Harold and Maude by Colin Higgins Page B

apple, “if, like them, I end up where I began.”
    â€œMaude,” said Harold.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI have a present for you.” And he handed her the metal disk.
    â€œOh, Harold! How nice.” She read the inscription out loud. “‘Harold loves Maude.’”
    Harold, somewhat embarrassed, turned and looked out to sea. Maude touched his arm, and he turned around.
    â€œAnd Maude loves Harold,” she said softly.
    He smiled, and Maude gave a happy laugh.
    â€œOh, my!” she said. “This is the nicest present I’ve received in years.” She kissed it and tossed it into the ocean. Harold watched it go in disbelief.
    â€œBut …” he said.
    â€œNow,” explained Maude, “I’ll always know where it is.”
    Harold swallowed. “Okay,” he said, and smiled.
    â€œCome on,” said Maude. “Let’s try the roller coaster.”
    And hand in hand they walked back along the pier to the dazzle of the carnival on the boardwalk.
    B ACK AT HER PLACE , Harold lit a fire while Maude prepared her chrysanthemum cordial in the kitchen (a pound of chrysanthemums, water, sugar, lemon peel, nutmeg, and a pint of quality brandy).
    â€œIt’s delicious,” said Harold.
    â€œOh, I love cooking with flowers,” said Maude. “It’s so Shakespearean.”
    She turned on the radio in the bookcase. “I thinkthere’s a Chopin concert on FM tonight. Yes. There we are.”
    The delicate sounds of a nocturne flowed out into the room.
    â€œDo you like Chopin, Harold?”
    â€œVery much.”
    Maude sat on the piano stool and sipped her cordial. “So do I,” she said. “So do I.”
    Harold walked over to her and leaned on the piano. He looked at the empty frames.
    â€œWhy are there no photographs in these frames?” he asked.
    â€œI took them out.”
    â€œWhy did you do that?”
    â€œThey mocked me. They were representations of people I dearly loved, yet they knew these people were gradually fading from me and that, in time, all I would have left would be vague feelings—but sharp photographs. So I tossed them out. My memory fades, I know. But I prefer pictures made by me, with feeling, and not by Kodak with silver nitrate.”
    Harold smiled. “I’ll never forget you, Maude,” he said. “But I would like a photograph of you.”
    Maude laughed. “Well, let me see.”
    She put down her glass and went into the bedroom. By the closet with the musical instruments stood an old sea chest.
    â€œBring over the candelabra,” said Maude, kneelingdown, “and we’ll get some light on this. How’s the banjo coming?”
    â€œJust fine,” said Harold, taking the branched candlestick from the bedside and bringing it over to Maude. “I’m going to surprise you tomorrow night.”
    â€œMy, my.” She chuckled, opening the chest. “It’s going to be quite a birthday celebration. I’m certainly looking forward to it.”
    She shuffled through old papers, bundles of letters, and well-worn manila envelopes. “It’s in here somewhere,” she said.
    â€œThese candles smell nice,” said Harold, standing over her. “What is that incense? Sandalwood?”
    â€œYak musk,” said Maude. “But I don’t think they call it that commercially. It’s ‘Fragrance of the Himalayas,’ or something. ‘The Dalai Lama’s Delight.’ I suppose that’s nicer.”
    â€œIt’s more romantic.”
    â€œPay dirt!” cried Maude, holding up a large envelope and closing the trunk. “I think it’s in here.”
    She got up and sat on the canopied bed. Harold put down the candelabra and sat beside her. She opened the envelope. “Yes. Here it is,” she said. “My American visa.”
    She peeled the photograph off the document and handed it to Harold. “On short