Kahn shook his head. "Not all of them. The life unhinged them more than you think."
"Then they'll be unhinged bank clerks."
"And what about the artists? The writers and actors who can't work. And now they're ten years older. How old will they be before they can go back to work again?"
I thought about it for a moment What would become of me? I couldn't imagine. I was stuck so deep in my past that I couldn't think ahead.
The waiter asked us if we wanted more tea. I looked into his impassive Asiatic face. He was a wanderer like ourselves.
"We won't know what we've lost until it's all over."
"Our imaginary fatherland, you mean?"
"The fatherland in ourselves."
"My dear Kahn," I said, "that, I think, is something I'll be able to bear."
His face changed. "What phrases I've been making," he said. "It must be the heat Would you care for some rice wine?"
"Too hot," I said. "Besides, I'm afraid I'll have to drink vodka Martinis this afternoon."
Mrs. Whymper was waiting and so were the Martinis. This time, in fact, there was a whole pitcher of them. My heart sank. I estimated that the pitcher must hold at least six to eight big ones.
I attempted a crisp, businesslike tone in hopes of getting away quickly. "Where would you like me to hang the Renoir?" I asked. "IVe brought everything with me; it won't take two minutes."
"Let's think it over." Mrs. Whymper, who was all in pink, motioned toward the pitcher. "Your recipe. Ifs very good. I think we're in need of refreshment. Such a hot day!"
"Aren't Martinis too strong in this heat?"
She laughed. "I dont thinfr so. And something tells me you don't either."
I looked around. "Shall we hang it in this room?" I asked. "There behind the sofa would be a good place."
She wagged her head gravely, indicating that she was giving the matter due thought "When were you in Paris last?" she asked.
I resigned myself to my fate. After the second Martini I stood up. "Now I must really get to work. Have you come to a decision?"
"I'm not quite sure. What do you think?"
Again I suggested the place over the sofa. "Just right, I should say. It tits in with the surroundings, and the light is perfect."
Mrs. Whymper arose, a small slender figure with blue-tinted silver hair, took a few steps this way and that appeared to be studying the walls, and finally proceeded to the next room, which was dominated by an oil painting of a man whose face consisted mostly of jutting chin. "My husband," she informed me as we passed through. "Died in 1935. He worked too hard, poor man. Never a moment's time. Now he has plenty." She laughed melodiously. "American men are like that; they don't work to live, they work to die. Wouldn't you say that European men are different?"
"Plenty of them are dying right now."
She turned around. "You're referring to the war? Let's not think about that."
We passed through two more rooms and then mounted a stairway decorated with Guys illustrations. I had taken the Renoir and my equipment with me and looked for a place. "Maybe in my bedroom," said Mrs. Whymper languidly, and went on ahead.
I was beginning to have a definitely sticky feeling. The bedroom was all gold and cream. A broad cream-colored Louis Seize bed with a brocade coverlet, fine chairs, and a black lacquer Louis Quinze dresser with gilt chinoiseries and bronze shoes. For a moment I forgot my sticky feeling. The dresser was magnificent. Standing by itself some distance from the wall, it spoke with the authority of a true work of art.
"Here." I said. "Here and nowhere else. Over the dresser."
Mrs. Whymper said nothing. She turned to me with a veiled, almost absent look. "Don't you agree?" I asked, holding the little Renoir over the dresser.
Still looking at me, she smiled. "I need a chair to stand on," I said.
"Take one."
"But these are Louis Seize!"
Still the same smile. "Think nothing of it."
I tested one of the chairs, and it didn't seem to wobble. Cautiously I climbed up and took measurements. Behind me not a sound. When I had found the right spot, I held the hook in place with my left hand. Before hammering I looked around. Mrs. Whymper was still standing there, holding a cigarette and gazing at me with a dreamy smile that made me feel very uncomfortable. I hammered in the nail. The hook held. I took the picture, which I had set down on the dresser, and hung it. Then I climbed down and put the chair back where it had been. Mrs. Whymper hadn't stirred from the spot.
"All right?" I asked.
She nodded. I followed her to the stairs with a sigh of relief. She went back to the drawing room and picked up the pitcher. "One for the road?" she asked.
"With pleasure," I said, determined to announce after the second drink that I was late for a funeral. It wasn't necessary. Mrs. Whymper continued to look at me without seeming to see me. There was a faint smile on her face, and, as a confirmed masochist, I suspected that she was inwardly laughing at me. "The check hasn't been made out yet," she said. "Won't you come and pick it up in a day or two?"
"Certainly. I'll give you a ring first."
"There's no need to. I'm always home at five. And thank you for the Martini recipe."
