THE time that The Prisoner spent in the squad room each day after the exercise period was a time of reflection for him, and, being a man with a disciplined mind, he tried to limit those reflections to a single topic at a time. Sometimes he thought about the value of his work, sometimes about the nearly useless existence that he now led, sometimes about the past; and when he thought about the past he often thought of the women he had known. These were not entirely erotic reminiscences for, as he would be the first to admit, he had not led a life of sexual adventure. In truth, discounting the casual connections of a soldier, he could number only four women who had given his life new dimension and meaning.
The first, of course, had been June, and with her there had been no coming together at all, but only the trembling of two magnetic bodies facing pole to pole, the space between them never closed. There had been kisses, yes, and touches, but nothing more than that, and it sometimes amused The Prisoner to think that this first great love of his life, the one against which the others were measured, had been so innocent, so chaste. And on further reflection, he wondered if, perhaps, that very innocence had preserved his love, like a fly in amber, over all the years that had passed. For the love still lived, if only in amber, and in these times of reflection he could still take it out, gaze at it, and marvel at its purity.
But if his time with June was a time to remember, his time with the Poodle was a time to forget, had he not been a man of such intellectual discipline, he would have long since forced all thoughts of her from his mind. But this was a luxury that he could not allow, for to forget about the Poodle would have been, by his standards, an act of cowardice. He had not conducted himself well with her. To use an unfashionable phrase, he had taken advantage of her love for him. He had used that love as an instrument of revenge. He had used that love as a bellows with which to reinflate his pride. In the end, he had allowed her to be crushed by her love for him, and for this he was deeply ashamed. A case could be made, he knew, for saying that in a sense he had taken her life. Exaggeration, yes, but it was a thought he had lived with for years. Over those years he had taken many lives, both by direction and by his own hand, and none had stayed with him that way. Only the Poodle, and, of course, the little girl on the plane.
Which led his thoughts to Zahra. In his dreams about that airplane operation he was never sure which of them had beaten the child when she started to scream, beaten her until her face was shattered and her eyes were sightless. In the tricks played by his memory, sometimes it was Amir who had done it, sometimes Murad, and sometimes, in a twisting of truth, himself. But it never was Zahra in those dreams, and he wondered why. Certainly not because she was a woman, for he had seen her kill savagely. Perhaps, because she was his woman? Did his connection with her convey an immunity in his dreams? Perhaps. He would have liked to have asked her what she thought of such a concept, for she was a woman of strong opinions, but he had not seen her in years, and now she lived in Paris, undercover. He missed her at times, but he knew that he missed her physical presence less than he missed her sharp and ranging mind. Of these four women that he often thought about, hers was the only mind to match and excel his own. They had lived and worked together for three years, most of that time in Paris, and he had come to depend on the way that she could cut to the core of a complex problem, grasp the essentials, and organize the answers. She was a true revolutionary, with the revolutionary's disdain for the unessential, and she had broadened his life with her intellect. It was for this that he loved her, and if the physical side of that love had been less a passionate coupling than a comfort shared by friends, it had seemed enough at the time.
At the time, but not now, upon reflection. Lying in the squad room on a flat pallet, stripped to his shorts and with his eyes closed, he could see the irony woven into these three loves. How ironic that there had never been a consummation to the first, great love of his life. How ironic that the finest of them all should wind up being crushed by the weight of her love for him. How ironic that the one whose intellect he had admired most, had failed to ignite any fire for him. How ironic that only with the fourth of these women, the one who should have meant the least to him, was he able to enjoy a time of rich sensuality.
It was a most improbable love affair. He was twenty-four when he met Maria-Teresa Bonfiglia, and she was thirty-five. He was Muslim and she was Roman Catholic. He was virtually penniless, and she was doubly wealthy, both from her marriage and from the fees that her voice earned. His was a star that was still obscured, and hers was a star that was firmly fixed in the world of grand opera. She made dreams come true on stage, while he had only extravagant dreams of the future of his people. She was a woman who knew exactly what she wanted to do with every day of the rest of her life, and he was a man who prayed every day for guidance into tomorrow. She was the mistress of the magnificent gesture, and he was the master of self-effacement. They could not have been more different, but when they made love they were very much the same: warm and wild, tender and savage, grasping and giving. When they made love, they were not improbable at all.
It lasted for almost a year, and the time went by so quickly that when it was over it seemed to The Prisoner that they had been together for only a matter of weeks. But it lasted from September to June, and it was a time of high excitement. That was the season that Maria-Teresa sang twenty-four Butterflys, twenty-two Toscas, eighteen Neddas yoked to eighteen Santuzzas, twelve of the Puccini Manon and eight of the Massenet, a record thirty-nine Susannas, and a raft of other roles. She sang in Buenos Aires and in Rome, in Vienna and in Paris, at La Scala and at La Fenice, at Covent Garden and at the Met. She sang all over the western world-including an ill-advised Eva at Bayreuth -and The Prisoner was never far from her side. He sat through every performance that she gave, stood through every green room reception, faded away when photographers approached, and claimed his love only when her public had released her. It was a time of richness and contentment, and if he had any doubts about a would-be revolutionary playing lap-dog to a pampered darling of the Nazarene world, he kept those doubts to himself. He knew that it was too good to last, and he was determined to squeeze out every drop of it. It was almost as if he could see the austere life that waited for him, and knew that now was the time to store up memories.
He was right, it was too good to last. It started in September, and in June she told him it was over. Why? Because it was time to be over. There was a marriage that she had ignored for a year, there were children to reclaim, there was the wheel that turned her life and still was turning. He had ridden that wheel to almost full circle, and now it was time to step off. To his credit, he stepped off gracefully. He accepted what had been granted to him, and he walked away as filled with memories as a camel is with water when he comes from the well. His wheel was turning, too, it was time to go on to something new, time to find a purpose, and he found it soon enough when he met Zahra in Paris, and she introduced him to the cause that would occupy his days.
The cause, yes, always, but still there were times for memories. He switched on the phonograph, the battered old friend that helped to keep him sane, and searched through his stack of records. He found her Tosca, put it on, and lay down to listen. It was an old recording, overused, but the pureness of her line cut through the hisses and scratches. As always, he was transported close to tears by her voice.
The tears of a killer, he thought. The tears of a warrior. The tears of a celibate monk. He turned the volume up for the Vissi d'arte. Such sadness. Yes, she gave her life for art, and mine…? He knew very well what his life was for, and he knew very well how it would end some day, but until that day there were memories. Like these. He closed his eyes, and let the music roll over him.