Glaciology

The Mission

15 The Mission Europe was in trouble again and I went over. I found her in a bar, lipstick charmingly askew, snags in her black stockings. I got a coke and joined her in the booth. Call me Jean, she said, and stuck out her hand. It was limp, thrilling. Listen, Jean, I said. I know we’ve had our differences, but I really. She put her hand on my thigh. And maybe I’m out of line here, but. She opened her legs and placed my hand. I just gotta tell you that, well, you’re. She crushed her cigarette out on my other hand. Now, that was totally uncalled for. Then she passed out in my arms. A taxi (or however you say it) took us to the address I found in her purse. The streets of course were made of water and it was a long trip. Her sleeping face in the moonlight, blue and white, like carved soap. . . . When we arrived a pack of Schnauzers yipped and swirled in front of the entrance to her building and, since I was carrying her, I may have stepped on a few. But so what. I was on a mission. Inside, I tucked Jean in bed and looked around. The entire apartment seemed to be ticking. It was almost a comfort. Otherwise all was chaos: from bidet to kitchen sink there were tipped bottles and food containers, ripped foils of condom packets, English spanking videos, brochures promising a new career, etc. It was moving to see the many photographs of my family, at every stage of our lives, hanging on the walls. But these images were shocking, too: bourgeois realist, sentimental. Not at all what I would have predicted. Nothing more could be done. I went to the bedroom to check on Jean one last time. She was asleep, her body splayed out on the bed, legs spread far enough to plainly advertise that she wore no underwear. I stood looking a long time, until the church bell rang, and I noticed a thick, braided darkness pouring in the open window. I lay down beside Jean and pulled her close. Shut my eyes. Her hair was like coal turning into diamonds—that long, that beautiful. ...