Death Kit

by Susan Sontag

  True. And not that strong either; or particularly brave. But then, he doesn’t have to be (now), since he’s no longer alone. If the past draws, here’s a counterpull from the present. That is, the future.

  Diddy still in the station, but heading away from the site of train traffic. Heading (now) toward the exit. Past may not be directly converted into future, but the problem admits of a more roundabout solution. Treat time as space. Once time is converted into space, then one space may be exchanged for another. For example: Diddy’s case. The past is here. Here where the guilt surges up. So he will go elsewhere. And he has a place to go to, the hospital where his future is being born. Diddy has Hester and the space she inhabits, which he will share with her. And when she shares with him the space he inhabits, when he draws her into it, it will become a different space. Transformed and disinfected.

  Diddy in a taxi, his panic and tumult pacified, getting closer and closer to the hospital and his afternoon hours with Hester. Is Diddy being complacent? Perhaps. Thus far, Hester is a very smooth stone in his consciousness. Not that he’s complacent about the girl; his feeling for her has all the energy of romantic passion. But he’s not obsessed with her. She’s too exclusively a release from, or neutralization of, his obsessions.

  How well does he understand Hester apart from himself? Not very well, it would seem. Admittedly, she doesn’t make understanding easy. But is Diddy trying as hard as he might? The sum of all his recent efforts.

  Perhaps, to understand Hester, he’ll have to do more than love her and be in love with her. Perhaps, if their union is to succeed and their life together genuinely flourish, he will have to become obsessed with her. But is one ever obsessed with anything except what is, in some way, destructive? No. Then perhaps Diddy will have to locate the element of destructiveness lodged deep in Hester. Seems absurd, doesn’t it? But perhaps not. There aren’t any saints on this earth, are there?

  Take Hester’s attitude to her mother. Can’t be that her daughter simply forgives Stella Nayburn for what she did when Hester was fourteen. Can’t be that Hester simply loves and misses her mother. What happened to the rage of the betrayed child? She could only suppress it, which means it’s still there: coming out, inverted, as goodness. With dark and bitter fluids seething underneath. Maybe Hester doesn’t know how else to be; except to be good. But, if that’s the case, she’s murderously good. Cannot expunge her dark, demonic side. Only keep it hidden. Diddy must look at her more carefully. Without getting too close. Without inviting Hester to turn a comparable look on him.

  The taxi is pulling up in front of the Warren Institute. Diddy pays, gets out. Lying in his pocket, the paperback edition of Emma. He stops off at the coffee shop in the hospital lobby; orders an egg salad sandwich on toast and a coffee to go. Hester, a light eater, will already have had her lunch; but Diddy, who gobbled down a club sandwich with Mrs. Nayburn at the station an hour ago, is hungry again. As he rides up the elevator, with his small paper bag in his hand, the inside of his mouth begins to get moist. Its stimulus: being hungry and knowing he’s about to be fed. Another stimulus: a wave of tenderness toward Hester. Anticipation of the intense pleasure of just seeing her, sharing this afternoon with her, however restricted their situation. But it’s improving all the time. Today Mrs. Nayburn left. No more talking for courtesy’s sake. And Hester herself is more active. Ever since she’s been allowed out of bed—a week already—they may choose either to stay in her room or to settle in the patients’ lounge at the end of the corridor. And on the horizon, only two days away, the largest choice of all: the whole world from which to carve out their space.

  His thoughts in the taxi seem (now) very foolish to Diddy. His plans to scrutinize the girl in the hope of unmasking her perfections, something perverse and mean-spirited. If Hester discloses flaws of character, as who does not, he will be the tactful lover. Like Mr. Knightly, waiting patiently, his true sentiments undeclared, until the moment when Emma perceives her follies, feels shame over them, and repudiates them. Then, because it’s finally wanted, Mr. Knightly can offer the healing balm of his generous love.

  Presumptuous Diddy! Far more likely to be Hester who will discover the flaws, his flaws. Hester who will need much patience to put up with him. But can’t that painful process be circumvented? If Diddy already knows what he does that’s foolish and stupid, why can’t he become wise? Act wisely. For, oh, Diddy has perceived his follies countless times. Is heartily ashamed of them, strenuously repudiates them. It’s only that he doesn’t understand. Not really. A hopeless, bumbling tourist in the somber labyrinth of his own consciousness.

