Fantastic Metropolis

Once, the seasons had been more distinct, but not in living memory. Now, mild winter merged gently into mild summer, and Olin knew it was spring only by the calendar and by his own restlessness.

That morning, Olin’s bus took a different route, road repairs forcing a detour through the old city. As he stared out the window at the huge, derelict buildings crumbling into ruin and colonized by weeds, he caught sight of figures through gaps in the walls. No one lived in the old city, but there were always people here. Olin had been one of them once, when he was young, coming here with his lover. He remembered that time as the best of his life.

Recalling the past made him feel sad and prematurely old. His lover had become his wife, and after ten years of marriage they had separated. He had lived alone for the past two years.

Olin reached into his breast pocket for diary and pen, turned to the blank page of that day, and wrote ‘phone Dove’ in his small, precise hand. About once a month he phoned her, and they would arrange to meet for a meal. Always he went to her in hope, with fond memories and some vague thoughts of reconciliation which would fade over the course of the evening.

As he left the bus, two other teachers, senior to Olin, also got off. They did not speak as they crossed the street together and passed through the heavy iron gates onto the school grounds. Olin caught sight of another colleague, a little ahead of them: Seth Tarrant, the new music master. Tarrant was young, handsome, and admired by the students. His cream-coloured coat flared like a cape from his shoulders, and he seemed to be singing as he strode across the bright green lawn. He carried an expensive leather case in one hand, and a bunch of blue and yellow flowers in the other. Olin felt a brief flare of envy, and he touched his breast pocket. He would phone Dove, he thought. She would be glad to hear from him.

During his lunch-break, Olin went into the telephone alcove by the cafeteria, and was startled to see Seth Tarrant there, his long body slumped in an attitude of defeat, his head pressed against one of the telephones. Before Olin, embarrassed, could retreat, the other man looked around.

He straightened up, brushing a strand of fair hair out of his eyes. ‘Mr Mercato,’ he said.

‘Olin,’ said Olin, embarrassed still more by the formality. ‘Please.’

‘Olin. I’m Seth.’

‘Yes, I know. Ah, are you all right?’

‘I’m fine. Do you like opera?’

‘Opera? Yes. Yes, I do, actually. Not that I know anything about it — maths is my subject, really - but I do like to listen. On the radio, and I have a few recordings…’

‘You don’t think it’s tedious, pretentious and antiquated?’

Olin wondered who the music master was quoting. He shook his head.

‘You might even think it worth your while to attend a live performance?’

‘If it weren’t so expensive —’

With a conjuror’s flourish, Seth produced two cards from his pocket. ‘I happen to have two tickets to tonight’s performance of The Insufficient Answer, and one is going begging. Would you care to be my guest?’

‘I’d love to. But, are you sure?’

‘Do I seem uncertain to you?’

Olin shook his head.

‘That’s settled, then. We’ll meet on the steps of the opera house at seven o’clock, which will give us time for a drink in the bar before it begins.’

‘Thank you. It’s very kind —’

‘Not at all. You are the kind one, agreeing at such short notice. Please don’t be late. I hate to be kept waiting.’

The opera house was on the river, in an area of the city far older than that part known as the old city. Olin had been there once before, in the early days of his marriage, to attend a performance of Butterfly. Dove had been pregnant then, and she had fallen asleep during the second act. It was probably the quarrel they’d had afterwards, and not the price of tickets, which was the real reason Olin had never been to the opera since.

The steps were crowded with people meeting friends, but Seth’s tall, elegant figure was immediately noticeable. When he reached his side, Olin began to apologize for his lateness, although it was barely five past the hour. He felt awkward, worried about the evening, certain that Seth had regretted his spur-of-the-moment invitation by now. Seth brushed aside both apologies and thanks with a flick of one long-fingered hand.

‘Let’s get a drink,’ he said.

He seemed distracted and brooding in the bar, but Olin contrived a conversation by asking him questions about opera: after all, music was the man’s subject. Olin felt like a student taken on a cultural outing by a master; an odd reversal, since he was at least ten years Seth’s senior. It was a relief when the bell rang and they could find their seats and stop talking.

