Genesis Read Free

they offered as his wife preceded him, the urgent discomfort they promised any couple mad enough, inflamed enough, to pause and kiss. He’d spent the evening scheming their impromptu, corrugated sex.
    Freda, though, had other plans for him, for them. One of her students at the Human Science Academy (“an activist and very, very dear to me”) had been “listed” in the morning papers, alongside a photograph and phone numbers to contact with
“rewardable” information on his whereabouts. He was, they claimed, “a firebrand leader of the SNRM, already known to the civil authorities.”
    â€œHe’s such a little innocent,” she said, delighted with her protégé, a young man younger even than her own son, George. “He printed up some leaflets and some posters, that’s all. And damaged cars. Perhaps he’s been a little wild. He’s hardly broken any laws, but still …” The police would find him if he went back to his lodgings, she explained, and, depending on the level of their “vicious inefficiency,” would either teach him manners there and then or take him to the barracks yard where bright and pretty faces such as his were routinely “spoiled.” Both Mouetta and her cousin stole a glance at Lix’s cherry stain.
    â€œHe’s in my office now. He’s hiding underneath my desk, poor little man,” Freda said. She could not stop the sudden smile, the crossing and uncrossing of her legs. “But obviously he can’t stay there.” She put her slender hand on Mouetta’s arm and sighed. Bad theater.
    Lix did his best to avoid Freda’s eye. He hadn’t looked her in the eye for years, and with good cause. He did not want to nod, or laugh, or match her sigh with a more ironic one of his own. He was just hoping that he could avoid the implications of the “little man” hiding underneath her desk. That phrase, “But obviously he can’t stay there,” could ruin everything. Freda’s always organizing her revenge, he thought. She still distrusted, even hated, him—and with good cause again. He acted sudden, ironic interest in the wine label, a scene he’d played before to great effect in his third film, Full Swing. He was not as calm as he appeared. What
actor ever is? Unless he got lucky, his anniversary—just like the student’s face—would be “spoiled,” no doubt of it.
    Lix should, he knew, speak up at once, or all was lost. Freda frightened him. Too tough and beautiful and challenging. His cock never failed to stir itself for her. Even now, with Mouetta’s hand across his shoulder, he could not contemplate the student hiding underneath Freda’s desk without his cock lengthening, without jealously recasting the scene with himself, his younger self, as the protagonist: an armed policeman standing at the open office door, a seated Freda blushing, innocent, her elbows resting on her desk, her earrings swinging, catching lights, the listed student (Felix Dern, as ever, in the leading role) bunched up in the many folds of her black skirt, the audience not knowing whether this was comedy or tragedy or when the kissing—or the beatings—might begin. Good theater.
    Avoiding eye contact, however, and dreaming the impossible provided no escape. “My little firebrand needs your help,” Freda had already told Mouetta during Molière and Lix’s final act. And Mouetta had already agreed to offer the sanctuary of their study couch for a week or so, until it was safe to drive the student out of town, until … No one knew the sequel to “until” in those extraordinary times.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with your place, Freda?” Lix asked finally. “You’ve got a couch to spare while George is in America, I’m sure. He can even sleep underneath your bed, with the cats.” Now he was looking at her, his leading lady for this