Who Are You? Read Free Page A

the time ? Of course, he can get into his car and drive round to the club. But that's only another form of empty boredom. As he doesn't play bridge and dislikes the other men, knowing he's unpopular with them, all he can do there is drink. He might as well do that at home.
    Swinging round to the bottles he pours himself a stiff whisky, swallows it, and immediately pours out another, not bothering about his wife, who never drinks. He remains standing, keeping his back to her, saying nothing. He goes on drinking steadily, trying to drink away his boredom, only occasionally interrupting the process to swat another mosquito.
    The girl watches with more open apprehension. But she seems more alive; she has thought of something, and is only waiting for the right moment to put her plan into operation. When he notices something of interest on the bloodstained page in his hand and smoothes it out, bending over to read, she stealthily gets up and tiptoes towards her room behind him, keeping her eyes on his back.
    The husband knows all the time what she's doing, and just as she gets to the door suddenly jumps on her, shouting, 'Oh, no, you don't !' seizing her wrist so violently that she utters an exclamation of pain, or fright, or disappointment, or all three, but doesn't speak a word. His blue eyes blaze furiously at her. For some reason he takes her silence now as a sign of conceit, just as he does her continual reading it's because he hardly ever reads anything but a paper himself that this seems like flaunting conceit and superiority. How dare she pretend she's superior to him, just because she's passed some damn fool exam women shouldn't be allowed to go in for? But what can he do about it? Inwardly raging in his frustration he stands gripping her wrist, until a gratifying idea comes into his head — he'll show her . . . ! He'll take the conceit off her face . . .
    His expression suddenly gloating, he orders, 'Don't move !' and hurries off, coming back the next moment with a couple of tennis racquets and thrusting one into her hand.
    She accepts it unwillingly, opening her mouth as if to protest, but in the end says nothing. Several seconds later she is still standing in the same position, as if paralysed, the racquet dangling from her hand. He gets on with his drinking, but is careful to make no noise now, all the while listening and watching as well. It's obvious that both of them are waiting for something to happen, which she dreads, and he's looking forward to eagerly. Presently the whisky he's drunk seems to improve his mood, for he speaks to her more amiably, as if in encouragement, his voice only slightly above a whisper. 'Come on, now ! Be a sport — it's all good clean fun . . .' However, the low tone sounds furtive, with an underlying viciousness far from friendly. The girl is not taken in, but seems unable either to speak or move, just standing there, her eyes dilated and horrified.
    All at once she gasps loudly. He silences her by a violent gesture. With disagreeable suddenness, as if from nowhere, a small animal has appeared in the room, its head and sensitive twitching nose turned towards them, its body foreshortened. Moving with the same disconcerting and rather unpleasant suddenness, it darts out of sight, reappearing halfway up the wall, where it is seen to have a long tapering leathery tail, like a whiplash, before it vanishes somewhere on the periphery of the ceiling; in the centre of which the fan continues to rotate as if nothing had happened, churning up the oppressive air.
    The girl's eyes, which have been following the beast's movements, now return to her husband. She doesn't speak, has not moved, but, since she gasped, her lips have not closed completely and are now trembling, her breathing is faster than usual. She controls herself up to a point, but can't hide her aversion to this whole procedure, standing petrified, staring at him with wide eyes. He doesn't speak or move either, but watches the ceiling