Grimus - By Salman Rushdie Page 0,77

I love him, she repeated over and over again, through clenched teeth.

—No, you don’t, said Flapping Eagle. You were comfortable with him. You never found him attractive. You don’t love him.

—I do, she cried. I know I do.

Then he watched her as the self-control returned and the tears dried in their ducts.

The swing. Elfrida on it, Irina watching. There are moments, thought Flapping Eagle, when they could be identical twins. So alike, so unalike.

Irina Cherkassova, who found it easy to despise, found herself despising Elfrida. Foolish, giggling woman. Elfrida Gribb, in the meanwhile, was gripped by the beginnings of a more powerful emotion: jealousy.

They smiled at each other through their veils.

It was the night of the great ball at her own home and Irina was refusing to cry. Downstairs, the music and the braided gallants; upstairs, she lay dry-eyed and fevered. To be ill on this of all nights, in this of all years, when she had budded and blossomed out of childhood and had stood for hours upon end before a mirror naked with a book on her head pulling in her stomach and pushing out her chest. There would have been no pats on the head this year, no understanding mock-adult chatter, no tolerant amusement when she flounced irritatedly to her room before midnight on her mother’s command. This year she would have danced till dawn and beyond and breakfasted by the willows on the river with some adoring swain … she thought of fat, pimply Masha downstairs, glowing with triumph, the ugly sister become the belle of the ball, whirling round the dance-floor with bored young men wondering where pretty Irina was, and the anger drove away the tears.

—May I come in?

Patashin. Grigor Patashin, eminence grise of her mother’s salon. A large man, bearing what must have been nearly seventy years carelessly on his broad shoulders, so square he scarcely had a neck. Patashin with the wart on the point of his nose and the voice like a crushing of gravel. Patashin whose notoriety had increased with age.

—Come.

—Irina Natalyevna, he said, hitching up his ill-fitting trousers as he entered. The evening is absolutely ruined by your absence.

—Sit down, Grigor, she said, patting the bed, deliberately eschewing the title of “Uncle” which she had given him all her life. Sit and tell me about it. Is Masha very beautiful tonight?

—Can Masha ever look beautiful, I wonder, said Patashin, eyes twinkling.

—Old grizzly, said Irina, you are a master of tact.

—And you, Irina, he said, holding her chin gently in his hand, you are too wise and composed for your own good. I look into your eyes and see knowledge. I look at your body and see anticipation. You must learn to dissimulate, to show less worldly wisdom in your eyes and more of it in your limbs.

—And die an old maid, laughed Irina. I act as I am.

—Yes, mused Patashin. His hand still rested against her chin; he moved it to her cheek. She leant against it. It was cold.

—They wouldn’t miss you, she whispered. Not for a little while.

Patashin laughed out loud. —No chance of seducing you, Irina Natalyevna, he said. If you want a man, You’ll make sure. If not… he grimaced.

—Turn the key in the door, she commanded.

Watching a great man undress is a depressing undertaking; Patashin left his genius with his wing-collar and waistcoat, draped over a chair, and stood before her, white hairs on his chest, leering. She closed her eyes, wishing fervently never to be old.

—I hope it wasn’t painful, he said later.

—No, she said without concern. One of the advantages of riding.

—I must go, he fretted and she watched him regain the stature of his clothes. As he straightened his hair and combed his beard, she said:

—Ravished by genius. What a beginning!

Grigor Patashin said as he left: —Which of us was ravished, I wonder?

That evening with Grigor Patashin did more than give Irina a hatred of old age; it led her directly into the arms of young, beautiful, stupid, young Aleksandr Cherkassov. Thus Patashin was to blame for the disasters of her children. She had married his opposite, and it was his fault. Perhaps, too, on another tack, there was something of her feelings for Masha in her present attitude towards Elfrida. Except for one thing: Elfrida Gribb was beautiful.

One more thing about Grigor Patashin. He left her with a passion for the illicit, because the illicit reminded her of that night, and therefore of being young—

Flapping Eagle was definitely illicit.

Elfrida Edge,