He had come so far. He was so close, so very close! He reached out his hand toward her, toward the soft silent face. She was only inches from him, from his touch. His fingers hovered above her cheek. So near—
He touched her.
Carl let out a deep shuddering breath. He had been holding his breath without realizing it. He gazed down in speechless wonder at the sight of his hand against the girl’s face. Her skin was warm, warm and smooth. Even a little moist. The room was warm; there was a soft glow across her features, a moist sheen. Perspiration. There was perspiration on both of them. On his neck, under his arms. On her face.
His fingers moved toward her temple. And for the first time he touched her hair. It gave him a shock, a sudden surge that rushed up his spine, chilling him. How strange her hair felt! The countless strands.
Carl bent down. She was deep in sleep. He watched her breast rise and fall, under her flowered blouse. In the dim light the red of the flowers had deepened almost to black. Black flowers, great awesome orchids of purple and black. He could see that her blouse was silk. Through the fabric he could make out the line of straps. Her slip. And her—her bra. That was what it was called. He gazed at the line of her bra, rising and falling evenly.
He studied her neck. Her ears. The strange way her lips were parted, as she breathed. Her eyelashes. What a vast and complex mystery a woman was! There were so many things to take in, to consider and meditate over. Already he had seen enough to occupy his mind for days to come. So many strange and almost mystical things.
Mystical—that was the word for it. He caught his breath. He had felt that way outside. All the way, through the darkness, a feeling of religious awe. The temple, the offering. The solemn procession. And this—
His hands became rigid. His body tensed. He did not even breathe. The silent girl, lying asleep on the bed. Here was where the spirit was. He could feel it all around her. The aura. A radiation that seemed to pulse from every part of her.
He drew back and sat, not touching her at all, but only watching. A vigil. The idea captivated him. He was keeping a vigil over her. The Guardian. He was a protector. One who watched, endlessly, beside the holy fire. Beside the fire burning around the sacred couch, on which the sleeping goddess lay.
Carl sat, feeling the warmth from her, the glow of life that lay over her, rising from her. Time passed. He did not move. He could only sit and watch. He was rigid, silent, held spellbound by the sight, the sleeping woman before him. The holy fire surrounding her like an invisible cloud.
And then, slowly, almost invisibly, another idea crept into his mind. As he sat, watching the sleeping girl, a thought came to him that completely staggered him. It drove everything else out of his mind. It came soundlessly, inexorably. He could not tell from where it came. All at once it was there, within his mind. And there was nothing else.
He was amazed. Sweat broke out on his face, on his hands and neck. He began to shake. He licked his lips again and again. Down inside his shirt his heart began to thud loudly, painfully. Where had the thought come from? Why? He gazed down at the sleeping girl, at her half-parted lips. The orchids of her blouse seemed to have darkened even more. Her skin was light in contrast, a pale, glowing hue, rich and warm.
Carl leaned down. Would she wake up? Perhaps she would. But the idea could not be put down. It could not be denied, not now. Now it was too late. It had come. There was no turning back. It controlled him. It acted through him. He was a puppet. Even if she woke—
He bent over her, twisting to one side, toward the wall. His head dropped, lower and lower. And behold—
He peeked down the front of her blouse.
Barbara opened her eyes. Carl pulled himself up quickly. He flushed with embarrassment. The girl sat up slowly, blinking and rubbing her eyes. She looked around, at him, at the room.
“What—what did you say?” Her voice was thick with sleep. “I heard something. Did I—I didn’t fall asleep, did I?”
“Just for a moment,” Carl muttered.
“Did I?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Carl.” She was silent. “I’m so sorry. I’m so terribly sorry.”
Carl looked away in confusion. He said nothing. Did she know? Had she seen? He shut the memory out of his mind. Shame flooded up into his cheeks, burning them scarlet He stood up quickly, taking out his handkerchief and blowing his nose.
On the bed, Barbara watched him, pulling herself up nervously. “Please forgive me, Carl. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I was listening.”
He nodded, putting his handkerchief away.
“Will you forgive me?”
“Of course. It doesn’t matter.”
“It does.” She stood up beside him. “Here, do you want some more of your wine?”
“No.” Carl wandered around the room, not looking directly at her.
“Had—had you finished reading?”
“Yes.”
“Would you read the last part again?”
Carl waved his hand impatiently. “It’s not worth reading again.”
“Don’t be mean to me, Carl.”
But he meant it. The treatise seemed remote to him, a thing far away. He did not care about it. He had forgotten that it existed. A strange, vague restlessness moved through him, making him walk about. He could not stay still. What was it? Shame? Guilt? He did not know. Whatever it was, he had never felt it before. Not that he could remember.
“What’s wrong?” Barbara asked softly.
“Nothing.”
“I can tell something’s wrong.”
“No.” He went on pacing. What was it? Suddenly he turned toward her. She had sat down again, on the edge of the bed. The sight of her, her soft features, the bright silk of her blouse, made a rush of color climb to his cheeks again.
“You’re still angry, aren’t you?” Barbara said.
“No.”
“What, then?”
“Nothing!” He went to the window and pulled the shade back. He stood looking out. After a time he became aware of Barbara standing silently behind him, standing very close to him. He could almost feel her breath against his neck.
“Carl?”
“Yes?”
“Will you ever forgive me? I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
Carl smiled a little. The treatise. It was a good thing she hadn’t—hadn’t seen him. She thought he was angry at her for falling asleep. “Forget it.”
He went back to looking out the window. The sky was full of stars, tiny bright stars. The sight of them made him feel more restful. They were so cold, so cold and remote. Like bits of distant ice.
He became calmer. The color drained from his cheeks. The flush of shame was gone, or whatever it had been. What had it been? Maybe he would never know. It was awful not to understand. What had happened to him? Why had he done such a thing? It was incredible! It was beyond belief. Incomprehensible.
He turned abruptly away from the window.
“I wish I could make you feel better,” Barbara said. “Won’t you tell me what it is?”
“Forget it.”
“The wine didn’t make you sick, did it?”
“No.”
“Do you want some more?” She picked his glass up. “I’ll pour you some more.”
“No. No more wine.” He had to get hold of himself. Gather himself together. He had to think. That was it. He had to think. Restore his reason. He had lost his reason for a while.
Carl sat down on the bed, picking up his papers from the table. He began to wrap the brown paper around them rapidly. Barbara watched him tie the string hurriedly into place, his hands trembling.