King Rat

Grey felt a spasm building in his stomach. He stopped as it came and passed. It wasn’t dysentery, only diarrhea; and the slight fever on him wasn’t malaria, only a touch of dengue, a slighter but more insidious fever which came and went by whim. He was very hungry. He had no stocks of food, no last can and no money to buy any with. He had to subsist on rations with no extras, and the rations were not enough, not enough.

When I get out, he thought, I swear by God that I’ll never be hungry again. I’ll have a thousand eggs and a ton of meat and sugar and coffee and tea and fish. We’ll cook all day, Trina and I, and when we’re not cooking or eating we’ll be making love. Love? No, just making pain. Trina, that bitch, with her “I’m too tired” or “I’ve got a headache” or “For the love of God, what, again?” or “All right, I suppose I’ll have to” or “We can make love now, if you want to” or “Can’t you leave me in peace for once,” when it wasn’t so often and most times he had restrained himself and suffered, or the angry “Oh, all right,” and then the light would be snapped on and she would get out of bed and storm off to the bathroom to “get ready” and he would only see the glory of her body through the sheer fabric until the door had closed and then he would wait and wait and wait until the bathroom light was snapped off and she came back into their room. It always took an eternity for her to cross from the door to the bed and he saw only the pure beauty of her under the silk and felt only the cold in her eyes as she watched him and he could not meet her eyes and loathed himself. Then she would be beside him and soon it would be silently over and she would get up and go to the bathroom and clean herself as though his love was dirt, and the water would run and when she came back she would be freshly perfumed and he loathed himself afresh, unsatisfied, for taking her when she didn’t want to be taken. It had always been thus. In their six months of married life—twenty-one days of leave, being together—they had made pain nine times. And never once had he touched her.

He had asked her to marry him a week after he had met her. There had been difficulties and recriminations. Her mother hated him for wanting her only daughter just when her career was launched and she was so young. Only eighteen. His parents said wait, the war may be over soon and you’ve no money and, well, she’s not exactly from a good family, and he had looked around his home, a tired building joined to a thousand other tired buildings amid the twisted tramlines of Streatham, and he saw that the rooms were small and the minds of his parents were small and lower class and their love was twisted like the tramlines.

They were married a month later. Grey looked smart in his uniform and sword (hired by the hour). Trina’s mother didn’t come to the drab ceremony, performed in haste between air raid alerts. His parents wore disapproving masks and their kisses were perfunctory and Trina had dissolved into tears and the marriage license was wet with tears.

That night Grey discovered that Trina wasn’t a virgin. Oh, she acted as though she was, and complained for many days that, please darling, I’m so sore, be patient. But she wasn’t a virgin and that hurt Grey, for she had implied it many times. But he pretended that he didn’t know she had cheated him.

The last time he saw Trina was six days before he embarked for overseas. They were in their flat and he was lying on the bed watching her dressing.

“Do you know where you’re going?” she asked.

“No,” Grey said. The day had been bad and the quarrel of the night before bad, and the lack of her and the knowledge that his leave was up today was heavy on him.

He got up and stood behind her, slipping his hands into her bosom, molding the tautness of her, loving her.

“Don’t!”

“Trina, could we—”

“Don’t be foolish. You know the show starts at eight-thirty.”

“There’s plenty of time—”

“For the love of God, Robin, don’t! You’ll mess up my makeup!”

“To hell with your makeup,” he said. “I won’t be here tomorrow.”

“Perhaps that’s just as well. I don’t think you’re very kind or very thoughtful.”

“What do you expect me to be like? Is it wrong for a husband to want his wife?”

“Stop shouting. My God, the neighbors will hear you.”

“Let ’em, by God!” He went towards her, but she slammed the bathroom door in his face.

When she came back into the room she was cold and fragrant. She wore a bra and half slip and panties under the slip, and stockings held by a tiny belt. She picked up the cocktail dress and began to step into it.

“Trina,” he began.

“No.”

He stood over her, and his knees had no strength in them. “I’m sorry I—I shouted.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

He bent to kiss her shoulders, but she moved away.

“I see you’ve been drinking again,” she said, wrinkling her nose.