Sin Read Free Page A

occasional weekends at Lexington.
    â€œHe’s in America, Mother. Giving a series of lectures at Berkeley,” I replied.
    Dominick’s subject, mathematics, was such that it rendered any conversation concerning his work impossible. All enquiries were full of dread—that he might be tempted to explain. He read modern novels, avidly. Most of them he loathed. “It gives me something to talk about,” he often said laughingly.
    Yes, he had his charms. But with me he had strayed onto the wrong path. One of these days I would have to lead him to an exit. I hoped that he would leave with grace.

SIX
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    â€œRuth.”
    â€œElizabeth.”
    â€œI don’t deserve this, Ruth.”
    I smiled briefly back at her.
    â€œI don’t deserve to be so happy. From the moment I saw him …”
    â€œI’m sure he feels the same. Like Dante and Beatrice. ‘I did but see her passing by and yet will love her till I die.”’
    â€œYou always have the right words, Ruth. Always. It’s such a gift.”
    And her radiance—the bride’s radiance, caught in the long, oval mirror—seemed fairy-tale. Unreal. As though the image were such a powerful distillation of reality that finally only the image existed. I moved behind her, my deep rose dress blotted out by the folds of ivory in which Elizabeth stood. She turned suddenly. For a second we stood eye to eye. The bride and her maid of honour. She kissed me. I made no move. What should I betray? And, with the touch of Elizabeth’s cool lips still seeming to flutter on my cheek, I followed her from her room to join my mother in the hall.
    â€œOh, Elizabeth. You look beautiful.”
    â€œMother.” Elizabeth embraced her.
    Mother. Not true. And shortly after, Father. Not true either. His turn to worship. Then steadily, past various acolytes, we made our way through Elizabeth’s enchanted time to the church, and to Hubert.
    It is indeed a holy thing, the ritual of marriage. I looked at Hubert. His features had a kind of classic timelessness. It would ensure that any photograph of him stumbled upon in a trunk, or in a corner of some room, by an adolescent girl in time to come would elicit a little gasp of appreciation—that men could be so beautiful. As he turned towards Elizabeth, his face witnessed truth and love. I felt no pain. They should love each other … I searched for a word … profoundly. That was satisfying to me. Its perfection challenged me. Why mar something already imperfect? It is the first crack that ruins the Ming. The first lie that destroys Truth. The first adultery that breaks the conjunction. After that it’s only repetition.
    And after that, of course, it is always repetition. When perfection is defiled it is hard to resist the pleasures of destruction, and of lies, and of concupiscence. For then the sacrifice is for nothing.
    And so I stood, rose-coloured, beside the lily, and examined quietly the tiny thorns of my bouquet.
    I walked behind them, down the aisle. Alone. The third. Hooded, in silk. Then other rosy maidens followed us out into the low, gold summer day, which spread its slightly cloying warmth around the marble purity of the newly wedded couple.
    Lexington, as though drunk, seemed to dance with the rhythm of their laughter and to twinkle back at each and every smile. Long tables in the courtyard followed the shape of the house. The principal table was centred before the main building for the key actors in the tableau. Two long tables, on either side, followed the shape of the east and west wings of Alexa’s old dynastic dream for her daughters. After lunch and speeches, people drifted dreamily down the lawns, and a few towards the greater privacy of the distant lake.
    â€œThey make a perfect couple.” Charlotte Baathus, Hubert’s twin sister, spoke to me.
    â€œOh. Yes, indeed. Perfect.”
    â€œIt was so sudden,” she