Death Kit

by Susan Sontag

  “Come to the end of the car.” She hesitates. “Come!”

  The girl again extends her hand for Diddy to lead her. His eyes smart with gratitude for that gesture of trust. Of course, when one is blind one is compelled to trust everyone. Or no one. Diddy wished he had fewer alternatives, like the blind girl.

  They stand next to the lavatory at the near end of the car, round a corner and out of sight of anyone who might come out into the corridor. Swaying with the movement of the train.

  “Tell me,” the girl says.

  “Something … has happened.”

  “Is it the train? I was frightened before.”

  “No, no,” says Diddy. “It happened off the train. It’s me. I’ve done something terrible.”

  “When?”

  “After I left the compartment.”

  “You mean just now?”

  “No, before.”

  “When did you leave the compartment before?”

  “When? How can you say that?” Diddy shouts softly. “I know you can’t … didn’t see me. But you must have heard me say I was going. To see why we were stalled, remember? I was … I was frightened, too.”

  “No.”

  “You must have heard me get up and leave!”

  “I didn’t hear you leave.”

  “But you weren’t asleep,” pleads Diddy, more and more alarmed. “I was watching you all the time. Don’t you remember? Try to think. Please! I said I was going for more information. For all of us. To find someone on the train who knew what was going on.”

  “I don’t remember that. I’m sorry.”

  “But if you don’t believe me,” Diddy says, almost in tears, “how can I tell you what happened outside the train?”

  “I didn’t say I don’t believe you left the compartment,” says the girl, soothingly. Her hand tightened on Diddy’s. “I just said that I don’t remember your leaving.”

  “That isn’t good enough,” groaned Diddy.

  “Please tell me,” she says, reaching out to touch his face. “Please don’t cry.”

  “Oh, don’t pity me!” Diddy pushes her hand away, but it comes back. “I can’t stand pity. If you only knew how sick I am of feeling sorry for myself.”

  “I’m not sorry for you. I swear it. Tell me what happened.”

  “All right.” Diddy takes a deep breath, pulling his face slightly away from her fingers. Even the air felt guilty. “I—” He can’t. Why won’t it come out? “I was going to kill myself. That’s why I went outside. I intended to lie down on the tracks and wait for the train to start up again.” The girl is silent, her palm resting on Diddy’s cheek. He gazes imploringly at her. It wasn’t the truth, but it felt like the truth.

  “Why do you want me to know this?” says the girl quietly. “Do you think I can help you?”

  “I don’t know.” Diddy, closing his eyes for a moment. “I suppose I just had to tell someone. Otherwise, it’s so unreal.”

  “But it’s equally unreal to me,” says the girl in a still quieter voice. “Since you didn’t do it. Since you’re here. With me.”

  “Am I real to you?” Diddy’s eyeballs ache.

  “Very.” She continues caressing his face.

  “But you can’t … You can’t … see me.”

  In reply, she leans against his chest. For a moment Diddy thinks she’s been thrown there by the motion of the train; then realizes she wants to kiss him. Eagerly, gratefully he folds his arms around her, strokes the girl’s plump liquid body, curiously soft, boneless. As if she were naked. The brown print dress of some cheap synthetic material feels like another skin, to which his hands seem to adhere. There is suction in the tips of his fingers, desire warming his belly. “I want to make love to you,” he whispers. Has she understood? “There’s something I haven’t told you. I mean, something you didn’t ask me.”

  “What?”

  “Why I didn’t go through with it. Outside.”

  “Because you were afraid?”

  “Well, that too. But it was also because I thought—I thought of you,” says Diddy, one hand on the girl’s breast. Diddy the Seducer. “I’d been staring at you ever since the train started. I wanted to touch you, to make love to you. That’s why I came back.”

  “I’m glad.”

  Is it wrong, what Diddy the Seducer is doing? Another wrong? A crime, an insult to trust?

  “I want to make love to you,” he repeats stonily. A tryst, a truce.

  She nods, drops her hands to his waist and rubs her face against his cheek. For a moment they stand there immobile, a tableau of desire. Graven on stone.

