night for stories, she had told him everything, about Coleman the head of publicity, Mirella, her brother, Sicily, life. On the road to the mountains which overlooked Palermo there were cars parked at five in the afternoon. In each one was a couple, the man with a handkerchief spread in his lap.
“I am so lonely,” she said suddenly.
She had only three friends, she saw them all the time. They wentto the theater together, the ballet. One was an actress. One was married. She was silent, she seemed to wait. The cold was everywhere, it covered the glass. Her breath was in crystals, visible in the dark.
“Can I kiss it?” she said.
She began to moan then, as if it were holy. She touched it with her forehead. She was murmuring. The nape of her neck was bare.
She called the next morning. It was eight o’clock.
“I want to read something to you,” she said.
He was half-asleep, the racket was already drifting up from the street. The room was chill and unlighted. Within it, distant as an old record, her voice was playing. It entered his body, it commanded his blood.
“I found this,” she said. “Are you there?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you would like it.”
It was from an article. She began to read.
In February of 1868, in Milan, Prince Umberto had given a splendid ball. In a room which blazed with light the young bride who was one day to be Queen of Italy was introduced. It was the event of the year, crowded and gay, and while the world of fashion amused itself thus, at the same hour and in the same city a lone astronomer was discovering a new planet, the ninety-seventh on Chacornac’s chart… .
Silence. A new planet .
In his mind, still warmed by the pillow, it seemed a sacred calm had descended. He lay like a saint. He was naked, his ankles, his hipbones, his throat.
He heard her call his name. He said nothing. He lay there becoming small, smaller, vanishing. The room became a window, a facade, a group of buildings, squares and sections, in the end all of Rome. His ecstasy was beyond knowing. The roofs of the great cathedrals shone in the winter air.
L OST S ONS
All afternoon the cars, many with out-of-state plates, were coming along the road. The long row of lofty brick quarters appeared above. The gray walls began.
In the reception area a welcoming party was going on. There were faces that had hardly changed at all and others like Reemstma’s whose name tag was read more than once. Someone with a camera and flash attachment was running around in a cadet bathrobe. Over in the barracks they were drinking. Doors were open. Voices spilled out.
“Hooknose will be here,” Dunning promised loudly. There was a bottle on the desk near his feet. “He’ll show, don’t worry. I had a letter from him.”
“A letter? Klingbeil never wrote a letter.”
“His secretary wrote it,” Dunning said. He looked like a judge, large and well fed. His glasses lent a dainty touch. “He’s teaching her to write.”
“Where’s he living now?”
“Florida.”
“Remember the time we were sneaking back to Buckner at two in the morning and all of a sudden a car came down the road?”
Dunning was trying to arrange a serious expression.
“We dove in the bushes. It turned out it was a taxi. It slammed on the brakes and backed up. The door opens and there’s Klingbeil in the backseat, drunk as a lord. Get in, boys, he says.”
Dunning roared. His blouse with its rows of colored ribbons was unbuttoned, gluteal power hinted by the width of his lap.
“Remember,” he said, “when we threw Devereaux’s Spanish book with all his notes in it out the window? Into the snow. He never found it. He went bananas. You bastards, I’ll kill you!”
“He’d have been a star man if he hadn’t been living with you.”
“We tried to broaden him,” Dunning explained.
They used to do the sinking of the Bismarck while he was studying. Klingbeil was the captain. They would jump up on the desks. Der Schiff ist kaputt! they
“I am so lonely,” she said suddenly.
She had only three friends, she saw them all the time. They wentto the theater together, the ballet. One was an actress. One was married. She was silent, she seemed to wait. The cold was everywhere, it covered the glass. Her breath was in crystals, visible in the dark.
“Can I kiss it?” she said.
She began to moan then, as if it were holy. She touched it with her forehead. She was murmuring. The nape of her neck was bare.
She called the next morning. It was eight o’clock.
“I want to read something to you,” she said.
He was half-asleep, the racket was already drifting up from the street. The room was chill and unlighted. Within it, distant as an old record, her voice was playing. It entered his body, it commanded his blood.
“I found this,” she said. “Are you there?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you would like it.”
It was from an article. She began to read.
In February of 1868, in Milan, Prince Umberto had given a splendid ball. In a room which blazed with light the young bride who was one day to be Queen of Italy was introduced. It was the event of the year, crowded and gay, and while the world of fashion amused itself thus, at the same hour and in the same city a lone astronomer was discovering a new planet, the ninety-seventh on Chacornac’s chart… .
Silence. A new planet .
In his mind, still warmed by the pillow, it seemed a sacred calm had descended. He lay like a saint. He was naked, his ankles, his hipbones, his throat.
He heard her call his name. He said nothing. He lay there becoming small, smaller, vanishing. The room became a window, a facade, a group of buildings, squares and sections, in the end all of Rome. His ecstasy was beyond knowing. The roofs of the great cathedrals shone in the winter air.
L OST S ONS
All afternoon the cars, many with out-of-state plates, were coming along the road. The long row of lofty brick quarters appeared above. The gray walls began.
In the reception area a welcoming party was going on. There were faces that had hardly changed at all and others like Reemstma’s whose name tag was read more than once. Someone with a camera and flash attachment was running around in a cadet bathrobe. Over in the barracks they were drinking. Doors were open. Voices spilled out.
“Hooknose will be here,” Dunning promised loudly. There was a bottle on the desk near his feet. “He’ll show, don’t worry. I had a letter from him.”
“A letter? Klingbeil never wrote a letter.”
“His secretary wrote it,” Dunning said. He looked like a judge, large and well fed. His glasses lent a dainty touch. “He’s teaching her to write.”
“Where’s he living now?”
“Florida.”
“Remember the time we were sneaking back to Buckner at two in the morning and all of a sudden a car came down the road?”
Dunning was trying to arrange a serious expression.
“We dove in the bushes. It turned out it was a taxi. It slammed on the brakes and backed up. The door opens and there’s Klingbeil in the backseat, drunk as a lord. Get in, boys, he says.”
Dunning roared. His blouse with its rows of colored ribbons was unbuttoned, gluteal power hinted by the width of his lap.
“Remember,” he said, “when we threw Devereaux’s Spanish book with all his notes in it out the window? Into the snow. He never found it. He went bananas. You bastards, I’ll kill you!”
“He’d have been a star man if he hadn’t been living with you.”
“We tried to broaden him,” Dunning explained.
They used to do the sinking of the Bismarck while he was studying. Klingbeil was the captain. They would jump up on the desks. Der Schiff ist kaputt! they
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