sound.
She is approaching yet a third table when the headwaiter appears and closes a brown hand on her arm, jabbering away in a harsh dialect quite unlike the one in which he greeted us. At length he releases her with a shove. Glaring, she leaves, her platform shoes clomping.
“What was all that?” I ask my companion.
Through it all she has continued sipping a tall gray drink through a straw. She casts a cool glance in the girl’s wake. “A country whore,” she replies in good English. “She is not licensed to work the better restaurants.”
“She doesn’t appear very good at it in any case.”
She shrugs, stirring her drink. “The Americans call her Kitty Catastrophe.”
It is the first time I have heard her stumble over a word in English. “Why do they call her that?”
“Tonight she has business with an American soldier, tomorrow he is dead. Mines, gunfire, bombs. It has happened four times. Tonight, love. Tomorrow, death. Four times, four deaths. She is famous for it now.
“I think she must starve,” she reflects.
The door buzzer razzed. I looked at my watch. Eight-fifteen. Sunlight was slanting in through the east window, throwing a bright yellow trapezoid across the table in the breakfast nook, one corner drooping Dalilike over the edge onto the floor. I drained my coffee cup and reshuffled Barry’s script and went into the living room to answer. I was wearing pajamas and a robe and slippers.
I had a dream on my doorstep. The dream had on a tailored beige jacket and matching skirt that caught her at mid-calf, with a slit up one side and a row of brown leather buttons along the slit and an ivory-colored silk scarf around her neck, or maybe the scarf was beige and the suit was ivory-colored; I have trouble separating those shades. I wasn’t much looking at the outfit anyhow, but into deep blue eyes with a lavender tinge. The make-up was minimal and her hair, pinned up, was the color of light reflecting off gold through a sheen of clear water. It was all packaged by someone who knew his work and couldn’t be rushed. It was a dream I’d had before and I smiled in my sleep.
“I’m sorry to bother you at home, Mr. Walker. I should have called.” The lavender-blue eyes barely flickered over my attire and unshaved condition. “Louise Starr, remember? We met last spring. I was Fedor Alanov’s editor.”
I got the smile off my face somehow and my body out of her path. “I remember, Mrs. Starr. I’m not that far gone yet. Come in.”
She entered, turning her head only slightly to look around. I scooped a smeared shot glass off the coffee table from the night before and sat her down on the sofa and asked if she’d like a cup of coffee.
“I’d prefer juice if you have it,” she said. “In New York I have to drink coffee. I haven’t developed a taste for it yet and I’ll bet I’ve drunk ten thousand cups.”
“I have orange juice. But it’s the frozen kind.”
She smiled and said that would be fine. I left her to get the juice. I damn near bowed.
In the kitchen I searched through the cupboards until I found a juice glass of one of those pressed designs that are supposed to look like cut glass, one of a set of six that Catherine had bought when we were moving in and that I hadn’t used in years. It looked okay, but I washed it anyway and dried it and filled it from the pitcher I’d prepared earlier that morning and brought it to her on a tray with a paper napkin. I didn’t have any linen ones and it was the first time I’d regretted that.
She sipped, smiled her approval. “That’s refreshing. In New York they feel obliged to serve it to you with the pulp floating in it so you know it’s fresh squeezed. Now they’re telling us the pulp is good for you. If I want an orange I’ll peel one myself.”
“Everybody worries about everybody else’s health. It’s the times we live in. Are we going to talk much more about orange juice? I’m running low on ammunition.”
She
She is approaching yet a third table when the headwaiter appears and closes a brown hand on her arm, jabbering away in a harsh dialect quite unlike the one in which he greeted us. At length he releases her with a shove. Glaring, she leaves, her platform shoes clomping.
“What was all that?” I ask my companion.
Through it all she has continued sipping a tall gray drink through a straw. She casts a cool glance in the girl’s wake. “A country whore,” she replies in good English. “She is not licensed to work the better restaurants.”
“She doesn’t appear very good at it in any case.”
She shrugs, stirring her drink. “The Americans call her Kitty Catastrophe.”
It is the first time I have heard her stumble over a word in English. “Why do they call her that?”
“Tonight she has business with an American soldier, tomorrow he is dead. Mines, gunfire, bombs. It has happened four times. Tonight, love. Tomorrow, death. Four times, four deaths. She is famous for it now.
“I think she must starve,” she reflects.
The door buzzer razzed. I looked at my watch. Eight-fifteen. Sunlight was slanting in through the east window, throwing a bright yellow trapezoid across the table in the breakfast nook, one corner drooping Dalilike over the edge onto the floor. I drained my coffee cup and reshuffled Barry’s script and went into the living room to answer. I was wearing pajamas and a robe and slippers.
I had a dream on my doorstep. The dream had on a tailored beige jacket and matching skirt that caught her at mid-calf, with a slit up one side and a row of brown leather buttons along the slit and an ivory-colored silk scarf around her neck, or maybe the scarf was beige and the suit was ivory-colored; I have trouble separating those shades. I wasn’t much looking at the outfit anyhow, but into deep blue eyes with a lavender tinge. The make-up was minimal and her hair, pinned up, was the color of light reflecting off gold through a sheen of clear water. It was all packaged by someone who knew his work and couldn’t be rushed. It was a dream I’d had before and I smiled in my sleep.
“I’m sorry to bother you at home, Mr. Walker. I should have called.” The lavender-blue eyes barely flickered over my attire and unshaved condition. “Louise Starr, remember? We met last spring. I was Fedor Alanov’s editor.”
I got the smile off my face somehow and my body out of her path. “I remember, Mrs. Starr. I’m not that far gone yet. Come in.”
She entered, turning her head only slightly to look around. I scooped a smeared shot glass off the coffee table from the night before and sat her down on the sofa and asked if she’d like a cup of coffee.
“I’d prefer juice if you have it,” she said. “In New York I have to drink coffee. I haven’t developed a taste for it yet and I’ll bet I’ve drunk ten thousand cups.”
“I have orange juice. But it’s the frozen kind.”
She smiled and said that would be fine. I left her to get the juice. I damn near bowed.
In the kitchen I searched through the cupboards until I found a juice glass of one of those pressed designs that are supposed to look like cut glass, one of a set of six that Catherine had bought when we were moving in and that I hadn’t used in years. It looked okay, but I washed it anyway and dried it and filled it from the pitcher I’d prepared earlier that morning and brought it to her on a tray with a paper napkin. I didn’t have any linen ones and it was the first time I’d regretted that.
She sipped, smiled her approval. “That’s refreshing. In New York they feel obliged to serve it to you with the pulp floating in it so you know it’s fresh squeezed. Now they’re telling us the pulp is good for you. If I want an orange I’ll peel one myself.”
“Everybody worries about everybody else’s health. It’s the times we live in. Are we going to talk much more about orange juice? I’m running low on ammunition.”
She
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