The Insufficient Answer was a love tragedy, a popular story which Olin already knew in outline. He had seen some of the most famous scenes enacted on television, but never with the technical brilliance displayed in this production. By ingenious use of lights and projections, the physical miracle of love appeared to be actually taking place on stage during the opening love-duet. After that breathtaking scene, the familiar tragedy was set in motion as the lovers, Gaijan and Sunshine, discovered they were not cross-fertile. Because there could be no children, marriage was out of the question. Social as well as biological forces drove Gaijan to take other lovers while Sunshine watched, and wept, and waited. For Gaijan still swore that he loved her the best of all, and he returned to her after every coupling. He told her he considered her his true wife and would never marry. His other lovers, led by the young and beautiful Flower, discovered Sunshine’s existence and reproached her in the choral, ‘We are all his wives.’ When Sunshine protested that she could not live without his love, Flower responded with the thrilling ‘Then you must die.’ The duet between Sunshine and Flower which followed echoed the earlier duet between Gaijan and Sunshine only, instead of a transformation, it was concluded by a suicide. In the final act, Gaijan threatened to follow Sunshine into death until Flower wooed him away from the cliff-edge. As Gaijan and Flower exchanged vows of marriage, Flower promised to be to him all that Sunshine had been, and all that Sunshine could not be. The stage had been growing darker all the while, and Olin expected the curtain to fall on the final, throbbing notes of Flower’s promise and the lovers’ embrace. Instead, Flower turned to face the audience, and opened her robe. Olin caught his breath at the sight of an embryo, seen as if through Flower’s flesh, growing within her body. It grew, as he watched, and even without opera glasses Olin could see that the unborn baby wore Sunshine’s face.

There was a moment of awed silence as the curtain fell, and then an explosion of applause. Olin clapped, too, full of emotion he was unable to express in any other way. He glanced at Seth and then hastily looked away again at the sight of tears on the younger man’s face.

The murmuring, satisfied crowd bore them away, and there was no need, or chance, to speak. On the steps again, Olin began to say his thanks, but was stopped by a gesture.

‘Don’t rush off,’ said Seth. ‘I’d really like to discuss what we’ve just seen. That’s why I don’t like going to these things alone — it’s never complete for me until I’ve been able to talk about it. Won’t you walk with me by the river? I need to stretch my legs, and somehow I think better when I’m moving.’

Olin felt flattered that Seth had not tired of his company after the strained effort of their earlier conversation in the bar, but he glanced at his watch saying, ‘I’m afraid the last bus is —’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that. I have a car. I can run you home.’

‘Your own car? On a teacher’s salary?’

Seth smiled faintly. ‘No. Not on a teacher’s salary. Nor this coat, nor a subscription to the opera. It won’t last long at the rate I’m going, but I have a little money. From my wife’s family.’

Olin remembered the despairing way Seth had leaned against the telephone, and the flowers that morning, and he was surprised. ‘You’re married?’

‘Separated. It lasted less than a year. A youthful mistake.’

The night was dry and not cold, the river path paved and lighted, but they were alone.

‘My wife and I separated two years ago,’ Olin offered.

‘How long were you married?’

‘Ten years.’

‘Children?’

‘Two. At school now.’

‘Not a youthful mistake, then,’ said Seth. ‘Why didn’t you stay together? Why — I’m sorry. Please forgive me. It’s none of my business, of course.’

It would have been a rude question even from someone less a stranger than Seth, and Olin knew he should have taken offence. But suddenly he wanted to talk about his marriage with someone, anyone, who was not Dove. He had never had the chance before.

‘I suppose we separated because we ran out of reasons for staying together. We’d stopped loving each other long since, the children were at school and didn’t need us, and there was no reason for two people who didn’t like each other very much to go on sharing the same house. We’d never had much in common except the physical.’

‘That’s supposed to be enough,’ said Seth. ‘It is in all the operas, in literature, in ballads. The miracle of love is physical love — a biological affinity. Which would be fine, only it never lasts. And nobody will admit that. Everybody expects it to last, and when it doesn’t we think there’s something wrong with us. We’re failures. Why can’t we be taught to see love in perspective, to see it as a physical pleasure which belongs to one part of life but doesn’t ever, can’t by its very nature, ever last. We outgrow it, and we’re meant to outgrow it. So why do we ruin our lives, wasting so much time and energy on love, dreaming about it, waiting for it, hoping for it against all odds?’

Although they were walking side by side, not looking at one another, Olin was vividly aware of Seth’s anguish.