My head was in a whirl as I stepped out into the hot street. I had thought this woman was making a fool of herself, and she had only been making a fool of me. She had put on that languid look for the sole purpose of laughing at my discomfiture. Oh well, I consoled myself, I wouldn't have to go again; Silvers would insist on picking up the check, for fear of letting me in on his prices.
"No car?" I asked Natasha.
"No car, no driver, no vodka, and no courage. It's too hot. This hotel ought to put in air conditioning."
"But we've got the makings of Moscow mules. Root beer, limes, vodka, and ice."
She looked at me affectionately. "You shopped for all that?"
"Certainly. And I've already got two Martinis under my belt."
She laughed. "At Mrs. Whymper's?"
"Right. How did you know?"
"She's famous."
"For what? Her Martinis?"
"For the Martinis, too."
"She's an old lush. I'm amazed that it all went off so smoothly."
"Has she paid?"
"Not yet," I said with alarm. "Why? Do you think she'll return the picture?"
"I doubt it. She's too fond of young men."
"What?"
"She's taken a shine to you."
"Natasha," I said, "are you serious? Were you trying to match me up with that old booze hound?"
She laughed. "Forget it," she said. "Give me a Moscow mule."
"Not a drop. Answer me first."
"Did you like her?"
I stared at her.
"Ha!" she said. "She likes young men and she likes you. Has she invited you to one of her parties?"
"Not yet. So far she's only asked me to pick up the check," I said angrily. "But maybe she will."
"She will, all right." Natasha was watching me. "And she'll invite me, too."
"Are you so sure? Or have you gone through this routine before? Should she have assaulted me?"
"No," said Natasha dryly. "Give me some vodka."
"Why not a vodka Martini?"
"Because I don't drink Martinis. Any more questions?"
"Several. I'm not used to being palmed off as a gigolo." The vodka was in my face before I saw her throw it. It was dripping down my chin. Livid and wide-eyed, she reached for the bottle. I was quicker. I grabbed it, made sure the cork was secure, and tossed it onto the nearest plush sofa, out of her reach. She made a leap, but I held her fast. Imprisoning her two hands in one of mine, I pushed her into a corner and tugged at her skirt. "Don't touch me," she hissed. "I'm not only going to touch you, you she-devil, I'm going to fuck you on the spot." She spat in my face and kicked me. I forced her backward. Struggling to free herself, she stumbled and fell. I pushed her down on the sofa, thrust my knee between her legs, and pulled up her
skirt. "Let me go, you fool," she whispered in a high, strange voice, "let me go or I'll scream." "Scream away," I snarled. "You she-devil, you're going to get fucked." "Somebody's coming. Can't you see somebody's coming? Let me go, you beast, you monster, let me . . ."
She lay stiff on the sofa, arching her back to keep me at a distance. I felt the hard flesh of her legs against mine. She had nothing on under her skirt, and I felt the skin of her belly. I pushed her away and tore open my fly. Her face was close to mine, and I could see her staring eyes. "Let me go," she whispered. "Not here, not here, let me go, not here . . . not here . . ."
"Where else, you damn bitch," I snarled. "Take your hand away or I'll pull it off. ..."
"Not here, not here," she whispered in the same high, strange voice.
"Where else, you . . . you . . ."
"In your room, not here, in your room ..."
"So you can run away and have a good laugh-"
"I won't run away, I won't run away, but not here. I promise I won't run away, dearest, but not here, dearest..."
"What?"
"Let me go. I promise, I won't run away, but let me go. Somebody's coming. ..."
I let her go. I stood up. I expected her to push me aside and run. She didn't. She pulled down her skirt. "Put that away," she whispered. "What?" "That!" I put it away. I watched her. Maybe she'd run for it, but I could still stop her. "Come along," she said. "Where to?" "Your room." I followed her, then passed her and went ahead, first hurrying, then more cautiously. The squeaky steps, the green runner, the think! sign, the second flight of stairs to the third floor, where my room was. I stopped at the door. "You can go away if you like," I said. "Come on in," she said. I followed her and closed the door. I didn't lock it. I felt a sudden leI'down; I leaned against the wall with the sinking feeling you get in a descending elevator. I steadied myself against the wall.
I saw Natasha lying on the bed. "Come on," she said.
"I can't."
"What do you mean?"
"I can't. Those damn stairs."
"What have the stairs got to do with it?"
"I don't know. I can't, that" s all. Throw me out if you want to."
"Out of your own room?'
"Then laugh at me."
"Why should I laugh?"
"I don't know. It's traditional for women to laugh when this happens."
"It never happened to me."
"All the more reason to laugh."
"No," said Natasha.
"Why don't you go away?"
"Do you want me to?"
"No."
She hadn't moved. Now she propped her head on her arm and looked at me. "I feel lousy," I said.
"I feel fine," she said.
"It was your calling me 'dearest,'" I said. "That's what murdered me."
