You're not
making fun of me?"
"I'm
not making fun of you."
"I
don't know how I could be so stupid," the girl said. She means mistaken
David thought and Catherine thought it too.
That
night in bed Catherine said, "I never should have let you in for any of
it. Not for any part of it."
"I
wish we'd never seen her."
"It
might have been something worse. Maybe to go through with it and get rid of it
that way is best."
"You
could send her away.
"I
don't think that's the way to clear it now. Doesn't she do anything to
you?" "Oh sure." "I knew she did. But I love you and all
this is nothing. You know it is too." "I don't know about it,
Devil." 'Well we won't be solemn. I can already tell it's death if you're
solemn."
–12–
IT
WAS THE THIRD DAY of the wind but it was not as heavy now and he sat at the
table and read the story over from the start to where he had left off,
correcting as he read. He went on with the story, living in it and nowhere else,
and when he heard the voices of the two girls outside he did not listen. When
they went by the window he lifted his hand and waved. They waved and the dark
girl smiled and Catherine put her fingers to her lips. The girl looked very
pretty in the morning, her face shining and her color high. Catherine was
beautiful as always. He heard the car start and noted it was the Bugatti. He
went back into the story. It was a good story and he finished it shortly before
noon.
It
was too late to have breakfast and he was tired after working and did not want
to drive the old Isotta into town with its bad brakes and huge malfunctioning
motor although the key was with a note Catherine had left saying they had gone
to Nice and would look in at the cafe for him on their way home.
What
I would like, he thought, is a tall cold liter of beer in a thick heavy glass
and a pomme à l'huile with coarse ground peppercorns on it. But the beer on
this coast was worthless and he thought happily of Paris and other places he
had been and was pleased he had written something he knew was good and that he
had finished it. This was the first writing he had finished since they were
married. Finishing is what you have to do, he thought. If you don't finish,
nothing is worth a damn. Tomorrow I'll pick up the narrative where I left it
and keep right on until I finish it. And how are you going to finish it? How
are you going to finish it now?
As
soon as he started to think beyond his work, everything that he had locked out
by the work came back to him. He thought of the night before and of Catherine
and the girl today on the road that he and Catherine had driven two days before
and he felt sick. They should be on the way back now. It's after noon. Maybe
they're at the cafe. Don't be solemn, she had said. But she meant something
else too. Maybe she knows what she's doing. Maybe she knows how it can turn
out. Maybe she does know. You don't.
So
you worked and now you worry. You'd better write another story. Write the
hardest one there is to write that you know. Go ahead and do that. You have to
last yourself if you're to be any good to her. What good have you been to her?
Plenty, he said. No, not plenty. Plenty means enough. Go ahead and start the
new one tomorrow. The hell with tomorrow. What a way to be. Tomorrow. Go in and
start it now.
He
put the note and the key in his pocket and went back into the work room and sat
down and wrote the first paragraph of the new story that he had always put off
writing since he had known what a story was. He wrote it in simple declarative
sentences with all of the problems ahead to be lived through and made to come
alive. The very beginning was written and all he had to do was go on. That's
all, he said. You see how simple what you cannot do is? Then he came out onto
the terrace and sat down and ordered a whiskey and Perrier.
io8
The
proprietor's young nephew brought the bottles and ice and a glass from
making fun of me?"
"I'm
not making fun of you."
"I
don't know how I could be so stupid," the girl said. She means mistaken
David thought and Catherine thought it too.
That
night in bed Catherine said, "I never should have let you in for any of
it. Not for any part of it."
"I
wish we'd never seen her."
"It
might have been something worse. Maybe to go through with it and get rid of it
that way is best."
"You
could send her away.
"I
don't think that's the way to clear it now. Doesn't she do anything to
you?" "Oh sure." "I knew she did. But I love you and all
this is nothing. You know it is too." "I don't know about it,
Devil." 'Well we won't be solemn. I can already tell it's death if you're
solemn."
–12–
IT
WAS THE THIRD DAY of the wind but it was not as heavy now and he sat at the
table and read the story over from the start to where he had left off,
correcting as he read. He went on with the story, living in it and nowhere else,
and when he heard the voices of the two girls outside he did not listen. When
they went by the window he lifted his hand and waved. They waved and the dark
girl smiled and Catherine put her fingers to her lips. The girl looked very
pretty in the morning, her face shining and her color high. Catherine was
beautiful as always. He heard the car start and noted it was the Bugatti. He
went back into the story. It was a good story and he finished it shortly before
noon.
It
was too late to have breakfast and he was tired after working and did not want
to drive the old Isotta into town with its bad brakes and huge malfunctioning
motor although the key was with a note Catherine had left saying they had gone
to Nice and would look in at the cafe for him on their way home.
What
I would like, he thought, is a tall cold liter of beer in a thick heavy glass
and a pomme à l'huile with coarse ground peppercorns on it. But the beer on
this coast was worthless and he thought happily of Paris and other places he
had been and was pleased he had written something he knew was good and that he
had finished it. This was the first writing he had finished since they were
married. Finishing is what you have to do, he thought. If you don't finish,
nothing is worth a damn. Tomorrow I'll pick up the narrative where I left it
and keep right on until I finish it. And how are you going to finish it? How
are you going to finish it now?
As
soon as he started to think beyond his work, everything that he had locked out
by the work came back to him. He thought of the night before and of Catherine
and the girl today on the road that he and Catherine had driven two days before
and he felt sick. They should be on the way back now. It's after noon. Maybe
they're at the cafe. Don't be solemn, she had said. But she meant something
else too. Maybe she knows what she's doing. Maybe she knows how it can turn
out. Maybe she does know. You don't.
So
you worked and now you worry. You'd better write another story. Write the
hardest one there is to write that you know. Go ahead and do that. You have to
last yourself if you're to be any good to her. What good have you been to her?
Plenty, he said. No, not plenty. Plenty means enough. Go ahead and start the
new one tomorrow. The hell with tomorrow. What a way to be. Tomorrow. Go in and
start it now.
He
put the note and the key in his pocket and went back into the work room and sat
down and wrote the first paragraph of the new story that he had always put off
writing since he had known what a story was. He wrote it in simple declarative
sentences with all of the problems ahead to be lived through and made to come
alive. The very beginning was written and all he had to do was go on. That's
all, he said. You see how simple what you cannot do is? Then he came out onto
the terrace and sat down and ordered a whiskey and Perrier.
io8
The
proprietor's young nephew brought the bottles and ice and a glass from
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