  The punitive labyrinth.

  The initiatory labyrinth.

  The architectonic labyrinth.

  The girl with the oval sunglasses, sure-footed in the dark, will lead him out.

  “Hester?” Not in her room. Diddy wants to know from the college student and the wife of the state senator where she’s gone.

  Probably in the lounge.

  Diddy races down the corridor. To the room at the end, a room with a wall of windows like a sun porch. Yes! At the sight of her, Diddy’s heart breaks open; for somewhere he’s never rid of the fear that Hester doesn’t exist. Or will vanish, as Incardona has. Be withdrawn, like the newspaper account of Incardona’s death. Diddy troubled by the diminished substantiality of this death, the fact that he’s (now) so much less powerfully obsessed by it.

  Hester, stretched out on a leather reclining chair, wrapped in her yellow bathrobe, holds her face to the sun. Her long blond hair hangs over the sides of the chair; looking as if it had been freshly washed. This morning? How pale she is. So much in need of sun, pure air, exercise, food that whets the appetite, and the body of an ardent lover. But Hester has, at least, found the sun. Which starts, glintingly, off her dark glasses. As Hester is the sun that Diddy’s found, the black sun.

  * * *

  Wednesday morning, three days later. Hester scheduled to leave the hospital at ten o’clock.

  On the slight chance that she might be sent down earlier, Diddy arrived at nine. Is Diddy’s early arrival the precaution of Diddy the Overexcited? Not exactly. Arrived a whole hour early because of the pleasure he took in being extra-considerate on Hester’s behalf, the most vigilant lover and protector imaginable. Preferring to wait for her rather than run the slightest risk of keeping her waiting for him. And also, a less happy reason. Because he senses that Hester is suspicious of him. Something more than the natural mistrust of the blind and dependent of those to whose care they are, without recourse, committed. It was a mistrust of him, Diddy. Who has (now) to prove himself to his bride.

  At exactly ten, Hester comes out of an elevator into the lobby. A nurse is holding her arm, carrying her suitcase. Diddy stubs out his cigarette in a free-standing metal ashtray, jumps up from the bench where he’s been restlessly chain-smoking and thumbing through magazines, rushes across the marble floor to embrace the girl. And to grasp her arm and the suitcase. As they’re walking out the imposing main door, Diddy notices that Hester’s pretty face seems puffy. Has she been weeping? Her eyes, of course, are concealed by the large oval dark glasses, so he can’t tell without asking. But doesn’t want to ask. If Diddy can make Hester happy starting from today, it won’t matter. And he can. Feels full of energy. Enough for both of them.

  “Let’s walk a little,” he says. “The sun is so good.”

  An unseasonably warm day for late November. Diddy helps Hester take off the light brown camel’s hair coat she’s wearing, and folds it over his left arm.

  Diddy steering, they walk the three blocks leading directly to Monroe Park. Diddy, exhilarated, wanting to think only of her, can’t help noticing with displeasure how many men stop, turn around, leer grossly at her soft body in the slight, clinging dress. Like the one she wore on the train, a dress intended to be touched more than to be seen. Ordinarily, Diddy would be pleased to notice other men envying him his woman, coveting her. When men had stared in the street at Joan, Didd
y liked it. Different with Hester. Joan could see the men staring at her, could look at the men themselves; appraise them, reject them, reaffirm Diddy. But Hester, who can’t see anyone, can’t make many choices. Take, for example, what’s happening at this very moment. That bastard in the blue jeans who just strutted by. And stared, then mouthed and tongued at her obscenely. Maybe, if she could see, Hester would choose to go with him. Maybe she’d prefer him to Diddy.

  Even though the sun is shining. Even though Hester is truly his for the first time: they’re outside in the world, just the two of them; he has her entirely to himself. Still Diddy continues to think of the world. As well as of Hester. Diddy, not exactly glad she doesn’t see, is glad she’ll never see how ugly everything is. A potent ignorance. Perhaps, he hopes, contagious. If Hester can’t see the ugliness, it’s possible that, after a while, he’ll be unable to see it, too. How fine that would be. Simply not to see. Garbage trucks, bums, neon signs, gutters, plastic toys, parking lots, unhappy children, Automats, old women on the benches of the traffic islands on upper Broadway.

