Diane Loring had many of these thoughts; she unloaded them on to Kathy, in a long monologue which, with death as its starting-point, moved inevitably to the only topic which seemed to promise stability in a perilous world. The topic was sex. It was one which Kathy, in her present mood, could have done without.
Diane had attended the funeral. "I'm sure I don't know why," she said. "I just hate the idea of people dying." They were in Kalhy's cabin, which Diane had invaded; Kathy was lying on the bed, and Diane sitting before the triple-winged mirror, dabbing at her nails with a scarlet-edged sable brush, pausing now and then to examine herself minutely in the glass. "Fancy just tipping him into the sea like that. It doesn't seem safe. Wouldn't he float, or something?"
"They put weights in," said Kathy vaguely. She did not want to talk about this, or about anything; she had been reading when Diane came in, and she still wanted to read or to think, now that she was here. "The sailors know how to fix it."
"Well, I certainly hope so. Think of that poor old man." She moved her face within a few inches of the mirror, and turned it from side to side, scrutinizing with minute attention the skin adjacent to her nose. "Do you get blackheads?"
"No," said Kathy.
"You're lucky. Greasy skin, that's me. All brunettes have it. They say it's the natural oils. . . . That poor old man," she said again, but the thought had become intertwined with another, and she moved on to it very readily. "Did you ever sleep with an old man? I mean-well, Carl's not old, is he?—I mean, a real old man?"
"No," said Kathy. "No, I never did."
"Well, don't!" said Diane, with emphasis. "It's enough to turn your hair grey. They have the darnedest time getting anywhere! And then they blame you! I remember one old character down in South Carolina—" she went back to the nail-dabbing, frowning, holding her hand up to the light, "honest, it was just like a horserace. He had to cheer himself on, the whole time. You know what he said?" She giggled. "He used to shout: "Come on, you bastard! Come on, Silky Sullivan!"
She paused. Kathy said nothing. "Don't you remember—Silky Sullivan was that horse that used to run slow, like nothing at all, and then catch up at the very end." Diane giggled again. "What was it that guy said when I told him about it? 'Maybe it was because Silky Sullivan used to come from behind.' What a character! You know why Americans like to make love like that? So they can both watch TV!"
Kathy smiled briefly, but her thoughts were far away from the joke, if it had ever been a joke. It did not need Diane, these days, to turn her mind away from sex; for the last few weeks, she had seemed to have a blank in her mind, an area of nothingness in her body, where that was concerned. She did not want to love, she did not want to make love, she did not want to pretend, or prepare the snare, or use herself as bait, in the way they had planned. All she wanted to do was to pass the time dreamily, enjoying this wonderful voyage, soaking up the sun,feeling life with the whole of her prostrate body instead of a part of it. A year ago, she would have been bored with the idea, she would have thought of it as a waste of time, a routine fit only for dead-beats. But something—the sea, the sense of floating calm, the undemanding niceness of everyone around her— seemed to have turned her mood towards despised contentment.
Even Tim Mansell had remarked on it—juvenile Tim, simple and silly Tim, inadequate Tim who could not guess the score. He had said, out of the blue: "You may not realize it, but you're not as tough as you used to be." He had used the word "tough" apologetically, in quotation-marks; they had been talking about women, and what they could and could not do with their lives, and the hard speculative sense necessary (he thought) to deal with each man on the exact basis he deserved. She had turned the approach aside— her hard speculative sense was certainly good enough for that one—but the thought had remained. It was true that she had softened; happily dormant, she had forgotten what she was there for. The realization should have been far more of a shock than it was; it involved complications in the future, and a sense of guilty inadequacy now; at the worst, it threatened to betray Carl, and all the interlocking confidence involved in their last six years together. But it had happened, and she did not know how to cope with it, and she did not want to know.
Diane, with no such inhibitions, was jogging along happily on her only hobby-horse. "I met a guy once, he'd got it all worked out," she said. "About seduction, I mean. He told me all about it. It was a bit late for him to tell me then, if you know what I mean, but I guess he thought it was good for a laugh. He said there's two sure-fire ways that men can always make a girl—any girl. I mean, as long as they're not out-and-out apes. First is when they dance with you, and after a bit they say: 'Honey, something wondeful's happening to me, I didn't know it was possible.' Then they say: 'This is the first time it's happened since Korea, or maybe even Okinawa. My God, I thought I was impotent!' Then they say: 'Only you could have done it for me! Are we going to let this beautiful thing go to waste?' My friend said the answer is always, No. I mean, No, we can't let it go to waste." She laughed, without malice. "Aren't men the living end? Then the other way is, they give you a long sad story about how nobody loves them, if they can't work up a relationship soon they're going to jump right out of the window, and then they put the lights out and give you a great big slug of gin and get you cornered on a sofa, and then they undo a lot of buttons and start to cry. I mean, actual tears. He said that one never fails, either."
Kathy, who had scarcely been listening, woke up to the silence when Diane paused. By way of suiting the conversation, she asked: "Which way did he use with you?"
Diane frowned at her reflection. "He didn't have to use any way, darn it. He was good-looking. . . . He'd been out in Australia, looking for gold. Do you know what Australians say when they want to go to the toilet? They say: 'I must go and shake hands with my wife's best friend.' Don't you think that's cute? That's another thing he told me."
Diane's nails were finished; she waved them once or twice in the air and then, when they were dry, started to put away her manicure compact. "Men," she said. "Sometimes they make me sick. And what a collection we've got on board this barge! If I'd known what sort of age-group it was going to be, I'd have asked Carl to pay us overtime rates." She looked down at Kathy; she was inquisitive but not, in her present mood, challenging. "Have you got anyone going for you?"
"Not yet," said Kathy.
"We'll be in Rio next week," said Diane. "I wonder what that's like. I went with an Argentine once, he said a funny thing, he said: 'In a hundred years it will all be from test-tubes. But you and I, let us make history!' What a character____Tell you something, that old Prof had better lay off the booze, or he'll be giving the game away. I've seen him absolutely stinko a couple of times already. It's time he did some work." She stood up, collecting her things. "Time we all did, I suppose, with Carl raking in the stuff the way he is."
"Who's next for you?"
"Walham, I guess. The mean old man from outer space. Have you got any ideas?"
"Not really." She could not possibly be friends with Diane, but she wanted to make a point, even before this tough-skinned, almost impenetrable witness. "I know I've been lazy so far," she said, with a hint of apology. "But I didn't realize it was going to be as peaceful as this."
"You like it peaceful?"
Kathy nodded. "Yes, I do."