Russell Banks - Outer Banks

— Having a good time? he asked.

— Yes! And you? She sat down lightly beside him on the rock and looked out to sea.

Egress looked out to sea also. — Yes, I guess one could call it that.

— What?

— A “good” time.

— Oh.

— I mean, I’ve been “good” lately. Travel and most other forms of inactivity, as you know, produce in me a certain … “morality,” he said carefully.

— That’s pretty decadent-sounding, Egress, she said, laughing. — You were many things, but I don’t remember you as particularly decadent.

— I don’t know. No, I don’t think I was, not at all. Nowadays, though, well, maybe I am. After all, life has to go on, n’est-ce pas? “The old biological imperative,” as the Loon used to call it…

— The Loon ! she sneered.

— Oh, you can’t blame him , Naomi. Not for this. He was weak, that’s all, and he knew it. For him, everything had to come down to that old biological imperative. His one ethic, his only possible morality, was survival, for god’s sake. We shouldn’t go off projecting our own alternatives onto him, not now. That’s just too easy…

— I know, I know. It’s just the associations. They’re still very strong, you know. And painful.

— Sure, I understand. It’s the same for me — though of course I’m temperamentally slightly more existential than you.

— That makes it easier, probably.

— Aw, please, Naomi, I happen to treasure this moment, so please, don’t indulge in sarcasm. Not now.

— Sorry.

— As a matter of fact, just as you came walking up, I was sitting here wondering whether or not this whole thing was my fault completely. I mean, completely.

— Completely?

— Yeah. Except for a few things, of course. All that destruction at the end, for instance. I mean, Jesus, Naomi, you could have just “left” me, you know. All those innocent people! he exclaimed compassionately.

— Nobody’s “innocent,” she said grimly. — It’s Greek, and that means everything’s interlocked. When the House of Atreus finally collapses, the entire city has to collapse around it. I had nothing to do with all that destruction at the end, not personally, any more than you did. Not as much as you did, if you ask me, from what I heard. What were you doing when you went underground, anyhow? Working as some kind of secret double agent? No, I’m sorry, I don’t mean that. I know you had nothing personally to do with all that violence and destruction of property at the end. It was just coincidence. Fate.

Egress sighed with evident relief. — If that’s true, then maybe the whole thing wasn’t my fault, not entirely. Right?

— Who cares about “right” now? she asked rhetorically, leaving the rock. — Good-bye, Egress. I’m glad you are having a good time, however decadent. I don’t miss you, but I wonder lots of times how you are now.

— Same here, he said. — Are you “lonely”?

— Yes. But as I said, I don’t miss you.

— Right. Same here, he said to her lithe back as she walked athletically away.

3.

(IN THE MUSEUM)

He had stepped into the museum to get out of the rain, a sudden, unexpected shower that probably would not last. I never seem to have an umbrella when I need one, he thought, as he glanced into the adjacent roomful of midnight blue, very abstract paintings. The paintings, recent acquisitions, evidently, were all about six feet square, covered completely with a smooth coat of midnight blue paint. The surface was so smooth that it seemed to have been applied with a large roller or spray gun. There were between twenty-five and thirty of the paintings hanging in the large room, distributed evenly along the walls and hung at exactly the same height. Egress found himself moved invitingly by the sight and went into the room for a closer look at them.

They were by an artist whose name he did not recognize, and they were entitled, “Composition A,” “Composition B,” and so on, in sequence, all the way, he discovered, to “Composition Z,” which brought him back to the door again. The exhibit gave him considerable peace of mind, and it was with pleasure and a kind of relief that he noticed, after having gone through the exhibit a second time to study each individual painting closely, that he was the only person in the room — until the moment when Naomi Ruth, in a lemon yellow dress and carrying a matching yellow umbrella, entered the room.

— Oh, she said, seeing him. — Well, we meet again. We can’t go on meeting like this, she laughed, shaking her small, dark head provocatively. — Are you enjoying the paintings? she queried.

— Oh, yes, immensely. As a matter of fact, they have given me a great peace, a deep spiritual equilibrium which lately I seem to have lacked to a considerable degree. They’ve offered an order to my chaos.

— The artist is my present lover, she said in a flat voice.

— Ah? Ah, well … ahem, how shall I say it, then? How nice? Or, perhaps, congratulations? Or would it be more polite to admit a personal relation and hope he’s like his paintings — that is, lucid, totally consistent, witty, and well-hung. He smiled coldly at her, pushed past and out the door, broke into a flagrant run and exited from the museum to the downpour outside.

4.

(AT THE CAFÉ)

— Actually, I’m all right now. Things are much better for me, he assured her.

— Are they? Good. I was worried, she said, motioning with one hand for the waiter. The waiter arrived, and Naomi Ruth ordered their drinks, in French, which impressed him, for her accent was quite good.

— Yes, I have a girl friend, a good woman who loves me well, he lied. — We share a nice little flat in a charming quarter of the city. Very comfortable place. A lot of Russian émigrés live in the district. We’re very happy. She’s a dancer. Quite young. Lovely. Smokes those Russian cigarettes. Young. A sparkling beauty. Tanya. She’s Russian. A dancer. Quite young. She loves me.

— Ah, good. And you? Do you love her as well? The waiter brought their drinks, a martini for Naomi Ruth, Campari and soda for Egress.

— Oh, well, you know. As I said, she’s quite young. Let’s just say that I’m “fond” of her, and grateful. She’s a marvelous dancer. Flying feet.

— How nice, said Naomi Ruth, nipping at her martini with pursed lips. Though she didn’t believe a word he said, she judged him as she would if she had believed everything. The man’s still a cad, she decided. Even his lies betray him. It’s no use. — It’s no use, she informed him.

— No?

— No, she said, getting up from the table.

— Must you rush off?

— Oh, I left long ago, Egress. If only I could get you to leave, I’d be a free woman, she declared, and she picked up her coat and walked hurriedly away.

He finished his drink slowly, thoughtfully, then, brightening, drained hers. He suddenly felt like celebrating. — Garcon! he called. — Bring me a double martini, s’il vous plait !

5.

(IN THE HANSOM CAB)

— Where my money comes from, said Egress to Naomi Ruth, is not of much importance, you know that. After all, it doesn’t matter to me where it comes from, so why should it matter to anyone else? Most of my economic theories are of the type used to describe other people’s financial situations, not one’s own, which happily places me in the grand tradition of modern economic theorists, and also leaves me free to take whatever I can get from wherever I can get it without offending the glorious abstract — letting the general principles freely transcend the particularities of my usually very complex finances. So, the answer to your question, What am I doing for money these days? is, casually, I get by. What about you , however? Since you happen to be a woman and thus have spent most of your life locked by the abstract into a very particularized and personal dependence on other individuals (first your father and then me) for your money — to the degree that your most important personal relations have been, as they must be, with whomever you have economic relations — What are you doing for money these days? Asking a woman about her financial life is not much different from asking her whom she’s sleeping with, I know, and if you had not slept with me for twenty-five years or more, believe me, I would not feel entitled, as I do, to pry.