J. Coetzee - Slow Man

'That is sufficient background for the time being. You can get the rest from her own lips. Two ns. Once upon a time a pig-farmer's daughter. Her toilette is in disarray as is everything else in her life, but that can be forgiven, who would not make the occasional mistake, dressing in the dark?

'Agitated but clean. Since her surgery, her extremely delicate surgery, quite unlike the gross butchery of amputation, she has become morbidly scrupulous about cleanliness, about the way she smells. That happens with some blind people. You had better be clean for her too. If I speak crudely, forgive me. Wash yourself well. Wash everywhere. And put away that sad face. Losing a leg is not a tragedy. On the contrary, losing a leg is comic. Losing any part of the body that sticks out is comic. Otherwise we would not have so many jokes on the subject. There was an old man with one leg / Who stood with his hat out to beg. And so forth.

'Be advised, Paul: The years go by as quickly as a wink. So enjoy yourself while you're still in the pink. It's always later than you think.

'And no, the other Marijana, the nurse woman, was not my idea, if that is what you are wondering. There is no system for these things. Marijana of Dubrovnik, your unsuitable passion, arrived via your friend Mrs Putts. Nothing to do with me.

'You don't know what to make of me, do you? You think of me as a trial. Much of the time you think I am talking rubbish, making things up as I go. Yet you have not rebelled, I notice, not yet. You tolerate me in the hope that I will give up and go away. Don't deny it, it is written on your face, plain for all to see. You are Job, I am one of your unmerited afflictions, the woman who goes on and on, full of plans for saving you from yourself, gab gab gab, when all you crave is peace.

'It does not have to be this way, Paul. I say it again: this is your story, not mine. The moment you decide to take charge, I will fade away. You will hear no more from me; it will be as if I had never existed. That promise extends to your new friend Marianna as well. I will retire; you and she will be free to work out your respective salvations.

'Think how well you started. What could be better calculated to engage one's attention than the incident on Magill Road, when young Wayne collided with you and sent you flying through the air like a cat. What a sad decline ever since! Slower and slower, till by now you are almost at a halt, trapped in a stuffy flat with a caretaker who could not care less about you. But be of good heart. Marianna has possibilities, with her devastated face and the remorseful lust that grips her. Marianna is quite a woman. The question is, are you man enough for her?

'Answer me, Paul. Say something.'

It is like a sea beating against his skull. Indeed, for all he knows he could already be lost overboard, tugged to and fro by the currents of the deep. The slap of water that will in time strip his bones of the last sliver of flesh. Pearls of his eyes; coral of his bones.

MARIJANA CALLS. Even before she speaks he knows what she is going to say: that she is sorry, but she cannot come today. A problem with her daughter. No, not Ljubica: Blanka.

'Can I help?' he asks.

'No, nobody can help.' She sighs. 'I come tomorrow for sure, OK?'

'Trouble with her daughter,' muses Elizabeth Costello. 'I wonder what kind of trouble that might be. Still, no cloud without a silver lining. The woman I mentioned, Marianna, the blind one – you can't keep her from your thoughts, can you? Don't dissemble, Paul, I can read you like a book. It so happens that Marianna is at a loose end today. Does not know what to do with herself. Be in the cafe on the corner, Alfredo's I think it is called, at five this afternoon, and I will bring her to you. Dress up, even if she can't see. I will bring her, then I will bid adieu. Don't ask me how I do these things, it's not magic, I just do them.'

Costello stays away all afternoon. At four-thirty, as he is about to leave the flat, she reappears, breathless. 'A change of plan,' she says. 'Marianna is waiting downstairs. She does not like the idea of Alfredo's. She is being' – she gives an exasperated snort – 'she is being difficult. May I use your kitchen?'

She returns from the kitchen bearing a little bowl of what looks like cream. 'Just a paste of flour and water. It goes over your eyes. Have no fear, it will not hurt you. Why must you wear it? Because Marianna does not want you to see her. She insists. Here, bend down. Keep still. Don't blink. To hold it in place, a lemon leaf over each eye. And to hold the leaves in place, a nylon stocking, freshly washed, I promise, knotted behind your head. You can slip it off at any time you wish. But I would not recommend that, truly I would not.

'So. All done. I am sorry it is so complicated, but that is how we human beings are, complicated, each in our own unique way. Now, if you will settle down and wait, I will fetch your Marianna. Do you feel you are ready? Do you feel up to it? Yes? Good. Remember, you must pay her. That is the arrangement, that is how she keeps her self-respect. A topsy-turvy world, isn't it? But it's the only one we have.

'As soon as I have delivered her I will slip away and allow the two of you to get to know each other better. I won't be back until tomorrow or even the next day. Goodbye. Do not worry about me. I'm a tough old bird.'

She is gone. He stands facing the door, leaning on his frame. There is a murmur of voices from the stairwell. The door-latch clicks again.

'I am here,' he says into the dark. Despite his unbelief, his heart seems to be hammering.

A gliding, a rustling. The scent of the damp leaves over his eyes overpowers every other smell. A pressure on the frame, which he feels through his hands. 'My eyes are shut, sealed,' he says. 'I am not used to being blind, bear with me.'

A hand, small, light, touches his face, rests there. What the hell, he thinks: he turns towards the hand and kisses it. Let us play this to the end.

Fingers explore his lips, the nails cut back. Through the veil of lemon he smells, faintly, wool. The fingers trace the line of his chin; they cross the blindfold, run through his hair.

'Let me hear your voice,' he says.

She clears her throat, and already in the high, clear tone he can hear that she is not Marijana Jokic: lighter, more a creature of air.

'If you would sing, that would be best of all,' he says. 'We are on stage, in a certain sense, even if we are not being watched.'

Even if we are not being watched. But in a certain sense they are being watched, he is sure of that, on the back of his neck he can feel it.

'What is this?' says the light voice, and ever so gently he feels the frame being rocked. The accent not Australian, not English either. Croatian? Another Croatian? Surely not; surely Croatians are not so thick on the ground. Besides, what meaning could a string of Croatians have, one after another?

'It is an aluminium frame, known colloquially as a walker. I have lost a leg. I find a frame less tiring than crutches.' Then it occurs to him that the frame might be taken for a barrier. 'Let me put it aside.' He puts it aside and lowers himself onto the sofa. 'Will you sit down beside me? This is a sofa, one or two paces in front of you. I am afraid I cannot assist you, because of a blindfold that our mutual friend Mrs Costello has made me wear. She has a lot to answer for, Mrs Costello.'

He blames Mrs Costello for the blindfold as he blames her for much else, but he will not take it off, not yet, will not strip his vision bare.

With a rustle (what can she be wearing that makes so much noise?) the woman sits down at his side – sits on his hand, in fact. For a moment, until she lifts herself and he can withdraw it, his hand is under her bottom in the most vulgar of ways. Not a large woman but a large bottom nevertheless, large and soft. But then the blind are inactive, do not walk, do not run, do not ride bicycles. All that energy pent up with nowhere to vent itself. No wonder she is restless. No wonder she is ready to visit a strange man all alone.