"I thought it was the stairs."
"No, it was your wanting to all of a sudden."
"Don't you want me to want to?"
"Don't try to get me mixed up."
"Where's the bathroom?" she asked.
"Outside. Three doors down."
She stood up slowly, ran her hand through her hair, and went to the door. She grazed me in passing. I let go of the wall and reached for her. She tried to break away. I felt the touch of her body as keenly as if she had been naked. In that moment I recovered. I held her fast. "But you don't want me," she whispered, averting her face and holding her elbows close to her body. I picked her up and carried her back to the bed. She was heavier than I had thought. "I want you," I said. "I want you and nothing but you, I want you more than myself, I want to be inside you, all of me inside you." My face was directly over hers. Her eyes were very brilliant and jigid. I felt her breasts and I felt myself going into her, I felt it in my neck and hands and member. "Then take me," she hissed, her eyes still open. 'Take me and crush me and crash through me, break me to pieces, do it, do it, deeper, deeper, pierce me, fuck me, the fountain is gushing, my ears are full of it, I'm coming, I'm bursting, the rain, the rain, the swishing of the rain . . ." Her voice dwindled to an incomprehensible, disjointed murmur, and then died away altogether.
She opened her eyes, stretched, mumbled something, then closed them again. "Has it rained?" she asked.
I burst out laughing. "Not yet. Maybe tonight."
"It's cooler. Where did you say the bathroom was?"
"Three doors down."
"Can I use your bathrobe?"
I gave it to her. Slowly and deliberately, without looking at me, she took everything off but her shoes. She showed no sign of embarrassment. She wasn't as thin as I had thought "You're beautiful," I said.
She looked up. "Not too fat?"
"Good God, no."
"That's lucky," she said. "Then there's hope for our future. Because I like to eat and in my job I'm not allowed to be fat."
"Well go out to dinner later on. You can eat as much as you like—mountains of hors d'oeuvres, roast goose, and a nice gooey dessert."
She took my soap and her handbag, saluted in the doorway, and went out. I lay still, thinking of nothing. I, too, had the feeling that rain had fallen. I knew it wasn't true, but I nevertheless went to the window and looked out. A wave of sultry garbage-scented air rose from the court. It had rained only in our room. I lay down again and stared at the bare light bulb that hung from the ceiling. Natasha came back. "I went into the wrong room," she said.
"Was anybody in it?"
"No. It was dark. Don't people lock their doors here?"
"Some of them don't. They have nothing worth stealing."
She smelled of soap and cologne. "Mrs. Whymper likes young men," she said, "but that's as far as it goes. She likes to talk with them, that's all. Can't you get that into your thick head?"
"Yes," I said, not quite convinced.
Natasha looked into the tarnished mirror over the washbasin and brushed her hair in the bleak light. "Her husband died of syphilis," she added. "He probably infected her."
"Besides, she has cancer and athlete's foot and bathes in Martinis," I countered.
She laughed. "You don't believe me. Why should you?"
I stood up, took the brush out of her hand, and kissed her. "What would you think," I asked, "if I told you that it makes me tremble to touch you?"
"It didn't always look that way."
"Never mind. That's how it is now."
She pressed close to me. "I'd kill you if it weren't," she said.
I slipped the bathrobe off her and let it fall to the ground. "You have the longest legs I've ever seen," I said, and turned out the light. I put my arm around her and groped my way to the bed. She took my hands and pressed them to her breasts. In the darkness I could see nothing but her pale skin and the black hollows of her mouth and eyes. "Slowly," she whispered. "I want to come very slowly."
We held each other very close and felt the dark wave rising and surging over us. Afterward we lay still, breathing gently and feeling the lesser waves ebb within us until we could no longer distinguish them from our breath.
Natasha came fo life first. "Got a cigarette?"
"Yes." Her face was serene and innocent in the glow of the match. "Would you like something to drink?" I asked.
The motion of her cigarette told me that she was nodding. "But no vodka."
"I haven't got a refrigerator; everything is warm. But I can get something downstairs."
"Can't someone bring it up?"
"There's only Melikov."
I heard Natasha laugh in the darkness. "Hell see us anyway when we go down," she said.
"But then we shall have some clothes on," I said.
Natasha kissed me. "All right," she said. "We'll get dressed. I'm hungry anyway. Let's go to the King of the Sea."
"Again? Wouldn't you rather go somewhere else?"
"Have you got your commission for the Whymper sale?"
"Not yet."
"Then we'll have to go to the King of the Sea."
She jumped out of bed and switched on the light. She cr
ossed the room naked and picked up my bathrobe. "Three doors down," I said.
"Those are the things one never forgets."
I got up and dressed. Then I sat down on the bed and waited for her to come back.