I spent 28 days on this novel. It is 448-page long and I have been busy with snowboarding and skiing on the weekends. Nevertheless, I wanted to spend as much time as possible with the characters in this book. Rooney’s books had always been about character driven. Intermezzo is no exception. Peter is 32 and seeing Sylvia (about his age) and Naomi (23) at the same time. His 22-year-old younger brother, Ivan, met and fell in love with Margaret, a 36-year-old divorced woman. Rooney switches back and forth between their stories and I have to say the scenes between Ivan and Margaret hooked me in, particular their first sex scene. Yes, there are lots of sex in this book and her writing is so damn good. This is her fourth novel I read; therefore, I have become a fan of Sally Rooney. I definitely enjoyed this book. It keeps me away from all the horrible news in America.
The first sex scene between Ivan and Margaret was so damn lucious that I had to quote in full. I hope Rooney doesn’t mind. She writes beautifully:
In the bedroom the windowpane is wet with condensation, and Ivan has to kneel up on the mattress to pull down the blind. The ceiling light is off but the light in the hall is still on, the door half-open. Margaret gets onto the bed beside him, they lie down together. The sheets on the bed feel cold, maybe damp, or maybe just very cold. He unbuttons her cardigan, her blouse, and she helps him to unhook the clasp of her bra. He can feel himself sweating: his underarms, his forehead, a hot feeling. With her mouth she finds his mouth and they kiss once more. Her right breast in his left hand, her nipple raised under the tip of his thumb, hard, touching. She lets out a little breath almost into his mouth, a little sigh, as if she likes to be touched that way. Who can explain such a thing, and why even try to explain: an understanding shared between two people. Her breath warm on his lips when she sighs, and when he kisses her again, a muted sound from her throat. He moves his fingers to her zip and she lets him, lifts her hips from the mattress to help him take off her skirt. Lying on her back now she’s wearing only a pair of black briefs. You’re really beautiful, he says. I mean, obviously. I presume people tell you that all the time. She gives a kind of laugh, shrugging her shoulders. Well, no, she says. But then I don’t do things like this a lot. Kneeling upright on the mattress he looks at her. Right, he says. Me neither. With eyes glittering soft in the almost-darkness she looks back at him. You’re not a virgin, are you, Ivan? she says. I hope you don’t mind me asking. Swallowing, he laughs and the laughter catches in his throat. No, he answers. I’m actually not, but it’s okay. I guess I probably seem kind of nervous. Softly she smiles. That’s alright, she says. I’m a little bit nervous myself. A certain feeling rises inside him when she says this: like a pleasurable form of anxiety, a strange anxious anticipation of pleasure. He touches with his fingers the black cotton of her underwear, damp, and she makes another high moaning sound, closing her eyes. What are you nervous about? he asks. Laughing breathlessly she says: Oh God, I don’t know. I don’t know what you must think of me. The same anxious thrill moves through him again, and he finds himself without conscious thought answering her, rapidly and almost unintelligibly: No, don’t worry. I really like you. Don’t worry about that at all. Inside her underwear, his fingers, wet, and her hand is clutching at the pillowcase. At this moment, touching her, watching her eyes flutter closed, he wants her so badly, feels such a wrenching almost painful wave of desire, that even the increasingly likely prospect of having her, of being inside her, within only a few seconds or minutes, feels like it might not be enough to relieve this desire completely. Her mouth, wet, open in that way, he wants, and to make her come, to feel it like that when he’s in her, he wants so much, Jesus Christ. He really is sweating a lot, he has to wipe his forehead with his wrist, and his upper lip is wet, which makes him nervous again, like maybe it’s disgusting to sweat so much, or even at all. She isn’t sweating, although she’s very very wet where he’s touching her with his fingers, wet inside, and moaning from her throat. Do you have a condom? she asks. The idea of her asking, oh God. He goes on touching her still. Yeah, he says. In my suitcase. After a second he adds: I guess it’s been there for a while. Like a year maybe. But that’s okay, is it? She lifts her hand to her head, touching her hair, half-smiling. I’m not an expert, she says. But there should be an expiry date, I think. He takes his hand out from her underwear, wet, and she kind of groans. Ah, he hears himself saying. Sorry. I really love touching you like that. She makes the same noise again and covers half her face with her hand. It’s so good, she says. If she