important?”
“Secret.”
“But a guy’s got to know who he’s doing it with.”
“No he don’t. It is merely a natural act between two consenting individuals, and identity has nothing to do with it. Identity is superfluous, incongruous, inadequate.”
“Damn it, that’s what knocks me out. You talk different here than both of you do downstairs.”
“A woman’s mantle varies from parlor to bedroom.”
“Well, give me a clue at least.”
“Clue implies a mystery to be solved, a corner puzzle piece to begin interlockment. Therefore, there cannot be clues here, since I do not wish you to arrive at a solution. Quit jawin’.”
* * * *
—again, just before dawn, she disappeared—
* * * *
But where to? Nobody just disappears. Not without a long drum roll and a puff of smoke, anyway. The ritual was same as last year: a quick ascension to a kneeling position, a warm kiss upon his chest, the residual bounce of the bed as she left it, a couple of footsteps.
The absence of further sound upset him. No click of key in lock, no raising of secret trapdoor, no sliding of secret panel, no pushing open of window.
Her departure method was only the penultimate mystery. The question of her identity furnished more mental tension. In daylight there was not sufficient contrast between Joanie and Jeanie’s behavior to provide any indication of who warmed his bed these annual nights.
At breakfast both girls looked a bit puffy-eyed, as if they both had been awake all night. Two pairs of eyes studied him knowingly.
* * * *
—had insomnia all the next year worrying about it—
* * * *
Maybe Jeanie because blondes have more fun. Maybe Joanie since brunettes relish mystery.
And how could he be sure it was the same girl both years? Maybe Joanie one year, then Jeanie’s turn the next. Or vice versa. But the second said the same things as the first. Well, that’s possible. They’re sisters and the first could have told the second all the details of the first’s experience so the second could sneak in the room and pose as the first. Or not really the second posing as the first but the second being the second and, since she was a twin, acting very like the first. The consequences of such possibilities terrified him because then it was not just a problem of which one came to his room, but which one at which time? It had the effect of cubing the mystery.
He developed nervous tics. Chewing on a pillow, then retreating in disgust from the saliva puddles. Mind blanking off in the middle of a sure sale. Stopping at any old farmhouse, but finding the occupants had no daughters or married daughters or homely daughters (who, though they eyed him knowingly, left him alone at night) or pretty daughters (who laughed at his advances).
* * * *
—so he went back to the farmhouse and the farmer and the farmer’s daughters—
* * * *
With his new spectacles he could see the house better than before. It was a genuinely ugly structure. Gray paint peeled off the siding at a thousand places. Windowsills sagged. A corner of porch was held up by old lumber.
Joanie opened the front door and greeted him indifferently, like an old friend. So did Jeanie.
Cyrus came into the hallway, greeted Leonard with a hearty brickshi, and held out his left hand to shake. The right one was missing, lost when he’d tripped and reached up to a thresher for help.
* * * *
—and this time, what do you think—
* * * *
Surprise, Leonard! Here comes Jeanie with a three-month-old kid in her arms. Don’t choke.
“Is he yours?” he said to Jeanie.
“Might be,” she answered.
“Might be mine, too,” Joanie interjected, taking the baby from the arms of Jeanie, who gave him up willingly.
He studied the baby carefully for a clue. A few strands of medium brown hair, about as many as Leonard had on his own head, and the same shade of brown. No other indications.
“Your girls do like to fun me,” he said to Cyrus. “But I’ll bet you’ll tell me whose it is.”
“Can’t, Leonard. Wish I knew. I was in the hospital for five months recovering from this. Came home and found the little tyke nestled in a crib. They won’t tell me neither.”
Leonard’s face revealed his disappointment.
“You look despairin’, mister,” said Joanie.
“Like a young ‘un when they take down the Christmas tree,” said Jeanie.
“Can’t understand how she done it,” Cyrus said, “whichever one it was. Lock ‘em both in every night.”
* * * *
—so he went to bed that night more mixed up than usual and sure enough—
* * * *
“Move over.”
Acting quickly, he whipped out the flashlight he’d concealed under the covers and shone it on her navel. She grabbed it out of his hands, flicked off the switch, and flung it across the room.
“Now move over.”
* * * *
—so he had another night of, you know, fun—
* * * *
“But I’ve got to know now.”
“I don’t see why it’s so damned important.”
