The Four-Gated City. Doris Lessing

his bed suffering till a weight lifted off him.

      ‘Shall I make you some cocoa?’ he asked.

      She shook her head, smiling.

      ‘The thing is, Jack, either we both have to get dressed, or Joanna has to be undressed.’ ‘Yes, of course,’ said Joanna in her brisk fair English way. Jack wanted Joanna to get undressed. Afterwards he had said to Martha: the tears positively drowning his eyes: ‘If she had trusted me so much: if she had taken her clothes off – then I swear, I’d have been so happy, I can’t make you feel how happy I’d have been. But not yet. She will though. I am sure she will.’

      He left it to them, the two women, to decide when to trust him. Martha began to dress. That had been during the heatwave, and she had put on, but not too fast, while they watched, bra, pants, slip and a narrow blue linen dress. Joanna had admired the dress. Then Jack had got dressed and they had all gone out to eat lunch at the Indian restaurant.

      Joanna was engaged to a second cousin who had been in the Guards and who had a big house in the country. She intended to marry him although he had not done more than kiss her aggressively when taking her home after the theatre once. He had been rather drunk. She came to Jack, once or twice a week, to make love. She was not young: that is, she was not a girl, for she had the war behind her. From the war she had got one thing, a need for security. The security was the cousin. Jack was for her.

      ‘I was too close to it in the war,’ she had said to Martha, not feeling that she needed to explain. ‘And love doesn’t last, does it?’

      ‘Love may not last, but sex does,’ said Jack, when Martha reported what Joanna had said. And he rang up Joanna in the country to say the same to her. ‘I’ll be here, always,’ he said. ‘Remember that.’

      For Joanna ‘it’ was poverty. That was the edge she was afraid of.

      For Jack? He had spent the whole war, he said, dreaming about women. And so here he was, receiving girls, one, two, three a day, making love for hours every day. And he painted. For instance he had painted a picture while Garibaldi watched him. He was only serious about sex.

      But he’s not serious, thought Martha. He can’t spend the rest of his life … but why shouldn’t he? Why on earth not? Considering the way most people did spend their lives.

      The boy downstairs was mad. About time? Death. And Jack was mad. About women. Death. Joanna was mad – she proposed to spend her life with a man she didn’t much like because she was afraid of – poverty? And she, Martha – but she would be lunching with Phoebe tomorrow. In a few hours, now.

      ‘If I asked her to meet you, would you come?’

      ‘Would she?’

      ‘If she actually met you … if I could get her to do that … when women are jealous, I’ve discovered, they aren’t when they’ve actually met the girl they’ve been thinking all those thoughts about. But men don’t realize that, do they?’

       That’s only because you aren’t serious, Jack. We don’t take you seriously. Why not?

      ‘You’re tired, aren’t you, Martha?’

      ‘I was very, not now.’

      He looked at her again: centre, breasts, back down to her thighs, back up to her eyes – smiling. But the smile dimmed. ‘You’re not with me, you’re not …’ He nearly touched her breasts, but withdrew his hand and enclosed hers again with it. ‘Martha, I won’t mind if you say yes – but have you been with another man?’

      ‘No-really not!’

      ‘Because if that’s it, tell me, and we’ll try something else. I’ve noticed with my girls, when they’ve been with a man, even their husband, this one doesn’t work – something gets switched off. Then you just have to start again, you have to have a good ordinary fuck to make the contact again. But that’s not as good as when you can let it slowly build up like this …’ He was in a fever of anxiety, as he leaned forward, explaining to her, comrade in the fields of love: his expertise was all urgency; he looked as if something might be taken away from him, had been taken away. Did he know that she had thought: I won’t be coming back again?

      ‘This little one tonight, Jane, she was with a man this afternoon, and I was sitting with her like this, and she said to me, all wide-eyed and wanting to know: Jack, I don’t feel for you the way I did last Thursday, what’s wrong with me. I don’t want you to touch me.’

      ‘She’d been making love?’ ‘Yes. All afternoon.’

      She laughed; then so did he, to keep her company.

      ‘But not me, I haven’t.’

      ‘Well then, we’ll wait until it’s right.’

      ‘Who is she – Jane?’

      ‘She’s English – a sweet, gentle, wide-eyed little English girl. You know.’

      ‘Indeed yes. There was one in the restaurant I was in tonight. She was so pretty. And she wore that black dress, that uniform, you know it? The little crêpe dress. With an awful brooch. Just there, you know – the whole thing, so wrong, so ugly, so nastily smart …’

      ‘Yes, yes, yes.’ he said, delighted, laughing.

      ‘There was no relationship between that dress and that girl. And then another came in. They knew each other. And she had a black little dress with a little square of white neck. Like plump little Teddy bears. Everyone was playing nurseries. It was an upper-middleclass restaurant – I’m coming on, I can tell the difference. And I looked at those girls and they broke my heart, and I thought: well at least I can tell Jack, he’ll understand!’

      ‘To hell with it, Martha, you’re sad, I don’t like that.’

      She rested on his smooth naked shoulder. But it was not a shoulder for comfort, not a body for support: it was a body for love. She rested against him, for his sake. On the arm that did not hold her, but lay on his knee, she saw the fine gold hairs stand up, each in a pucker of flesh. Then his body, an instrument more sensitive that any she had known, shivered. Then she knew why: it had started to rain, to rain heavily, and the roof was sounding with it. The house was an empty shell reverberating to the rain: his thin lithe body was alert and anxious, like an animal’s, and he put back his head and sniffed, like an animal when there is rain or smoke on the wind. They rolled over, together, and lay side by side, both shivering in the warm room because of the booming rain, looking at each other. Now as he looked, and she looked, began the ceremony for whose sake he had put all the passion of his life into women: for here was where he fought with time, wrestled with it, held it, understood it: here, the gates were held.

      The two bodies lay face to face, held loosely together by arms and legs; one long and white, all narrow bone and muscle, one solidly fleshed; these two separate organisms were connected by a steady interchanging gaze, eye to eye. Now he waited for her fingers to touch and annul the long scar on his neck. Diving off a ship that slanted into the water, he had slid past, under the heave of a wave, something jagged which had ripped away from his shoulder, a flap of flesh. This, while treading water and holding on to a floating baulk of timber, he had found drifting in the water, with a hand numbed by the loss of blood, and thought it was weed or debris, to be pushed away. ‘Think of it, Martha – there I was, holding on with one hand. I told that hand hold on, hold on there man, that’s what I said to it, and then I swear I forgot that hand, I didn’t think of it again, it just went on holding on without my thinking of it again. And the other hand kept coming on a bit of weed or something. It irritated me, and then I looked and there was a sort of flap lying in the water. Like a bit of filleted fish. There was my shoulder, the shoulder bones I was looking at white bone with some gristle on it and I thought: that’s like a bone a dog’s been at and left, and then I realized, it’s my shoulder bone. And the bit of weed or something was the flesh of my shoulder. It was nothing – skin with some red blood vessels inside – hell, but I’d never known before how thin I was, it scared me. That’s why I eat so much. I eat