J. Coetzee - Slow Man

Yet at the same moment memory throws up again the image of Marijana stretching to dust the top shelves, Marijana with her strong, shapely legs. If his love for Marijana is indeed pure, why did it wait to take up residence in his heart until the instant she flashed him her legs? Why does love, even such love as he claims to practise, need the spectacle of beauty to bring it to life? What, in the abstract, do shapely legs have to do with love, or for that matter with desire? Or is that just the nature of nature, about which one does not ask questions? How does love work among the animals? Among foxes? Among spiders? Are there such things as shapely legs among lady spiders, and does their attractive force puzzle the male spider even as it draws him in? He wonders whether Jokic has an opinion on the subject. But he is certainly not going to ask. He has had enough of Jokic for one day, and Jokic, he suspects, has had enough of him.

'Will you have another beer?' he asks, pro forma.

'No, I must go.'

Jokic must go. He must go. Where must they go, the two of them? The one, to an empty bed in Munno Para; the other, to an empty bed on Coniston Terrace, where he can lie awake all night, if he likes, listening to the ticking of the clock from the living-room. They might as well set up house together. Mutt and Jeff.

IT TAKES HIM the best part of an hour, stumping hither and thither across parkland, to track down Elizabeth Costello. In the end he finds her by the riverside, sitting on a bench, clustered around by ducks that she seems to be feeding. As he approaches, the ducks scatter in alarm and slide clamorously back into the water.

He props himself on the grass before her. Past six, but he can still feel the weight of the summer sun. 'I am looking for Drago,' he says. 'Do you know where he can be found?'

'Drago? No idea. I thought he was staying with you. Aren't you going to ask about me? Are you not curious to hear how I spent the night after you so rudely turned me out?'

He ignores the question. 'I have just had a meeting with Marijana's husband.'

'Miroslav. Yes, poor fellow, he feels so humiliated. First by his own jealousy, and now to discover what sort of man his rival is. What did you say to him?'

'I asked him to think again. I asked him to put Drago's interests first. I repeated that there were no strings attached to my offer.'

'No visible strings, you mean.'

'No strings at all.'

'What about heartstrings, Paul, strings of affection?'

'Strings of affection are beside the point. The money is for Drago's education. It is absurd to suggest that I am trying to buy his mother.'

'Absurd? We should ask Marijana about that. She might have a different view. Tit for tat, she might say. For every tat there is a tit. You have offered the tat. Now the onus is on her to come up with the right tit, the appropriate tit.'

'Don't be obscene.'

'Well, I confess I have yet to appreciate what you see in your Balkan lady. To my eye she is somewhat tubby and rather the worse for wear. I would not have thought you liked your women that way. Tall man and stout woman: a bit of a comedy team. A fellow like you could do better. But chacun ses goûts, I suppose.

'My own opinion, for what it is worth, is that if it is requital you are after, requited love, you should give up on Mrs Jokic. She is not for you. Your best option remains Marianna, Marianna of the two ns. An arrangement with Marianna, or someone like her, would work very well. For a single gentleman of your age, not keen because of his disability to appear in public, it would be quite appropriate to entertain in his home, one afternoon a week, a discreet woman friend like Marianna, someone who in return for favours granted would now and again consent to accept a nice little present.

'Yes, Paul, presents, gifts. You must become accustomed to paying. No more free love.'

'I may not love whom I choose?'

'Of course you may love whom you choose. But maybe from now on you should keep your love to yourself, as one keeps a head cold to oneself, or an attack of herpes, out of consideration for one's neighbours.

'However, if your verdict is that Marianna does not fit the bill, who am I to demur? In that case, why not telephone Mrs Putts? Tell her you are in the market for a new nurse. Say you want someone not too young though not too old, with nice breasts and a well-turned calf, unattached, children no obstacle, preferably a non-smoker. What else? Of an eager temperament, eager and easily pleased.

'Or why bother with Mrs Putts? Why submit to the rigmarole of hiring nurses and falling in love with them? Put an ad in the Advertiser. " Gent, sixtyish, childless, vigorous though of limited mobility, seeks lady, 35-45, with view to love, mystical parenthood. Nice breasts, et cetera. No chancers."

'Don't glare, Paul. I'm just joking, just keeping the conversation going. Be assured, I have learned my lesson. No more matchmaking, I promise. If you have made up your mind that no one can replace Marijana in your affections, that it has to be Marijana or nothing, I yield, I accept. I should inform you, however, that Marianna, poor Marianna, the other one, is deeply hurt at the way she has been treated. Sobs into her handkerchief. Be of good heart, I tell her, there are plenty of fish in the ocean. But she will not be consoled. After what she put herself through for your sake, her pride has taken quite a knock. He finds me too fat! she wails. Nonsense, I say – his heart is elsewhere, that is all.

'But perhaps I misinterpret you entirely. Perhaps it is not requital of love that you are after. Or perhaps your quest for love disguises a quest for something quite different. How much love does someone like you need, after all, Paul, objectively speaking? Or someone like me? None. None at all. We do not need love, old people like us. What we need is care: someone to hold our hand now and then when we get trembly, to make a cup of tea for us, help us down the stairs. Someone to close our eyes for us when the time comes. Care is not love. Care is a service that any nurse worth her salt can provide, as long as we don't ask her for more.'

She pauses for a breath; at last he has a chance to speak. 'I came here looking for Drago,' he says, 'not to listen to you sharpening your wit upon me. I understand perfectly well the difference between love and care. I have never expected Marijana to love me. My hope, as a sixtyish gent, is simply to do what good I can for her and her children. As for my feelings, my feelings are my own business. I will certainly not thrust them on Marijana again.

'One word more, since you are determined to be sceptical. Don't underestimate the desire in each of us, the human desire, to extend a protective wing.'

'In each of us?'

'Yes, in each of us. Even in you. If you are human.'

Enough talk. His arms are aching, he is feeling the heat, he would like to sit. But if he were to settle down beside Mrs Costello, they would look too much like what they are not: an old married couple taking a breather. And there is, after all, one more thing to be said.

'Why pour all this effort into me, Mrs Costello? I am such a small fish, really. Have you never asked yourself whether taking me up might not have been a mistake – whether I might not be a mistake from beginning to end?'

A young couple in a pedal-boat in the shape of a giant swan pass by, smiling cheerily.

'Of course I have asked myself that, Paul. Many times. And of course, by some standards, you are a small fish. The question is, by what standards? The question is, how small? Patience, I tell myself: perhaps there is something yet to be squeezed out of him, like a last drop of juice out of a lemon, or like blood out of a stone. But yes, you may be right, you may indeed be a mistake, I will concede that. If you were not a mistake I would probably not still be here in Adelaide. I stay on because I don't know what to do about you.