Sylvia: A Novel Read Online Free Page A

less and less, changing nothing, moving only in the shadows. He wasn’t guilty of being in this world. Since he didn’t exist, he’d never die.
    The room was on the second floor. It had gray floral wallpaper, a mahogany dresser, two lavishly upholstered chairs—all wood surfaces veneered in hard slick brown—and a giant bed that stood high off the floor. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Sylvia’s feet dangled in the air. She lookedlike a child. Pulling back the bedcovers demanded a strong grip and snap. Sheets were tucked in tight, making a hard flat field, perfect for a corpse. The mattress, unusually thick, like a fat luxurious heart, was sealed, lashed down by bedcovers and sheets. Basically, an excellent bed, but resistant to the pressures of a living human shape. It was an excellent, principled bed with a hatred of comfort. We used it most of the night, high above the floor, to make love.
    When we came down in the morning, the man sat waiting in a straight-backed chair in the parlor. He was bald, gaunt, lean as a plank. His long platter face stared at the floor between his knees, as if into a pool of trouble.
    “You two will have to go,” he said. The command was drawn from a strange personal hell of New England propriety and constipation. In the middle of the night, maybe, he heard us. It occurred to him that Sylvia and I were touching, doing evils to each other’s body, though we labored to be quiet, and fucked with Tantric subtlety, measuring pleasure slow and slow, out of respect for his ethical domain. He’d begun thinking things, driving himself to this moral convulsion. We didn’t ask why we had to go. It was clear and final. We had to do it—go. We went back up to our room, packed, made no fuss, and were soon adrift in the busy, hot, bright streets around Harvard Square, carrying our bags.
    Sylvia refused to return to her dormitory, though we had no place to go if we stayed together. I couldn’t reason with her, couldn’t argue. As far as she was concerned, shehad no dormitory room, no place but here in the street with me.
    The glorious summer day made things more difficult. Storefronts and windshields flashed threats. Everyone walked with energetic purpose. They belonged in Cambridge and were correct. We’d been thrown into the street. For this to have happened, one must have done something wrong. We were embarrassed and confused, squinting in the sunlight, carrying bags, the weight of blighted romance. I expected to spend the night in a sleazy hotel or in a park, but then, after phoning friends, we heard about a house where three undergraduates lived, in a working-class neighborhood, a long walk from the university. Maybe they’d rent us a room. We didn’t phone. We went there, just showed up with our bags.
    It was an ugly falling-down sloppy happy house. One of the men began talking to Sylvia, the moment he saw her, in baby talk. She said, “Hello.” He said, “Hewo,” with a goofy grin. She thought he was hilarious, and she loved being treated like a little girl in a house full of men. They all treated her the same way, affectionately teasing. She inspired it: shy, hiding behind long bangs, darkly sensuous. There was one empty room in the house. Nobody said we couldn’t have it.
    In the mornings Sylvia went to class and I tried to begin writing stories. Our room, just off the kitchen, was noisy with refrigerator traffic and running water. Sometimes people stood outside the door talking. I didn’t mind.After our night in the mausoleum, I liked noises. The soft suck and thud of a refrigerator door was good. The sound of talking was good.
    Sylvia was gone during the day, in class or studying in a library on campus. At night there were some irascible moments, heavy sighs, angry whispers, but the room was narrow, hot, airless. There were mosquitoes. Nothing personal. Through most of the slow, lovely summer, we were happy. Sylvia was taking a class in art history. We went to museums, and worked