She agrees to live with him for "a few months"; where? probably at the Hotel Terminus, which is close to the tral Station, the blue coaches leaving for Lyons, Munich, the outerlands. . . Of course she has a Gold Card, no, it was not left at the florists, absolutely not. . .
The bellmen at the Hotel Terminus find the new arrival odd, even furtive; her hair is cut in a funny way, wouldnt you call it funny? and her habits are nothing but odd, the incessant pumping of the huge accordion, "Malague?a" over and ain, at the hour usually reserved for dinner. . .
The yellow roses are delivered, no, white baby orchids, the cream-colored walls of the room are severe and handsome, tall windows looking down the aveoward the Angel-Garden. Kneeling, with a sterilized needle, she removes a splinter from his foot; hes thinking, clothed, and in my right mind, and she says, now I lay me down to sleep, I mean it, Red Head --
Theyve agreed to meet on a certain street er; when he arrives, early, she rushes at him from a doorway; its cold, shes wearing her long black coat, its too thin for this weather; he gives her his scarf, which she s around her head like a babushka; tell me, she says, how did this happen?
When she walks, she slouches, or skitters, or skids, catches herself and stands with one hip tilted and a hand on the hip, like a cowboy; shes twenty-six, served three years in the Army, didnt like it and got out, took a degree in statistid worked for an insuranpany, didnt like it and quit and fell in love with him and purchased the accordion. . .
Difficult, he says, difficult, difficult, but she is trying to learn "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling," the sheet music propped on the cream marble mantelpiece, in two hours time the delightful psychiatrist will be back from his Mexi vacation, which he spent in perfect dread, speaking to spiders --
Naked, she twists in his arms to listen to a sound outside the door, a scratg, she freezes, listening; hes startled by the beauty of her tense back, the raised shoulders, tilted head, theres nothing, she turns to look at him, what does she see? The telephs, its the delightful psychiatrist (hers), singing the praises of el, . . .
He punches a hole in a er of her Gold Card and hangs it about her ne a gold .
What are they doing in this fn city? Shes practig "Cherokee," and hes plotting his move, up, out, across, down. . . Hes hired in Flagstaff, at a suct figure, more sulting, but he doesnt want to do that any more, they notice a sullen priest reading his breviary in the Angel-Garden, she sits on a bend opens the Financial Times (in which his letter to the editor has been published, she es it with intense prehension), only later, after a game of billiards, does he begin telling her how beautiful she is, no, she says, no, no --
Ill practice fhteen hours a day, she says, stopping only for a little bread soaked in wine; he gathers up the neers, including the Financial Times, and stacks them ly on the cream-colored radiator; and in the spring, he says, Ill be going away.
Shes setting the table and humming "Vienna"; yes, she says, it will be good to have you gone.
Theyre so clearly in love that cops wave at them from passing cruisers; what has happeo his irony, which was supposed to protect him, keep him clothed, and in his right mind? I love you so much, so much, she says, and he believes her, sole in a champagne sauce, his wife is skiing in Chile --
A