brushed against him even really lightly now, just brushing him there with her hand, he probably would come. Oh no. What if he can’t even do anything to her, imagine, and she would be awkwardly nice about it, probably. He gets off the bed and goes out to the hall, where his suitcase sits on the floor under the coat rack. It’s very bright out here with the light on: quiet also, and cold. He unzips the front pocket of the case and takes out a serrated foil square he got for free in college like two years ago, unbranded. In small black dotted print the expiry date reads: 07/25. He puts it in his pocket and goes back inside, saying: Yeah, I checked, it’s okay. When he gets on the bed she starts to unbutton his shirt, and her breasts are rising and falling with her breath, light, shallow. How much she liked it when he touched her, he thinks: and what if it’s different now, and not as good. Quietly, quickly, he finishes undressing and rolls the condom on. She helps him to take off her briefs. Dark curls, damp, and she rolls her head back on the pillow, saying softly: Oh. To disappoint her like that, he thinks. One of her arms she has laid across her body. He gets on top of her, finding her mouth again, open. Yeah, I really want you to like it, he says. I mean, that’s kind of concerning me a little bit. Just the idea, you know. Looking up at him as if amused she smiles. Mm, she says. But that’s a nice normal thing to be concerned about, isn’t it? He laughs, hears himself laughing. Is it? he says. Okay. But still, I feel that. Like even if it is normal, I would still be concerned. She puts her hand down between their bodies, and with the palm of her hand, warm, she touches him, saying: It’s okay. And it is okay, he thinks. The story of human life. All of their ancestors, his, and hers also. Life itself, the passing mystery. Very easily in the end he moves inside her. She lets out a little gasping sound, her hand grasping his arm, and she whispers something. His name. He hears her. Closing his eyes quickly now not to see. And her hips lift a little off the mattress, wanting what he wants. Jesus Christ, he says. Fuck. So close almost already feeling her so wet and her high breathing. Deeper inside she wants him and when he gives it to her like that she likes it better, he can feel. Try to remember everything, he thinks. Every breath exactly. Her mouth on his neck, mumbling again: Ivan, oh God. Because she likes it so much. He bites on his tongue for a second. Saying his name for instance. And so wet like this and breathing. Because she does. Yeah, he says. I feel like, kind of worried that I might, uh- They look at one another, her face all flushed and hot, like his, and she says: It’s okay, don’t worry. It’s nice. Throbbing inside her and wet she says this. Closing his eyes he can hear himself crying out kind of and feels light-headed, pinpricks behind his eyelids, a fainting sort of feeling, and he says again: Fuck. It’s finished then. How long, like a minute probably. Her arms heavy around his neck he feels. I’m sorry, he says. Just, uh. I guess it felt like, a little bit too good. Not to blame you, obviously. She’s laughing now, sweetly, her face still flushed, looking up at him. You can blame me, she says. I don’t mind. But you don’t have to say sorry, it was perfect. A very strong feeling comes over him then: something inside himself warm and spreading, like dying or being born. He has no idea what the feeling is, whether it’s good or dangerous. It’s related to her, the words she’s saying, his feeling about her words. She said it was perfect. And she meant what he did to her, even though it was over too quickly, she liked it, or more than liking. You’re being nice, he says. She’s smiling, lying in his arms, her eyes closing, sleepy, and the feeling is so strong, powerful, like he could lift an entire building in his hands. No, I mean it, she says. It was beautiful. Thank you. Is this how it feels, he thinks, to get what you want? To desire, and at the same time to have, still desiring, but fulfilled. It was beautiful, thank you. Ah, I feel really happy, he says. Or, I don’t know, that’s not even the right word. Her eyes are closed then. Me too, she murmurs. He’s nodding his head, feeling for no reason a powerful sense of protectiveness over her. Sensing that she wants to sleep, he draws away, and she turns over on her side to face him. He leaves the condom on the carpet beside the bed, he’ll get it in the morning, and pulls the duvet up over them both. Other people might experience these feelings all the time, whatever they are. Strong, powerful feelings of happiness, satisfaction, protectiveness. It could all be very ordinary, in the aftermath of mutually pleasant episodes like just now. Or even if it’s rare, to have a few times in life and no more, still worth living for, he thinks. To have met her like this: beautiful, perfect. A life worth living, yes.