  Then the dry, withering grief breaks over Diddy, and he sags under its weight. The girl seemed to vanish; there’s only the whistling train, and Diddy trying helplessly to remain standing, allowing himself to be propped up. “What am I doing?” he groans. Feels the train under his feet, furiously eating up the track. Its obscene velocity mocking the languor that now invades his frail body. “I think I’m lying to myself.” What he feels isn’t simply the languor of desire. It was a craving for rest, or for something even stronger. To which Diddy wished to surrender himself alone. He felt that tiredness on entering the tunnel, but had refused the feeling. Diddy grasps the girl. “Maybe I don’t want to make love. Maybe I just want to sleep.”

  “Come,” she said, and tugged at his hand.

  “Maybe I want to die.”

  “Come.”

  The girl extends her hand, feeling along the wall until she finds a door handle. “What’s this?”

  “The washroom.”

  “It’s empty, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Diddy says.

  “Shall we go in here?”

  Diddy follows the girl. Inside; the lavatory door locked. It was done. It was about to be done. In the lavatory, smelling of disinfectant and urine. A secret place, a hiding place: lowly yet secure. Diddy glances into the mirror above the metal sink. Then, expectantly, at the girl. “Take off your glasses,” he whispers. She removes them, holds them out for him to put somewhere safe; he lays them in the sink. Takes her in his arms, pressing her against his chest very tightly. Kisses her long and at the end brutally on the mouth.

  Diddy’s face (now) a few inches from the girl’s. Her eyes are a grainy imperfect blue, like milk glass. Diddy stares into them, searching for some modulation of expression. But although they move and blink, they have the monotony of ornaments. Could one infer a look, it would be a sad useless look. Innocent of utility, unable to achieve dominion by staring.

  Bleached eyes.

  Tiffany glass eyes.

  Eyes like teeth.

  Eyes like cooked white of egg.

  Eyes like a specimen of dried white of egg, prepared for the microscope.

  Eyes like tulip bulbs.

  Eyes like an electric drill.

  Prehensile eyes.

  Guilty eyes.

  Metal eyes.

  Meteor eyes.

  Lima-bean eyes.

  Paper eyes.

  Carrion eyes.

  Annealed eyes.

  Damp eyes.

  Wet eyes: the intricate vial of liquid.

  Crisp eyes, soggy eyes.

  Tattered eyes, elegant eyes.

  Stained eyes, clean eyes.

  Creased eyes, smooth eyes.

  Rotten eyes, fresh eyes.

  Sharp-focus eyes, soft-focus eyes.

  Concave eyes, convex eyes.

  Bespoke eyes, ready-to-wear eyes.

  Stiff eyes, flexible eyes.

  Univalve eyes, bivalve eyes.

  Single eyes, multiple eyes.

  Eyes with and without their outer shell.

  Empty eye sockets.

  The white hymen of the eyeball.

  “Can you see at all?” he asks softly. One never knows. An eye within an eye, perhaps. The fabled sight of the blind. She shakes her head. But as sight isn’t only in seeing, eyes aren’t only to see with; eyes, like mouths and hands, are organs of suffering. “Do y
ou ever cry?” he whispers.

  The girl has unzipped the back of her dress. Diddy helps her pull it over her head.

  “Why do my eyes interest you so much?” She stands (now) in her bra and half slip.

  Her aunt had called her Hester. “It’s not your eyes. It’s you, Hester,” says Diddy. Not exactly the truth. “Do you ever cry?”

  The girl pulls down her slip, extends it to Diddy to take from her. (Now) she’s wearing only the low-heeled suède shoes, her stockings held up by a tiny garter belt around her hips, and the bra. No underpants. Diddy astonished and excited by her sudden virtual nakedness. Is it so easy for her to be naked with a stranger because she can’t see herself being seen? Because exposure of her body to the eyes of a stranger seems no different than exposure of her face to all invisible strangers?

  Something cool and experienced about Hester’s undressing. Still, Diddy is almost afraid to acknowledge his erection. Undoubtedly, she’s not a virgin. But does the girl really know what she’s doing? In some way, she’s as opaque to him as he’s invisible to her. “Do you cry?” Diddy persists, stalling.