  He can’t imagine ever, in Hester’s company, being frightened of Incardona. Because she could never share his terror. How fortunate (now) for Diddy that Hester doesn’t believe in what happened in the tunnel. Extra insulation from his fears, besides the fact that blind people can’t see ghosts, any more than they can see palpable people. They can’t be haunted. Can be, at worst, only bewildered. Diddy’s not frightened of Incardona (now). Because he no longer has to think only, or even mainly, of himself. Hester is here, interposed between Diddy and himself. Unable to see. Refusing to see. Refusing to acknowledge the doubling of the self in dreams.

  They’re approaching the park. It had rained yesterday, and Diddy is dizzy with pleasure at the keen smell of the air this morning. “Smell it, darling,” he exclaims. His right arm, the arm he has encircling her waist, pulling her even more strongly against his right side. “Do you feel the sun?”

  Yes.

  “We’re passing a pond with … let me see … seven white and brown ducks. A boy is trying to launch a metal model of a PT boat in the pond … But it’s sinking. Listen, he’s crying. Now his mother is picking him up.…”

  Past the duck pond. “Do you want an ice-cream cone? A Popsicle? An Eskimo Pie?”

  Yes. A vanilla thing on a stick with coconut icing. Diddy buys two of them.

  A little farther, out of the vendor’s sight. Diddy chooses a sunny piece of ground under a tree, lays their coats to one side. “Feel the bark of the tree, darling. Here, give me your hand.…” He sits beneath the tree, leans his back against the trunk; Hester stretches out perpendicular to him, rests her head on his thighs.

  “You’ve gained weight.” Nuzzling her head against his belly. “You needed to. It’s much nicer now.”

  Diddy throws back his head against the trunk, looking up into the sky. If he could just have this moment always inside his head. No words are conceivable. She must understand. What Diddy feels for Hester is rooted more deeply than anything ever felt for Joan, or for any other woman. His love is the signature of his life.

  “Are you comfortable, Dalton? Never mind my head, if you want to change your position.”

  “I am. I won’t.” He strokes her hair, then grasps her head, and pulls it over the pulsing sex inside his trousers; against his belly. “Try to sleep.”

  Hester seems to breathe more slowly and deeply. Is she asleep (now)? Diddy could push back her glasses to see whether her eyes are closed, but that might wake her. For one thing, because the sun is strong and he doesn’t know whether her eyes still retain some sensitivity to light.

  No, she’s moving slightly. Passing her hand across her forehead.

  “Were you crying this morning before you came down?” asks Diddy softly and after a longish silence. The girl nods. “Why? Will you tell me?” Maybe Hester was grieving for her mother. Had this operation succeeded in restoring her sight, her mother’s crime would have been repealed. Stella Nayburn, though still guilty, would somehow be made less guilty. As Diddy’s guilt would diminish, though never disappear altogether, if Incardona could rise from the dead.

  “Why?” Diddy repeats.

  “Because I still have so many tears inside me. And I don’t believe in miracles.”

  Diddy suspects that something bad is happening. But wants to allow it, not deflect it. “By a miracle, do you mean us? Our coming together. You don’t believe in … that?”

  “Yes,” said Hester.

  “I see. No, maybe I don’t see … Tell me, is believing in it so very important?”

  “No. At least I don’t think so…” Diddy gasped. Was it all right then? He could understand the words. Hester reaches up to touch his cheek. “Am I upsetting you? I’m sorry. I don’t want to.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Diddy said hoarsely.

  “But I do,” Hester says. “You know I do. Everything’s more difficult for you than it is for me, I think. You have a truth that’s different from mine. Granted mine is painful. But yours is even harder to endure. Don’t you know I know that?”

  “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

  “Don’t you? I don’t know how to explain any better.… Look, Dalton, I understand what you feel about me. But it isn’t as simple as you think. You’re so pious, darling.” Diddy smiled at the endearment. “That’s where the business of truth comes in. You want to annihilate your truth, and be like me. I don’t think you can do that, Dalton. And even if you can, you shouldn’t want to. You have to respect my limits. And yours. You mustn’t be too eager to change yourself.”

