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to sit on the ottoman again.
    “Go on.”
    “Well, I was browsing around Brentano’s—this was the winter right after Barnegat Bay—and Brentano’s, you know, carries a lot of museum-type antique jewelry and semi-precious stones, coral and native handicrafts. Stuff like that. Well, they had a collection of African masks they were selling. Very primitive. Strong and somehow frightening. You know the effect primitive African art has. It touches something very deep, very mysterious. Well, I wanted to have sex with Gilda while we both wore those masks. An irrational feeling, I know. I knew it at the time, but I couldn’t resist. So I bought two masks—they weren’t cheap—and brought them home. Gilda didn’t like them and didn’t dislike them. But she let me hang them in the hallway out there. A few weeks later we had a lot to drink—”
    “You got her drunk.”
    “I guess. But she wouldn’t do it. She wouldn’t wear one of those masks in bed. She said I was crazy. Anyway, the next day she threw the masks away. Or burned them, or gave them away, or something. They were gone when I got home.”
    “And then you were divorced?”
    “Well, not just because of the sunglasses and the African masks. There were other things. We had been growing apart for some time. But the business with the masks was certainly a contributing factor. Strange story—no?”
    She got up to extinguish the three remaining candles. They smoked a bit, and she licked her fingers, then damped the wicks. She poured both of them a little more vodka, then regarded the candelabrum, head cocked to one side.
    “That’s better.”
    “Yes,” he agreed. “It is.”
    “Do you have a cigarette?”
    “I smoke a kind made from dried lettuce leaves. Non-nicotine. But I have the regular kind too. Which would you like?”
    “The poisonous variety.”
    He lighted it for her, and she strolled up and down before the mirrored wall, holding her elbows. Her head was bent forward; long hair hid her face.
    “No,” she said, “I don’t believe it was irrational. And I don’t believe you’re crazy. I’m talking now about the sunglasses and the masks. You see, there was a time when sex itself, by itself, had a power, a mystery, an awe it no longer has. Today it’s ‘Shall we have another martini or shall we fuck?’ The act itself has no more meaning than a second dessert. In an effort to restore the meaning, people try to increase the pleasure. They use all kinds of gadgets, but all they do is add to the mechanization of sex. It’s the wrong remedy. Sex is not solely, or even mainly, physical pleasure. Sex is a rite. And the only way to restore its meaning is to bring to it the trappings of a ceremony. That’s why I was so delighted to discover the Mortons’ shop. Probably without realizing it, they sensed that today the psychic satisfactions of sex have become more important than physical gratifications. Sex has become, or should become, a dramatic art. It was once, in several cultures. And the Mortons have made a start in providing the make-up, costumes, and scenery for the play. It is only a start, but it is a good one. Now about you…I think you became, if not bored then at least dissatisfied with sex with your ‘healthy, normal’ wife. ‘Is this all there is?’ you asked. ‘Is there nothing more?’ Of course there is more. Much, much more. And you were on the right track when you spoke about “a revelation…a door opening’ when you made love wearing sunglasses. And when you said the African masks were ‘primitive’ and ‘somehow frightening.’ You have, in effect, discovered the unknown or disregarded side of sex: its psychic fulfillment. Having become aware of it, you suspect—rightly so—that its spiritual satisfactions can far surpass physical pleasure. After all, there are a limited number of orifices and mucous membranes in the human body. In other words, you are beginning to see sex as a religious rite and a dramatic