‘You’re too young to be talking like that,’ Olin said, trying for a cheerful, bracing tone. ‘It’s all very well for me to resign myself to a solitary life, but you’re still young and you should have hope. You can marry again — you will marry again. As you say, the first was a youthful mistake. You’ll meet someone else…’

‘Oh, yes, I’ll meet someone else, and start the whole messy process all over again. I won’t be able to help myself. But what’s the point? To come to this again. Honey’s pregnant. Already. I found out today. I suppose I should feel grateful. At least relieved that I didn’t ruin her life. It would be so awful for her to find out she couldn’t have kids ever, with anyone. It’s not so terrible for a man to be infertile, but to be a woman…’

‘There’s no reason to assume you’re infertile,’ said Olin. ‘Lots of people aren’t cross-fertile with each other, but that doesn’t mean they’re infertile. Like in the opera we just saw — it’s a question of finding the right partner.’

‘So why should it be so complicated? It’s just biology. Biological compatibility. Why all this stuff about love? It has nothing to do with physical attraction, or being a nice person, or having common interests, or the meeting of souls. It’s not spiritual destiny. It’s blind chance. It could have been worked out better, don’t you think? So that we couldn’t fall in love with someone unless we were cross-fertile.’

‘But then it wouldn’t be love,’ Olin said. ‘Then it would just be biology — we’d just be animals attracted to each other in the mating season.’

‘I think we are, and we just don’t know it. In our ignorance, we’ve screwed it up. We try to make it something noble, try to pretend that sex and reproduction are the by-products of love, instead of the other way around. Why should sex get this special treatment? Why can’t we see it clearly, as a need like hunger? Why mystify it? Why can’t we just admit that we’re just animals who need to reproduce, and do it?’

Olin was conscious that their argument was operating on two levels. However abstract and intellectual it might become, Seth was speaking out of his own hurt. He was looking for comfort, and Olin responded with the wish to help. But what wisdom could he offer? He was older than Seth, but no wiser. He hadn’t found the answer in marriage or out of it. He had told himself that love was for the young, and safely in his own past, but something in him still responded to romance.

After a little silence Olin said, ‘We’re animals, but not only animals. Yes, we need to reproduce — but we have other needs, too. Emotional, social needs. We have a need for love, however you define it. Maybe it’s misguided to connect love with sex, but everyone does, so there must be some sense in it, there must be some hope –’ he stopped talking as they both stopped walking, having come to the end of the paved, lighted river-path. The river wound on, out of sight behind the embankment to their left, but ahead of them was a dark, rough wasteland.

Staring into the night Seth said, ‘There’s a need, but is it natural? Is it something basic in us, or was it constructed? Does it have to be that way, or can we change it? Should we?’

Disturbed, Olin turned away. ‘We’d better start back. There’s no way through here. It’s odd - you’d think the path would go somewhere, wouldn’t you? I mean, to pave it, and put up lights - you’d think it would go somewhere. At least to the next bridge, or up to the main road. Just to end like this. Are you coming?’

As they walked back, Olin turned the conversation to architecture, a subject about which he knew little but had many opinions. He soon provoked Seth into disagreement, and by the time they reached the opera house they were arguing as merrily as old friends, all restraint between them gone. Seth’s bitter mood had passed, and Olin. was glad to agree when he suggested they stop for a snack in a late-night cafe on the way home. Even knowing he would have to get up in the morning to teach, Olin was not ready for the evening to end. He was enjoying himself with Seth, but he didn’t trust their friendship to survive even the shortest separation. In the morning, he thought, they would be strangers again.

But he was wrong. The next day at school, passing each other on the stairs, Seth suggested they meet for a drink after work. He spoke as casually and easily as if they were friends and, suddenly, they were.

Drinks led to dinner and to another walk; to more drinks, dinners and walks. Despite, or perhaps because of, having a car, Seth loved to walk. It was his only exercise — like Olin, he had developed a hatred of sports at school — and after days cooped up indoors, he longed for the chance to move in the open air. He said that it not only relaxed him, but it helped him to think. Olin, always lazy, enjoyed their walks because the talk that accompanied them allowed him to forget he was exerting himself. Some of their best — and most disturbing — conversations took place while they walked. There were things which could not be said in a restaurant or a bar, looking at each other. But striding along, talking into the open air as if thinking aloud, unable to see each other’s expression, anything might be voiced. Anything at all. And one day, Olin thought, Seth would say something… Seth would go too far. The thought gave him a strange feeling at the pit of his stomach. It was a pleasurable excitement he remembered from long ago, from the last time he’d had such a close friendship. The feeling was fear, but it was also desire.

