And how I long for her steely gaze to soften their challenge. Do I really have to do something? Be something? As though under the inspection of those eyes (let alone those curves) I become aware only of failure. Perhaps her power is projected in the first place through eyes and curves. So, I wonder, in a moment of panic, what will happen when she goes on to speak beyond her initial question?
At the moment she is everywoman I (we?) have met over the years and perhaps, in particular, all those women I (we?) have not (yet?) met. Bash, bang, wallop! Indeed! – with bells on. Was it sensible to set out on this foolish quest? Don Quixote and Sancho, screwing their eyes up against the harsh light that exposes their illusions (delusions?); their friends unsure of which treatment to try next. Have they reached the end of the line?
Jeanne d’Arc meets Beckett’s Vladimir and Estragon . . . actually quite a crowd assembles . . . including Colonel Gaddafi, Pinky Camisole and other assorted opportunists . . . and we all sit around waiting for, well, whatever it is we have in mind to be waiting for. Oh look, there’s Dawkins the Evangelist. We know who he is waiting for: St Gene, our selfish saint who gets on with his/her work in a quietly determined way.
– The thing is . . .
But I’ve no idea what to say to her or what to ask. Should I have brought a goat to sacrifice? What sort of present should I have waiting in my bad for an opportune moment? Should I have wrapped it up in pretty paper?
– Would you like a drink? I mean, may I buy you a drink?
And yes, she wants a dry white wine. And so I order a bottle and while I’m about it I order three little plates – tapas – I think we could call them: potato and chorizo; grilled peppers; chicken and asparagus.
I get stuck in, juices running down my chin; I’m as hungry as though I’ve been locked away, denied food. As though I can’t remember the last time I ate (which is, of course, nonsense). And she wants to discuss Miguel de Cervantes.
– Yes, let’s,
I say, between mouthfuls of succulent chicken and gulps of wine,
– and not Teresa of Avila.