But then the experiments had begun. Smoking had tapered off, drinking lost its compulsive nature. Deliberately and with surprising success, he had submerged himself in investigation.
His sex drive had diminished, had virtually disappeared. Salvation of the monk, he thought. The drive had to go sooner or later, or no normal man could dedicate himself to any life that excluded sex.
Now, happily, he felt almost nothing; perhaps a hardly discernible stirring far beneath the rocky strata of abstinence. He was content to leave it at that. Especially since there was no certainty that Ruth was the companion he had waited for. Or even the certainty that he could allow her to live beyond tomorrow. Cure her?
Curing was unlikely.
He went back into the living room with the opened bottle. She smiled at him briefly as he poured more wine for her.
"I've been admiring your mural," she said. "It almost makes you believe you're in the woods."
He grunted.
"It must have taken a lot of work to get your house like this," she said.
"You should know," he said. "You went through the same thing."
"We had nothing like this," she said. "Our house was small. Our food locker was half the size of yours."
"You must have run out of food," he said, looking at her carefully.
"Frozen food," she said. "We were living out of cans." He nodded. Logical, his mind had to admit. But he still didn't like it. It was all intuition, he knew, but he didn't like it.
"What about water?" he asked then.
She looked at him silently for a moment. "You don't believe a word I've said, do you?" she said.
"It's not that," he said. "I'm just curious how you lived."
"You can't hide it from your voice," she said. "You've been alone too long. You've lost the talent for deceit."
He grunted, getting the uncomfortable feeling that she was playing with him. That's ridiculous, he argued. She's just a woman. She was probably right. He probably was a gruff and graceless hermit. What did it matter?
"Tell me about your husband," he said abruptly.
Something flitted over her face, a shade of memory. She lifted the glass of dark wine to her lips.
"Not now," she said. "Please."
He slumped back on the couch, unable to analyze the formless dissatisfaction he felt. Everything she said and did could be a result of what she'd been through. It could also be a lie.
Why should she lie? he asked himself. In the morning he would check her blood. What could lying tonight profit her when, in a matter of hours, he'd know the truth?
"You know," he said, trying to ease the moment, "I've been thinking. If three people could survive the plague, why not more?"
"Do you think that's possible?" she asked.
"Why not? There must have been others who were immune for one reason or another."
"Tell me more about the germ," she said.
He hesitated a moment, then put down his wineglass. What if he told her everything? What if she escaped and came back after death with all the knowledge that he had?
"There's an awful lot of detail," he said.
"You were saying something about the cross before," she said. "How do you know it's true?"
"You remember what I said about Ben Cortman?" he said, glad to restate something she already knew rather than go into fresh material.
"You mean that man you--"
He nodded. "Yes. Come here," he said, standing. "I'll show him to you."
As he stood behind her looking out the peephole, he smelled the odor of her hair and skin. It made him draw back a little. Isn't that remarkable? he thought. I don't like the smell. Like Gulliver returning from the logical horses, I find the human smell offensive.
"He's the one by the lamppost," he said.
She made a slight sound of acknowledgment. Then she said, "There are so few. Where are they?"
"I've killed off most of them," he said, "but they manage to keep a few ahead of me."
"How come the lamp is on out there?" she said. "I thought they destroyed the electrical system."
"I connected it with my generator," he said, "so I could watch them."
"Don't they break the bulb?"
"I have a very strong globe over the bulb."
"Don't they climb up and try to break it?"
"I have garlic all over the post."
She shook her head. "You've thought of everything."
Stepping back, he looked at her a moment. How can she look at them so calmly, he wondered, ask me questions, make comments, when only a week ago she saw their kind tear her husband to pieces? Doubts again, he thought. Won't they ever stop?
He knew they wouldn't until he knew about her for sure.
She turned away from the window then.
"Will you excuse me a moment?" she said.
He watched her walk into the bathroom and heard her lock the door behind her. Then he went back to the couch after closing the peephole door. A wry smile played on his lips. He looked down into the tawny wine depths and tugged abstractedly at his beard.
'Will you excuse me a moment?'
For some reason the words seemed grotesquely amusing, the carry-over from a lost age. Emily Post mincing through the graveyard. Etiquette for Young Vampires.
The smile was gone.
And what now? What did the future hold for him? In a week would she still be here with him, or crumpled in the never cooling fire?
He knew that, if she were infected, he'd have to try to cure her whether it worked or not. But what if she were free of the bacillus? In a way, that was a more nerve-racking possibility. The other way he would merely go on as before, breaking neither schedule nor standards. But if she stayed, if they had to establish a relationship, perhaps become husband and wife, have children--
Yes, that was more terrifying.
He suddenly realized that he had become an ill-tempered and inveterate bachelor again. He no longer thought about his wife, his child, his past life. The present was enough. And he was afraid of the possible demand that he make sacrifices and accept responsibility again. He was afraid of giving out his heart, of removing the chains he had forged around it to keep emotion prisoner. He was afraid of loving again.
When she came out of the bathroom he was still sitting there, thinking. The record player, unnoticed by him, let out only a thin scratching sound.
Ruth lifted the record from the turntable and turned it. The third movement of the symphony began.
"Well, what about Cortman?" she asked, sitting down.
He looked at her blankly. "Cortman?"
"You were going to tell me something about him and the cross."
"Oh. Well, one night I got him in here and showed him the cross."
"What happened?"
Shall I kill her now? Shall I not even investigate, but kill her and burn her?
His throat moved. Such thoughts were a hideous testimony to the world he had accepted; a world in which murder was easier than hope.
Well, he wasn't that far gone yet, he thought. I'm a man, not a destroyer.
"What's wrong?" she said nervously.
"What?"
"You're staring at me."
"I'm sorry," he said coldly. "I--I'm just thinking."
She didn't say any more. She drank her wine and he saw her hand shake as she held the glass. He forced down all introspection. He didn't want her to know what he felt.
"When I showed him the cross," he said, "he laughed in my face."
She nodded once.
"But when I held a torah before his eyes, I got the reaction I wanted."
"A what?"
"A torah. Tablet of law, I believe it is."
"And that--got a reaction?"
"Yes. I had him tied up, but when he saw the torah he broke loose and attacked me."
"What happened?" She seemed to have lost her fright again.
"He struck me on the head with something. I don't remember what. I was almost knocked out. But, using the torah, I backed him to the door and got rid of him."
"So you see, the cross hasn't the power the legend says it has. My theory is that, since the legend came into its own in Europe, a continent predominantly Catholic, the cross would naturally become the symbol of defense against powers of darkness."
"Couldn't you use your gun on Cortman?" she asked.
"How do you know I had a gun?"