Women had friendships among themselves, but women had nothing to lose. Older men sometimes managed it, becoming as if boys again in their age, but for everyone else friendship was a risk. Olin was well aware of this, and thought Seth must be, too. They never spoke of the danger they might be courting, although they came close. For love — or sex, or biology, or marriage — was the topic they continued to be drawn to, again and again, in their night-time, walking conversations. The subject was like a sore Seth could not stop probing, or a cliff-edge he had to lean over. It was during those conversations that Olin became aware of what a dangerous edge it was on which they balanced. If one of them fell…

But if one of them fell, it would be Seth, he was certain. Seth, with his youth, his passion, his sorrow, his ‘mistaken’ marriage, would fall in love with his older friend, and not the other way around. Olin could imagine Seth in love with him, and the idea of making love to a transformed, newly receptive Seth aroused him. But Olin did not let himself dwell on such thoughts. He didn’t really want it to happen. He liked this not-sexual friendship; he wanted to believe that it could last. He wanted to go on balancing. He didn’t want Seth to change.

One morning, about six weeks after the performance of The Insufficient Answer, Olin’s telephone rang before he left for school.

It was Dove. ‘I’ve been trying to phone you for days, and you’re never in,’ she said.

He remembered his long-ago, never-kept resolution to phone her, and felt guilty. ‘I’ve been busy — I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch –’

‘It doesn’t matter. But I thought you might have forgotten that it’s parents’ day this weekend. I thought the 8:45 would be the best train to catch. Could you meet me at the station by 8:30 on Saturday morning? Tristan wants a new football, I know — do you think you could manage to buy one? And some books for both of them — you know the sort of thing they’d like better than I would.’

Olin winced and closed his eyes as his wife’s voice poured into his ear. He had forgotten. Worse than that, he didn’t want to go. There had been a time when he welcomed the ritual visits to his children at their school. Then, his life had been so dull that any events were treasured as a break from routine. But his life was different now. A day spent with Dove and the boys meant a day without Seth. They had made tentative plans for Saturday already: a drive in the country, a visit to some site of historic interest, some place from the old times. Olin knew what he wanted to do, but he also knew his duty. He told Dove that he would meet her at the station.

They embraced as they always did on meeting — former desire transformed to awkward ritual — and then stood back to examine each other for signs of change.

Her hair was too short, Olin thought, the style too severe. It made her look older than she was, harsher and no longer pretty. But she looked fit, and still dressed well.

‘You’ve put on weight,’ Dove said.

He was surprised, and a little indignant, for since spending time with Seth he was not only getting more exercise, but also eating less. He tucked a thumb into the waistband of his trousers to show Dove how loose they were.

In answer, she touched his chest. ‘Look how tight. That button’s ready to pop.’

He flinched away from her hand. ‘Maybe the shirt shrunk.’

‘Shirts that old don’t shrink. I bought you that shirt. You’re bigger in the chest, and it isn’t muscle. Your face is fuller, too. It doesn’t look bad — you look younger, actually. Softer.’

Olin shrugged, annoyed and not wanting to think about why. ‘Let’s get on the train before it goes without us.’ He was dreading the two-hour journey. Usually he told Dove about his life and she listened. But he didn’t want to tell her about Seth, and he could think of nothing else that had happened to him in the last two months — nothing that would take more than two or three minutes to tell. He had brought along a book to read, but he was so aware of Dove watching him that he found it difficult to concentrate. The familiar train journey had never seemed longer.

