III A TREATISE ON LONGING

III
A TREATISE ON LONGING


His forty-third year. His small time’s end. His time—
Who saw Infinity through the countless cracks
In the blank skin of things, and died of it.

— A. S. Byatt, Possession
She followed slowly, taking a long time,
as though there were some obstacle in the way;
and yet: as though, once it was overcome,

she would be beyond all walking, and would fly.

— from Going Blind,
Rainer Maria Rilke
translated by Stephen Mitchell


Saturday, October 27, 1984/Monday, January 1, 2007 (Henry is 43, Clare is 35)

HENRY: The sky is blank and I’m falling into the tall dry grass let it be quick and even
as I try to be still the crack of a rifle sounds, far away, surely nothing to do with me
but no: I am slammed to the ground, I look at my belly which has opened up like a
pomegranate, a soup of entrails and blood cradled in the bowl of my body; it doesn’t
hurt at all that can’t be right but I can only admire this cubist version of my insides
someone is running all I want is to see Clare before before I am screaming her name
Clare, Clare and Clare leans over me, crying, and Alba whispers, “Daddy....”

“Love you...”

“Henry—”

“Always....”

“Oh God oh God—”

“World enough....”

“No!”

“And time...”

“Henry!”

CLARE: The living room is very still. Everyone stands fixed, frozen, staring down at
us. Billie Holiday is singing, and then someone turns off the CD player and there is
silence. I sit on the floor, holding Henry. Alba is crouching over him, whispering in
his ear, shaking him. Henry’s skin is warm, his eyes are open, staring past me, he is
heavy in my arms, so heavy, his pale skin torn apart, red everywhere, ripped flesh
framing a secret world of blood. I cradle Henry. There’s blood at the corner of his
mouth. I wipe it off. Firecrackers explode somewhere nearby. Gomez says, “I think
we’d better call the police.”