Jim Crace - Genesis

The driving home was difficult. Lix squinted back the sunlight and the tears, and then he had to peer through heavy rain — two films of water then — which made the road seem remote and hazardous. Lix had imagined earlier that day that they’d be heading home for sex. Now he wanted to get home only to shout at his infuriating wife, if he could find the pluck to shout. Lix, to tell the truth, the shy and celebrated Lix who’d never done much harm to anyone despite his curse, despite his fame, was in the suburbs of a breakdown.

So, trapped in the traffic in the inner parts of the city, he set his jaw against the world. He would not speak to Alicja. He would not even look at her until his mind had cleared and he had formulated sentences that would repay her, punish her, match her indiscretion with some bruising indiscretion of his own. He would not grant her a single nod or shake of the head, not even when she tried to thaw him out with her calm voice and then her tough one. He silenced her with his own heavy breathing and exasperated sighs, and then with music. He put on a maddening jazz cassette, a tinkling trio of New Yorkers — string, skin, and ivory — chatting amongst themselves through their fingertips. He added the percussion of the windshield wipers. He banged his hand impatiently on the steering wheel, pretending to enjoy the jazz. He drove the car erratically, on purpose.

Even that could not shake off his irritation. The last ten minutes of their meal, before the sulky settling of the bill and the awkward farewells, played through his mind in an uninterruptible loop: the malice of everybody laughing, the grateful gape of pleasure on Joop the Scoop’s normally disdainful face as the scandalous material for his next Diary piece dropped into his lap, the clumsy comment from the owner of his record company that “Never Had an Orgasm” would be the perfect title for a song.

“What, never, Alicja? Not even almost? Not even on your own?” the actress-poet had asked. Then everybody else — his colleagues and his friends, so-called — had felt obliged to add their ridicule.

“Not even on an airplane?”

“Try riding a scooter or a motorcycle. That ought to do the trick.”

“Go home and hug the washing machine. Super spin cycle.”

“Poor Lix.”

“No, poor Alicja! We ought to order her a plate of oysters. Waiter! Bring on the aphrodisiacs.”

“One for me, one for you, and one for the chicken.”

Lix’s Obligation Feast had been humiliating.

Alicja had been humiliated, too, of course. But she was used to it. Her husband’s friends had never been the subtle sort, especially after so much wine. She shrugged their comments off. What she could not shrug off was Lix’s hurt. She had not meant to hurt him; she did not want him to be hurt. It was inconvenient. What she had planned — a tender, loving telling of the truth to a man for whom she still had feelings — was now impossible. He was bound to ask, Is the sex better with Joop? So the orgasm quip had been a big mistake, because it would appear that the affair was only about sex. Then Lix would think that better sex would rescue it. Sex with Joop was better, as a matter of fact. Your neighbor’s fruit is always sweeter than your own. But it wasn’t about sex entirely. It was about marriage and freedom. Making love to Lix, between the household chores and work and being a responsible senator and taking care of constituents and finding time for Lech, had come to feel like just more wifework.

She’d meant the passion of their marriage to endure, of course. No one’s to blame, but passion is not intended to endure. The overture is short or else it’s not the overture. Nor is marriage meant to be perfect. It has to toughen on its blemishes. It has to morph and change its shape and turn its insides out and move beyond the passion that is its architect. Falling in love is not being in love. Waiting for the perfect partner is self-sabotage. Alicja knew all these things. She still wanted, though, to be womanly, not wifely. Lix had failed her in that regard. Yet saying so was difficult and cruel. She’d spent the month since she’d accepted that their marriage was in ruins running her wedding ring up and down her finger and practicing how she should phrase the uncomfortable news of her infidelity. Now, as they crawled through the traffic in the suburbs and the rain, all she had to practice was an explanation and an apology.

Lix had not been such a dreadful lover, mostly. He’d been attentive, regular, prepared to act on her advice. What more could any woman want? Nobody could expect a faultless performance every time. This was not the theater. She had no grievances. But repetition takes its toll, she supposed, as does parenthood. Habituation dulls the soul. She would not have been the first woman who had become bored after three years of well-rehearsed routines or who had lately much preferred those tender contacts that were neither sexual nor time-consuming. To want your husband as an undemanding friend and a reliable relative but not a lover, was that the first sign that love was lost? She’d been a fool to let him think she’d never had an orgasm with him. She’d undermined their three not unhappy years together. Marriages consist of more than orgasms, of graver spasms and contractions. She’d had a child with him for heaven’s sake! As soon as they were home, she thought, she’d sit him down and make him talk.

THEY WENT THROUGH the house from room to room, tiptoeing almost, careful not to make a noise. Lix’s fists were clenched and his toes were rolled inside his shoes ready to run or kick if anybody was still inside their home. Alicja was trembling.

The ornamented metalwork on the window by the entryway had been chiseled out of the holding mortar and bent back enough to let a small man, hardly bigger than Lech, it seemed, clamber through the broken glass. That was the only damage. Thank goodness the thieves had been professional. There was no soiling and no gratuitous mess apart from the contents of the fridge and freezer, which had been tumbled onto the kitchen floor and were already weeping icy water. There was, though, evidence of disregard. Lech’s toys, always neatly kept in boxes, had been tipped out on the rugs and pushed about the floor either by somebody who believed that toys were hiding places for jewelry and cash or else was young enough himself not to resist the invitation of a plastic car, with a friction engine and flashing lights.

One of the faucets was running in Alicja’s bathroom. Someone had used the toilet — the seat was up — and rinsed their hands: the soap was wet. The upstairs curtains had been drawn halfway across their windows. The burglars had not wiped their shoes between each trip out to their van. Nor had they, thankfully, paid much attention to the cupboards and the drawers. A wallet was missing from the mantel but their passports and the family papers had not been touched, and Lix’s acting memorabilia had been ignored. Nothing had been spoiled or damaged out of spite. The thieves had not been desecrators, just hasty businessmen.

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” Alicja said. “It’s only machines. No one’s hurt.” She didn’t say, as she was tempted to, “I’ll not be hugging my washing machine today.” Another joke would not be wise. Nor did she say, “We’ll get new stuff within a week or two. My father only has to say his name in certain ears.” She didn’t say it, because in fact she thought, We won’t get new stuff, actually. There’ll be no need. The cargo of their marriage was already shipping out, and though she was not exactly pleased, the burglary seemed meaningful. Beyond the shock and sense of violation, there was a sliver of elation as they toured their perfect and expensive house, noting all the spaces. Rid yourself of chattels first, and then the man.