Their children, Tristan and Timon, acted pleased to see them, but they clearly had lives of their own in which parents played no very large role. Olin knew this was normal — he remembered his own school-days. And it was only fair that they be uninterested in him, considering how seldom he thought of them, but, confronted with them in the flesh, with their inescapable separateness, Olin felt his own estrangement the more. Once they had been at the centre of his life, he thought. When he hugged them, and could feel and smell their familiar bodies, he loved them, but when they moved out of reach he was left with only memories. He loved his babies, but his babies had grown into strangers. He wondered if Dove felt the same way. Perhaps it was worse for her. Or perhaps she had come to terms with it long before. It had to be different for a mother, who had brought forth children from her own body. He had always been separate from his children. Suddenly, confusingly, Olin wanted to cry. To cover his feelings, he began to rough-house with the boys until he realized he was embarrassing them. He wasn’t acting like the other fathers. Desperately, Olin watched the other fathers for clues, and tried to act like them. He tried to remember what he had done six months ago, during his last visit to the school. What had he felt then, who had he been? Surely it hadn’t always been this difficult, this painful?

Fortunately the day was structured to make life easy for everyone. Olin and Dove were taken around by their children, reintroduced to their children’s friends and teachers, observed various competitions, sporting and dramatic events, and then took Tristan and Timon out for the traditional feast. Presents were given out, and then the farewell kisses and goodbyes.

Back on the train, Olin was too exhausted even to pretend to read his book. He didn’t think Dove would have let him, anyway. It was obvious she had something to say, even if she was taking her time about saying it.

‘So,’ she said at last. ‘You going to tell me about him?’

‘Who?’

‘Your friend.’

‘What makes you think I have a friend?’

‘You always thought I was stupid,’ she said. ‘But there are some things you don’t get to know out of books. You’re different than you were the last time I saw you. You’re always out, too busy to call me, instead of lonely and bored like you were before. And instead of telling me in detail about your boring life, you got on the train and stuck your nose in a book. Because your life isn’t boring anymore. Because there’s somebody in your life. Somebody new. Maybe it’s early days yet, maybe you’re not really sure, and you don’t want to jinx it by saying anything too soon in case it doesn’t happen, but — I don’t think it’s that. I think something’s happening that you didn’t expect —’

‘What are you babbling about?’

‘The main thing is, the reason I’m so sure, is that you remind me –’ again, she stopped short. It was almost like a dare to him to tell her what she already knew.

He gave in. Maybe, after all, he did want to talk about it; maybe he wanted confirmation from someone else. ‘What do I remind you of?’ he asked gently. ‘Do I remind you of how I used to be, when you and I were first in love? Do I remind you of how I was then?’

She shook her head. ‘No. You remind me of how I was.’

Dove was right, and he was in hell. He had denied it to her, and had tried to deny it to himself, but Sunday morning Olin woke and saw the blood in his bed and could no longer hide the truth from himself. He had fallen in love with Seth.

It wasn’t much blood — a dried brownish spot no larger than his thumbnail. He stripped off the sheet and saw that it had soaked through to the mattress. As he scrubbed at the stain with a wet, soapy towel, Olin blinked back tears and struggled to think logically.

He was changing. No doubt about that, but the change was far from complete. Dove had seen the signs, but Dove had been through it herself. It might not be too late to stop what was happening to him. His only hope was to get away from Seth before it was too late. Parents did sometimes save their sons from shame by sending them away when they recognized the threat of a developing romance. Olin couldn’t actually go away — he couldn’t afford to leave his job — but he might be able to contrive something to keep him safely out of Seth’s company.

Olin sat back and surveyed his work. There was a large wet spot on the mattress, but that would soon dry. The bloodstain was gone.

The telephone rang, making Olin jump. He stared at the thing, knowing already who it would be. Maybe he should start now, ignore it. But he couldn’t resist the summons.

‘Took you long enough,’ said Seth’s voice in his ear. ‘I thought you said you lived in one room?’

‘I do. I was in bed — I’m not feeling well.’

‘Oh, what’s wrong?’

‘I’m not sure. I’m probably just tired out from the day with Dove and the boys.’

‘Why don’t I come over and cheer you up?’

‘No!’ The leap his heart had given — of pure desire — made him shout.

There was a short silence on the other end. Olin tried not to think about what Seth was thinking, not to worry whether he was hurt or angry.

Seth said, ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I told you. I’m tired. I don’t feel well. I’m fed up with people — I just need to be alone.’

‘You’re the doctor. I’ll leave you alone, then. You’d just better be over this by Wednesday.’

‘Wednesday?’

‘You hadn’t forgotten that we’ve got opera tickets?’

‘No, of course not. I’ll be better before Wednesday — I have to be well enough to go to school tomorrow. I can’t afford to pay a substitute.’