“Because of the kid.”
“Why because of the kid? It’s just a baby like all others.”
“Because it’s mine, that’s why.”
“Who said it’s yours?”
“Isn’t it?”
“That’s a secret.”
“How can you be so callous about your own child?”
“Who said it’s my child?”
“Isn’t it?”
“Secret.”
“I would think, for the kid’s sake, that he ought to know which of you is his mother.”
“Who said either of us was his mother?”
* * * *
—and so another night went by without him being any the wiser—
* * * *
“The trouble with you, mister, is that you think your one-nighter per year is the only thing that happens around here. As if my father, my sister, and I go into suspended animation, lifeless until you saunter in again. Frankly, I nearly forget you from one year to the next.”
“Then—it really isn’t my baby?”
“I never said that.”
* * * *
—and he left the next day as confused as ever—
* * * *
“Here—I saved a can of peach preserve for you,” Joanie said after breakfast.
“And some tomato puree from me,” Jeanie said.
Leonard divided an expression of fury between them.
* * * *
—another year—
* * * *
He developed several plans, as follows:
PLAN A: Scratch her someplace. Draw blood. Next morning see which girl is scratched.
PLAN B: Bring two flashlights.
PLAN C: Set off a tear gas bomb and quickly don gasmask. In ensuing confusion, plug in lamp and turn it on.
PLAN D: Whip out a set of handcuffs and chain her to me so she can’t leave before dawn.
* * * *
—and another return to the farmhouse—
* * * *
The girls, bustling around, paid little attention to him except to show how well little Timmie could walk all by himself. Cyrus sulked in a kitchen, so despondent he even had the girls lock Leonard in his room.
* * * *
—and another night—
* * * *
All plans failed, as follows:
PLAN A: The next morning both girls wore bandages on the spot he’d scratched (the back of the neck).
PLAN B: The second flashlight got lost in the covers when she descended upon him.
PLAN C: He left the bomb in the trunk of his car.
PLAN D: The handcuffs, purchased in a novelty store, were too big for her wrists and she slipped out of them.
* * * *
—and still confusion—
* * * *
“I’m more than just confused. I think I’m on the verge of insanity.”
“Don’t dramatize. You’ve just got a simple ego hangup, that’s all.”
“When I’m in an asylum, you’ll laugh out of the other side of your mouth.”
“If you’re so determined, try catatonia. It might do you some good to shut up for a while.”
“Please tell me.”
“And the truth shall make you free? No deal.”
* * * *
—and, well, he came back again—
* * * *
Puffiness around Jeanie’s eyes, Joanie’s black hair graying. Cyrus, bedridden, just nodded his head hello, never said a word. Timmie bugged him unmercifully, saying look at me do this and look at me do that. The kid was homely enough to be his.
Nobody locked the door. That bothered him.
This year, poised, he asked few questions and she seemed bored.
* * * *
—and again—
* * * *
She came through the door, unslinking, unmysterious. She went through the bed motions like a high priestess at her thousandth sacrifice.
“I’ve had ten women besides you this year,” he said.
“So?”
“I just wanted you to know that I’m compensating, that’s all.”
* * * *
—and again—
* * * *
“Move over.”
“Not tonight. I’m bushed.”
“New strategy?”
“No strategy. I’m just tired.”
“Okay.”
* * * *
—and again—
* * * *
Three years in the army as a middle-aged private and corporal had depleted the curve of his belly. He almost felt jaunty as he approached the farmhouse. With some delight he noted that the house had been painted a dull yellow in the intervening years, as if it too had been rejuvenated by the war.
The kid—how old was he now, six, seven?—played on a swing. His homeliness was not enhanced by the mean expression of his face.
“You again?” Joanie said, looking up briefly from a bowl of string beans she was stripping. Gray locks now balancing the black in her hair, she had also put on weight. What the hell, though, it was still a good build.
“In the war, huh?” Jeanie said, coming out on the porch. It was not an especially perceptive observation, since he still wore his uniform.
The years had ravaged both twins about equally. The sheen of Jeanie’s hair had faded, she was pudgy but also, like Joanie, in fairly attractive places.
Yet there was a difference. Some of the liveliness had gone out of Jeanie’s eyes. No longer as pretty as Joanie, she also seemed more careless in appearance.
“I’d like to say hello to your dad,” he said.