  “Are you asking me if I’ve worn out my eyes weeping?” says the girl.

  Could one really weep oneself blind? Or will oneself blind? Maybe Diddy had been thinking of that. “I don’t know,” he says. “I guess I am curious about how it happened. Though maybe you don’t like to talk about it. But … is that how … I mean, why you’re—”

  “Maybe,” the girl says. She puts her hands to his belt. “Why aren’t you taking your clothes off?”

  No more stalling. The girl is taking off her bra. Diddy feels his body weaken again, his sex cringe. “Do you really want to, Hester? You can’t see me. You don’t know me.” The humiliation of the Done-Done knotted his groin.

  “I know you.” The girl puts her arms around his neck. She smells of salt water, the sea. Diddy holds her at the waist, licks her closed eyes and ears. Is she forgiving him? By accepting his touch, does she prove that it can be a caress and not just a murderous blow? One can’t forgive oneself. There must be two: forgiver and forgiven.

  He unknots his tie; takes off his shirt, T-shirt, shoes, and trousers. Then his shorts. Diddy piles their clothes on the sink. She reaches for his sex, he for hers. The gestures are all too easy, weightless. A clandestine festivity with nothing to celebrate. Diddy feels unmanned. With his skinny body, he holds her gently in place against the wall but, for a moment, does little. Then, he can do more. Begins weakly, gathering strength as he goes along. His sex is taut again. The cadence of the train assisted him; and when it swerved and their bodies collided more roughly than he intended, he received the train’s impetus into his own body, accepted its directives gratefully, and shared his augmented energy with her. Bowing his head to kiss her breasts, Diddy imagines he is in the cold tunnel. With the distances different, smaller, more intimate. But the lavatory floor seems very far away, as if seen in exaggerated perspective. Towering above the floor, giants are entangled in the act of life.

  Diddy will have to give over his image, and does so gladly. As he enters the girl’s body, the space shrinks. Intimate space, warm instead of cold, known instead of unknown. He was outside, (now) he is inside. They are both inside.

  Diddy’s blind body is happily housed in the girl’s body, moving without constraint. Surely she knows (now) what really happened. But does the act of life annul his crime? Don’t look, don’t listen—not even to the rattling windowpane. The girl guides Diddy’s body in and out of hers, moves toward and away from him. She comes softly, quietly. It’s hard for her to stand; Diddy has to hold her up. Hooking his bent arms under her armpits, bracing his forearms and palms against the wall, as he drives his last sightless thrust deep into her and surrenders to his body’s need to weep. A stream which flows; not a chain, which is jointed. He rests his head on her shoulder. They lean together in a stupor of self-forgetfulness. Diddy, his eyes tightly closed, stands in the darkness as though at the bottom of a pool of water. Opens his eyes. The sounds of the train instantly acquire a different, harsher tonality. Time to wake up. He sighs.

  Reaching for his T-shirt among the clothes stacked on the sink. Stooping down in front of the girl, and gently wiping her thighs. For the first time Diddy notices a number of yellow and blue bruises on the girl’s hips and thighs; no doubt, from falling or bumping into things. Then wipes himself, and stuffs the damp shirt into the disposal slot under the sink. When he turns around, kisses her. “Are you all right?” Diddy murmurs. She makes a purring sound, smiles. Diddy begins to hand the girl her clothing item by item, helping with her dressing when he can. Then hastily dresses himself. Washes his hands. Asks her if she wants to wash hers. She does; and to comb her hair.

  “Where are my glasses?” Diddy sets her glasses on her face, sighing.

  “What’s the matter?” whispers the girl.

  “It’s no good!” (Now) Diddy’s going to botch everything.

  “What?”

  “It’s not you.” He puts one arm around her. “It’s me. I was lying to you before.”

  “About the train?”

  “No, about what happened. While I was out on the tracks.” Touch had not burned away the need to confess with words. Diddy didn’t feel absolved.

  “It isn’t true that you wanted to kill yourself?”

  “Yes. That’s true. But four weeks ago.” He paused, dreading the next sentence. It was speeding along, right behind the one before. Crash. “That isn’t what happened now. In the tunnel.”