Olin knew Seth’s schedule like his own. It was easy enough to avoid him at school, just as, a week earlier, it had been easy to engineer brief, ‘accidental’ encounters. At the end of the day, Olin crept out by a side-entrance and went to a movie and then had dinner in a cafe of the sort Seth would never enter. He felt like a hunted animal, following a similar routine on Tuesday. But on Wednesday one of the boys brought him a note:

Opera steps, 7 sharp, yes? Don’t be late! S.

Olin folded the note and tucked it into his pocket, aware that his students were staring at him and giggling.

‘Is that a love-note, Sir?’ asked one of the boys.

Another, in a loud whisper, corrected him, ‘Is that a love-note, Miss!’

The whole class exploded into mocking laughter.

Olin pounded on his desk, painfully aware that he was blushing. He regained control of the class, but he knew how weak was his hold on them. Boys that age were sensitive to hints of sex even where they did not exist, and once they knew the truth about him he would lose their respect forever. He tried to take comfort from the fact that they couldn’t really know — and nothing, after all, had happened — and then, with a chill, he wondered if Seth also suspected. If Seth, perhaps, knew.

Against the rules, Olin dismissed his final class ten minutes early. He didn’t go to a film or a cafe. He had decided to do something positive, and he caught the bus which would take him to the north-eastern suburb where Dove lived.

She seemed surprised and, he thought, not pleased when she opened the door to him. Entering at her reluctant invitation, he saw that she already had a visitor, a woman dressed, like Dove, in dark-blue overalls. Olin had not seen Dove in her work clothes since the days when they lived together: she always dressed up for him when he came to call. She looked taller and stronger to him now, more of a stranger.

‘Is something wrong?’ she asked. She did not offer to introduce him to the woman.

‘No, no, I just thought I’d like to take you out to dinner.’

‘Why didn’t you phone?’

He shrugged uneasily. ‘It was a spur of the moment thing. I thought you’d be pleased.’

There was a silence, and then the other woman set down her tea-cup and rose from her chair. ‘I’d better be getting along,’ she said to Dove. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow at work.’

‘I’ll phone you later,’ Dove said.

The two women exchanged a look which made Olin feel even more uncomfortable, and then the other woman smiled, becoming almost beautiful. ‘Take care, Leo,’ she said.

‘Leo?’ said Olin when Dove had closed the door behind her departing guest. ‘Why did she call you that?

‘It’s my name.’

‘It was. Dove –’

‘Dove is your name for me. I still have my own. I prefer my friends to use it.’

He wondered what she meant by the word friend, and what that woman was to her, and he did not want to know. ‘I didn’t know you didn’t like it. I could have chosen another name if you’d ever said –’

‘I didn’t say I didn’t like it. It’s all right you calling me Dove. Let’s not argue. Come into the kitchen and have a cup of tea. Or would you rather have a beer? I’ve got some.’

‘Tea.’ He followed her into the kitchen. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t phone first. I really didn’t think about it until I was on the bus coming out here, and then it seemed too late. If you really want me to leave –’

‘No, now you’re here, stay.’

‘I can wait while you change,’ he said as she put the kettle on.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t want to change; I don’t feel like going out.’ She turned around to face him, leaned against the counter and crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Why don’t you just say what you have to say?’

He didn’t want to talk to her in such a self-possessed, almost aggressive mood. He had hoped to make her pliable with drink and good food, to lead up to it gently, but she wasn’t giving him the chance and he couldn’t afford to wait for a better time. He drew a deep breath.

‘I want to try again,’ he said.

‘Try what?’

‘Us. I’d like us to try again. I’d like to move back in here with you.’

She simply stared. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking. The kettle was boiling. She turned away and poured the water into the teapot.

‘He’s really got you scared,’ she said.

‘Who?’

‘It won’t work,’ she said. ‘You can’t get away from him that easily. You can’t just pretend you’ve got a wife –’

‘Why should it be a pretence? We loved each other once — why can’t we go back to that?’

‘Because we’ve changed.’

‘I haven’t,’ he said furiously. ‘I haven’t changed! It’s started, yes, but he doesn’t know — we haven’t done anything — it’s not too late — if I stay away from him — I don’t have to be his woman –’

‘And I don’t have to be yours.’