“Cemetery’s four miles down the road,” Jeanie said.
“Oh—I’m sorry.”
“Sure.”
The girls worked at chores until suppertime. They served him a fine meal, but responded indifferently to his compliments. They would not even tell him which one had prepared the dressing for the roast pork.
The door to his room was not only not locked, it was left open. Light plunged in from the hallway. He settled into the bed, noting the lack of resiliency in the springs. Around midnight she came to him. She entered the room in a businesslike sweep, unmindful of the light which outlined her. He could not recognize her; her face and hair were too much in shadow.
“Move over.”
As he shifted quickly to the wall side of the bed, he realized how much he’d been longing for her; how much the memory of her had nagged at his brain while on troop ships, in foxholes, standing around the stage door of the canteen; how much he’d been disappointed by liberated whores whose too-clear faces had mocked him or remained indifferent with vacant looks in their wasted eyes.
Happily they enacted the ritual of returning warrior and girl left behind, their lovemaking more intense than at any time since the first years. Afterward they lay silent, with nothing to say and no questions that required asking, each comfortable in the repetition of myth.
“It’s been a long time,” she finally said.
“I love you, Jeanie or Joanie as the case may be.”
“That’s nice.”
“And you still won’t tell me who you are.”
“I’d like to, but I won’t.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I guess it’s just decreed, that’s all.”
“But that’s silly.”
“Is it? Tell me, after tonight will you stay here?”
“I’d like to, but I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Well—uh—I’ve got to get back to the road. To my job.”
“Is that the real reason?”
“Of course.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“How do you know it isn’t?”
“I just know.”
“How?”
“That’s my secret.”
In the morning they both kissed him good-bye. Each kiss was polite, but with an extra touch—or slight push—of buried affection. He could not tell from the kiss which pair of lips belonged to his yearly bedmate. He tried to pat Timmie’s head, but the kid squirmed away and ran to the sink where he played listlessly with a sponge.
Jeanie and Joanie had tears in their eyes as he left. He assumed that, if he could weigh their tears, the scale would be evenly balanced. Damn them anyway. Damn both of them, the one he loved and the one who posed as lover.
* * * *
—and, you know, years went by—
* * * *
The house tilting to the east. Yellow paint peeling, replaced by new yellow coat, which fades to off-white. A new porch with uneven latticework, bits of which break off from time to time as the porch ages and cracks under the strain. Furniture comes and goes, and gradually the newest furniture is indiscernible from the oldest.
Timmie growing up with little strain, cultivating indifference to everyone: Going off at sixteen to join some mythical military service, polishing off a few Myrmidons and settling down in a southern port with a chubby girl whose face in photographs has little resolution.
Jeanie and Joanie adding weight and puffiness by degrees. Joanie’s hair becoming gray starkly, Jeanie’s fading to gray subtly. A gradual advance of eyelids downward, so the visible portion of each eye decreases until the two women look out at the world through narrow slits. Which causes them to tilt their heads backward when making an important look-them-in-the-eye statement.
Leonard losing weight, but becoming emaciated rather than slim. Piling up further nervous tics, an ulcer, and a recurring case of athlete’s foot. Skin hardening, stretched like artist’s canvas from bone to bone. In his face deep lines which gradually link, through tributaries, into an intricate network.
* * * *
—and finally, now get this—
* * * *
A fluffed-out pillow shelling peas. a bent and dented pipe cleaner watching the painfully slow movements of the pillow’s shelling.
* * * *
—uh, he comes up to her and says—
* * * *
“Where’s your sister?”
She took the bowl out of her lap and placed it beside her on the stair. She tilted her head backward. He felt uncomfortable under the stare of eyes he could not see.
“She died. Months ago. Been a long time since your last visit.”
It took awhile for him to understand her words.
“Dead?” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Sure.”
She held position, rigid, a trace of breathing in her amplified bosom.
* * * *
—uh, he looks her right in the eye and says—
* * * *
“Which one of you is dead?”
She might have laughed. Or the sudden sound that echoed around him might have been a cackle of disdain. “That’s my secret, old man.”
He very much wanted to sit down, but she sprawled over most of the steps and the ground was too far away.
* * * *
—-uh, then he, then he, uh, goddamn it!—
* * * *
“Of course you won’t tell me who you are,” he said.