  “Tell me. I like the truth.” Brave words, upholding a standard that Diddy wanted to honor. But did she really want his confession? As she had really wanted him physically? Flesh doesn’t lie. Still clasping the girl, he stepped backward, sat down on the cover of the toilet, drawing her onto his lap. Her soft body was trusting. Diddy took a deep breath, effortful with the weight of the girl leaning on his chest.

  “I had a fight with someone outside, on the tracks. I was just trying to find out what was going on.… No, I shouldn’t try to excuse myself.” He struggles to find a straight line of words. “And I think I killed him.”

  The girl gasps, a kind of interruption, but Diddy pretends not to notice. The truth was falling like bricks.

  “If I didn’t actually kill him, he’s dead anyway, and I’m responsible. I hit him with a crowbar and he fell in front of the train, so that when the train started up again—”

  “But,” the girl, interrupting, “you never left the train.” She loosens herself from his embrace. “I was trying to tell you that before. You were never out of the compartment, believe me. I have excellent hearing.” Is the counsel of the senses to be trusted? No.

  “Listen, you must understand.…” Diddy doesn’t explain anything (now), of course. He just repeats himself. She shakes her head. Interrupts him again and again.

  How far apart they are (now), even in the tiny space of the lavatory. The gluey touch is forgotten, the damp hair, and the sweet rubbing and melting. Diddy has let that go, as a common thing, and stands behind his tray of words.

  “We should go back,” the girl says gently. “My aunt might worry.”

  Diddy sighs. Of course. Unlocks the door. Hand in hand, they turn right, then right again into the corridor. A few steps. Diddy waits while Hester smooths down her hair once more. And without telling her, scans her clothing for any telltale disarray or stains; his clothing, also. Pressing his face against the girl’s cheek once more, feeling the hard frame of her glasses between them. Then Diddy slides open the compartment door. Her aunt is still asleep, snoring slightly, mouth askew; the priest and the stamp dealer still reading.

  Seated in the compartment, Diddy gazes at Hester, who seems different (now) than she did either in the corridor or in the lavatory. She’s leaning her head against the back of the seat; he can’t tell if her eyes are shut.

  Diddy shuts his own eyes. Why is the girl so obstinate? She must remember! Suppose she doesn’t? Does Diddy dare ask the priest o
r the stamp dealer if he had left the compartment before? Could the girl be right? Perhaps he conjured up the coarse workman; dreamed the broken male body hugging the track. Maybe he’s transposing back into the vast, humid, uterine, dusky world of the tunnel the adventure that’s just occurred in the cramped space of the washroom. An adventure hardly less expected than what he thinks took place earlier in the tunnel. Is Diddy capable of such a bizarre error? Confusing the transaction of desire with the transaction of violence, trust with fear. Mixing up different domains of blindness and enclosure.

  Diddy is beginning, just beginning, to doubt his memory. But that always happens, doesn’t it? All past events, both real and imaginary, are consigned to the trusteeship of the imagination. Whether the killing of the workman was fantasy or fact, Diddy has no access to it (now) except through his imagination. The past must be reimagined; memories aren’t like furniture, something solid that you can own.

  How to remember. The task of remembering supersedes even the task of getting himself forgiven. Or does it? Diddy worries that he’s taking the easy way out, letting himself off the hook.

  Nothing he can do for the moment, except try to remain calm. When he reaches his destination, he can investigate. Oh, there will probably be no need for that. If indeed a workman has been killed in the tunnel, the news will be carried on the radio, on television, and in the papers. Most of the time Diddy does believe that he’s killed someone. But the size has changed. The ruthless velocity of the train is carrying Diddy away, somewhere farther. Elongating perspective, establishing the past as past in an all too purely material way of altered distance and scale. As the train charges forward, the formidable workman has become diminutive, although all the more precious for his small size. Diddy must strain to see him still. It’s as if Diddy needs glasses (now). The workman has become a little figure in a little tunnel, a toy object, almost a hobby of Diddy’s wandering will. Like a rare postage stamp, much sought after by collectors, picturing the miniature flag of a defunct country since absorbed into a newly created larger nation, or the small pompous profile of a king who had abdicated or been dethroned long ago.