Olin stared at her. ‘But you can’t — you can’t change back. You can’t ever be a man again. Becoming a woman — that change is forever. I changed you.’

She smiled. ‘What makes you think I want to be a man again? There are other kinds of change. There’s such a thing as growing.’

‘Have you met someone else? Who is he? Do you want to marry someone else?’

‘No.’

But there was something… Olin felt sick. ‘Not her — that woman who was here? Is she your lover? Do women do that?’

He saw her tense, and it occurred to him that she wanted to hit him. But she was very controlled as she said, ‘We’re friends. We’ll probably make love some day. But not in the way you mean. It’s not that kind of thing. There aren’t any men and women among us.’

‘I wouldn’t try to stop you,’ Olin said. ‘If that was what you wanted, if you wanted her as well… You could do as you liked. Let me move back in here.’

‘No.’

‘Why won’t you help me? Do you hate me that much, for what I did to you?’

She sighed. ‘Olin… I don’t hate you at all. If I can help you, I will. But I’m not going to live a lie for you.’

‘Why should it be a lie? We were happy together once, weren’t we?’

‘We were, but that’s over. Olin, you know it is. You spend an evening with me, and by the end of it you can’t wait to get away. The Dove you’ve got in your mind isn’t me. You’d know that if you weren’t so afraid right now. Why are you so afraid? It’s natural; it happens to people all the time. Why can’t you just accept what’s happening to you?’

‘I’m too old,’ he said, anguished.

She almost laughed. ‘The fact that it’s happening means you’re not too old. All right, maybe too old for babies, but that can be a blessing. Since you’ve done your bit for the species already, with Timon and Tristan, you don’t even have to feel guilty. Let yourself enjoy it. There is pleasure in it, you know. Pain, too, but you might find that the pleasure makes up for it. I remember the pleasure, Olin. You don’t have to feel guilty about what you did to me. Oh, I know you feel guilty. Otherwise you wouldn’t be so afraid of it happening to you. Don’t be. It isn’t so terrible to be a woman.’

Of course it was terrible to be a woman. Olin had feared it all his life. Everyone feared becoming a woman. Parents feared it for their sons. And friends, in their intimacy, battled grimly not to lose. To lose was to become a woman. Olin had been through that in his youth, and he had won. He thought he could relax, then, he thought he was safe. He had not realized, until it was too late, that the battle to retain manhood never ended. He had not truly understood that one victory was not the end. He had not realized until now that he might yet lose.

After leaving Dove, Olin rode around the city on buses, unable to think what to do next, unable even to decide upon a restaurant. But eventually he became restless and decided that, like Seth, he would be able to think better if he could walk. He left the bus at a stop near the old city, so that was where he went to walk.

Darkness had fallen, and the broken pavement was treacherous underfoot. Here and there among the looming vastness of ancient buildings tiny lights glowed and flickered: candles lit by lovers in the abandoned rooms which were their trysting places. They were all around him — he heard the indistinct murmur of their voices and, occasionally, a cry of pain.

He broke out in a sweat. Once these surroundings would have induced nostalgic memories of his time with Dove. Now they brought only fear. Why had he come here? Why had he chosen these streets, of all there were in the city to walk? He had to get away.

Olin turned around and there, in the darkness, unmistakable, was Seth.

‘I knew you’d come here,’ said Seth. ‘I knew I only had to wait.’

‘It was a mistake,’ said Olin. ‘I’m leaving.’

‘You’ll come with me first.’

‘No.’

As he tried to go past, Seth caught him by the arm. It was the first time he had ever touched Olin, and now Olin knew that it really was too late. They could fight: although Seth was taller, Olin was heavier and better coordinated and under other circumstances he could have taken Seth. But as he stood very still, feeling Seth’s fingers like a chain around his arm, feeling the unwanted, unmistakable trickle of wetness between his legs as his wound began to bleed, Olin knew that Seth had already won this fight. He shuddered, as his fear was transformed into desire.

‘Where will we go?’ he asked.

‘I know a room. Come on.’ Now Seth, seeming kind, released his bruising hold and laid his arm gently across Olin’s shoulders. ‘Don’t be frightened,’ he said, leading Olin away. ‘I’ll be very gentle; it won’t hurt so much.’

It was only the first of his lies.

Copyright © 1987 by Lisa Tuttle.