“Can’t you tell?”
He looked for a clue, searched his memory for some feature that had differentiated the two. A difference in the depth of shadow beneath the eyes, a contrast in the shade of gray that had invaded the girls’ hair.
* * * *
—uh, this is stupid, I can’t think, damn it—
* * * *
“Are you coming to my room tonight?”
“Yes.”
He felt relieved. At least she was still alive, it was the other one who’d died. He might not know whether or not she was Jeanie or Joanie, but by this time how important was the name anyhow? He anticipated the night with some pleasure.
* * * *
—uh, this is really stupid but I can’t—
* * * *
“Move over.”
His heart began to beat fast. She hadn’t even waited for night to fall, had entered the room in broad daylight just as he was edging into his nap. In broad daylight without subterfuge. And what the hell kind of subterfuge could she use now anyway? The complete rejection of the Ritual excited him.
Moving her body as if it were weightless, she made love like a young girl. He responded energetically and the effort almost killed him. But, gasping for breath and hurting in all the usual places, he nevertheless felt abnormally happy.
“I don’t need to know who you are,” he said.
“Really? For what reason?”
The concern in her voice surprised him. Had he, after all these years, finally won the game by giving up? Defeated her because the mystery she’d created so carefully was now irrelevant?
“I don’t need to know for—well, I guess for sentimental reasons. You’ve given me so much, memories of love and affection, and this night every year that’s given a meaning to my life. I love you for that and for everything.”
“Well, that’s sentimental all right.”
* * * *
—God damn it, I can’t remember the punchline—
* * * *
He gazed at her tenderly, pleased that for once he could lie with her and actually see her beside him. She had an odd smile on her face. Then her cheeks began to puff out spasmodically and he realized that she was suppressing a giggle. She lost the battle. The giggle exploded, without transition, into full-scale laughter.
“What are you laughing at?” he asked. But she couldn’t stop laughing long enough to tell him. It was all so infectious he began to laugh himself.
* * * *
—it was something about, no that’s another joke—
* * * *
“It’s just that—” she started to say, but instead capitulated to another fit of laughter.
“This is silly,” he said and buried his face in her ample bosom. The pitch of his laughter deepened to what sounded to him like a resonant bass. At the same time he heard the wheezing part of her laugh reverberating in her chest.
* * * *
—sorry, I know you think I’m a real idiot, but—
* * * *
“Now—what’s funny?” he said for the umpteenth time, as her laughter ebbed back to giggle proportions.
“It’s not—it’s not that funny. It’s just that you look so silly and so confident.”
“Shouldn’t I be?”
“All that stuff about love—”
“I’m sorry you think it’s stuff. But really, I don’t care if you don’t return my love.”
“I never said that.”
“But I no longer care what you said or never said. None of that is important any more. It’s the total experience that’s important. The years of loving you are more important than knowing whether you’re Joanie or Jeanie. Pardon the stuff, but I love you now and have loved you since the first night years ago when you so attractively materialized inside this room.”
“Who said it was me that materialized in your room? Who said that I’m the one you’ve been diddling with all the time or half the time or any of the time over the last few decades?”
* * * *
—punchline just slipped my mind and it’s a real zinger, too—
* * * *
“Are you the one who’s made love to me all these times?”
“That’s a secret.”
“Please—I’ve got to know now.”
“Why now? I thought you didn’t care anymore.”
“I didn’t, but I do now. I still don’t have to know your name, I just have to know if you’re the one.”
“I get it. Although knowledge of specific identity is unimportant, what does matter is whether I, whose identity you don’t know, am your lover, whose identity you don’t know, because if I’m not, then the one who died, whose identity you don’t know, is—so that you, whose identity you don’t know, will feel secure in the knowledge that your real and truly genuine affection will be asserted in the right direction, toward the woman in your bed or at the grave of the deceased. Right?”
“Of course. Isn’t it important?”
“Is it?”
“Isn’t it?”
“It might be, but I am now at this moment in your arms and ready for more, and I want the affection directed at me, whether or not I am the one who deserves it.”
“Then you’re not. Not the one who deserves it, I mean.”
“I never said that.”
“Why can’t you tell me?”
“I just can’t. Can’t you understand that? I can’t.”
* * * *
—but, never mind, a joke’s a joke, and I got another one that’ll just send you into hysterics—