Love Doesn't Work Read Free

kissed him, her sharp-heeled shoes drumming restlessly against the parquet.
    What an overflowing cup of humanity he would have at his billiards evenings! Poets, philosophers, actors and ballet dancers, explorers, geneticists, maybe even the odd normal person, who would find himself in a minority, the toast of all and a great object of curiosity.
    In real life Harold was a conscientious man who worked hard and kept his overcoat dry-cleaned and his shoes well polished at all times. Above all he had his positive-minded, capable Linda. They’d been living together for two years; it had worked well because Linda really was linda, as they say in Spain. She never failed to snuggle up to him and smother him in kisses. At the same time she was a sensible woman who brought home a salary and always made sure the bills were paid on time.
    In spite of her good qualities, Harold never seemed to pluck up the courage to ask her to marry him. Occasionally when she was out he’d practice his marriage proposal in the bathroom mirror, but he was never quite convinced by his own performance.
    Everything was fine in Harold and Linda’s world, except for this contentious issue of space—because, at the end of each menstrual cycle, Linda became depressed at the thought of her unborn children.
    Every month a child died inside her, leaving a void.
    October came round again and she had her thirty-seventh birthday. They went out for a Chinese meal with friends. It was a success. They talked about property, future movements in property prices, whether to buy or rent. One woman had thought it better to rent, a man had disagreed with her. Then the subject of Europe came up. Someone advocated that Sweden should join the foreign exchange mechanism. Someone else insisted it should not.
    Harold had concentrated on making the duck pancake rolls and occasionally offering one to Linda. On the way home, Linda grabbed his arm, squeezed it and said, “Harold? Why do you never say anything? When we’re with people.”
    He thought about it. “It’s because everyone else is so busy talking. And I’m not sure they really want me to interrupt.”
    “But that’s not the actual reason, is it?”
    “No,” said Harold. “To be honest, I don’t really care about those things. Property, Europe…”
    “Aren’t you at all interested? I mean we have a property and we live in a country in the European Community.”
    “Do you mind if I’m honest? Those things bore me rigid.”
    “What do you want to talk about, then?”
    They walked home in silence.
    He woke up abruptly in the night. Linda was sitting up in the bed like a little owl, gazing at the duvet with her sharp nose in profile.
    He was unnerved. “What is it darling? Have you got a stomach ache? Can I make you some camomile tea?”
    “I don’t have a stomach ache.”
    “Oh, isn’t it that time of the month?”
    “I want a child,” she said. Her words filled the room and rumbled against the walls, even rattling the front door slightly.
    Harold wound up his thoughts, then mechanically released them. “Anyone can have a child,” he began. “But a happy child, that’s a rarity. A happy child with two happy parents, that’s almost unheard of. The world is a harsh place. Maybe it’s better to leave the children where they are, in the unexpressed world where they’re blissfully unaware of ever having lived at all. Where no human ties or disappointments or pain will ever plague them. Anyway, we don’t have much space in this flat.”
    “I can feel my children inside me. They’re knocking against my insides and they want to come out. Harold, why can’t you just oblige me?” she whispered. “Take off your pajamas and put away your condoms. Come inside me every night. Enjoy yourself.”
    The idea was appealing, but Harold felt worried by her insistence.
    Winter started creeping in, unwelcome as always. People put on their frowns before they went out. It was also a cool period in Harold and