  Mainly, what Diddy heard were the sweet tones of Hester’s voice. But does understand a little; knew that he was being rebuked. Tenderly. And, therefore, found the rebuke acceptable. As long as Hester wasn’t taking back her love. Which, already, had become almost unthinkable. Suppose, one day, she declares in her quiet way, I don’t love you. If what Hester would be saying was that she’d never loved him, never, he felt (now) he would die. However, if what Hester would mean was that she didn’t love him any more, then Diddy could try to make her love him again. Putting his life as the forfeit. Of course, couldn’t literally force Hester to love him. He’d have to convince her. But by what means? What signs, tokens, evidence of his love could he give to a blind person?

  “I love you so much.” Is it wrong for Diddy to say that (now)? As his only reply to what she’s just said? Words cannot compel the unconditional movements of the heart.

  “You know I love you, Dalton. I just hope my love is good for you.”

  Diddy, bending over to find Hester’s mouth, her tongue. If she only knew.

  Diddy satisfied. He has his treasure, has banished his swarthy demon with the flame of love. His blond, sightless angel will heal him, will redeem him. Which she’s already begun to do. And he, in return, will protect her from the world. Which is partitioned off with walls, made of wood and brick and stone and cement; which is stocked with sharp pointed objects that cut the flesh; which is charged with dead looks and inhumane caresses that bruise the spirit. Diddy will devote himself entirely to taking care of her.

  Goody Did aware of the selfish gratifications in all this. Attached to his pledge of absolute devotion and care, there’s one stipulation. Hester is to depend on him, and on no one else. To see the world through him only, not through the eyes of any other. That much is fixed. Diddy won’t share Hester with anyone. Does she know how fanatically possessive of her he’s going to be? Will she hate that?

  Gratified apart from the need to possess.… In contemplating all the arduous responsibilities and practical tasks about to be his, Diddy has, correctly, no sense that he’s making a sacrifice. For he himself will be a co-beneficiary of his humblest daily services for Hester. If Hester will benefit from his faithful attendance in a practical sense, he gains more. Gains in a spiritual way.

  That benefit consisting in the fact that, when he will be charged with narrating the visible world to Heste
r and negotiating for her all her transactions with palpable things, he’ll have a chance to see the whole world with fresh eyes.

  Diddy will tell Hester about old sunsets, and the sun will be seen to fall behind the horizon for the first time. Seeing a child being beaten will not make him weep blood for days after. The literature about the Nazi concentration camps will no longer seem the only real truth about man. The death of a gnat will become something trivial: the death of a gnat. The muck of large cities will not so easily leap from its crevasses and ledges, and adhere to him. The loud, rude, metallic voices won’t collect like silt inside his head.

  And all the imaginary and swiftly imagined lives of bedraggled passers-by in subways, in buses, in auditoriums, on beaches, in parks, in offices, and on the street will seem less mortally horrifying.

  Though his job is to protect Hester from the world, Diddy will try to view the world more generously. Not only as an arena of contamination, but also as a space to be continually reinvented and reexamined. If only he weren’t so fearful of being touched. Convinced in advance as he is that it’s bound to be wounding, not soothing. So fearful of touching. Convinced in advance as he is that he’s bound to be repulsed.

  Undoubtedly, Diddy’s fears would be modified if he couldn’t see. Sight permits him to reach conclusions at a distance, before he’s come close enough to touch and be touched. Sight encourages abstractions—a luxury of sighted persons. While for Hester, as for all blind persons, judgment must wait until she closes, in specific contact, with something particular. When nothing has a look, there are no general categories. When nothing has a look, everything becomes concrete, palpable, touchable.

  It occurs to Diddy that perhaps all his terrors derive from the mixed blessing of being able to see. Because he can see, he can perceive the world abstractly. At a distance. That’s what Diddy has to unlearn. Disband his imagination, which is glued with incredulity upon past images and gazes with apprehension into the tube of the future. That imagination which depletes his vitality, consigning everything to the rack of time. To be in the present; to be without imagination, unable to anticipate anything; to be.