face up to the eyes with a corner of the tablecloth. He then
looked at me with his exposed eyes, which were full of slowly
subsiding mirth and the pride of someone who knows a really good
riddle or two.
"May
I inquire how you were employed before entering the Army?" Esme
asked me.
I
said I hadn't been employed at all, that I'd only been out of college
a year but that I like to think of myself as a professional
short-story writer.
She
nodded politely. "Published?" she asked.
It
was a familiar but always touchy question, and one that I didn't
answer just one, two, three. I started to explain how most editors in
America were a bunch--
"My
father wrote beautifully," Esme interrupted. "I'm saving a
number of his letters for posterity."
I
said that sounded like a very good idea. I happened to be looking at
her enormous-faced, chronographic-looking wristwatch again. I asked
if it had belonged to her father.
She
looked down at her wrist solemnly. "Yes, it did," she said.
"He gave it to me just before Charles and I were evacuated."
Self-consciously, she took her hands off the table, saying, "Purely
as a momento, of course." She guided the conversation in a
different direction. "I'd be extremely flattered if you'd write
a story exclusively for me sometime. I'm an avid reader."
I
told her I certainly would, if I could. I said that I wasn't terribly
prolific.
"It
doesn't have to be terribly prolific! Just so that it isn't childish
and silly." She reflected. "I prefer stories about
squalor."
"About
what?" I said, leaning forward. "Squalor. I'm extremely
interested in squalor."
I
was about to press her for more details, but I felt Charles pinching
me, hard, on my arm. I turned to him, wincing slightly. He was
standing right next to me. "What did one wall say to the other
wall?" he asked, not unfamiliarly.
"You
asked him that," Esme said. "Now, stop it."
Ignoring
his sister, and stepping up on one of my feet, Charles repeated the
key question. I noticed that his necktie knot wasn't adjusted
properly. I slid it up into place, then, looking him straight in the
eye, suggested, "Meetcha at the corner?"
The
instant I'd said it, I wished I hadn't. Charles' mouth fell open. I
felt as if I'd struck it open. He stepped down off my foot and, with
white-hot dignity, walked over to his own table, without looking
back.
"He's
furious," Esme said. "He has a violent temper. My mother
had a propensity to spoil him. My father was the only one who didn't
spoil him."
I
kept looking over at Charles, who had sat down and started to drink
his tea, using both hands on the cup. I hoped he'd turn around, but
he didn't.
Esme
stood up. `Il faut que je parte aussi," she said, with a sigh.
"Do you know French?"
I
got up from my own chair, with mixed feelings of regret and
confusion. Esme and I shook hands; her hand, as I'd suspected, was a
nervous hand, damp at the palm. I told her, in English, how very much
I'd enjoyed her company.
She
nodded. "I thought you might," she said. "I'm quite
communicative for my age." She gave her hair another
experimental touch. "I'm dreadfully sorry about my hair,"
she said. "I've probably been hideous to look at."
"Not
at all! As a matter of fact, I think a lot of the wave is coming back
already."
She
quickly touched her hair again. "Do you think you'll be coming
here again in the immediate future?" she asked. "We come
here every Saturday, after choir practice."
I
answered that I'd like nothing better but that, unfortunately, I was
pretty sure I wouldn't be able to make it again.
"In
other words, you can't discuss troop movements," said Esme. She
made no move to leave the vicinity of the table. In fact, she crossed
one foot over the other and, looking down, aligned the toes of her
shoes. It was a pretty little execution, for she was wearing white
socks and her ankles and feet were lovely. She looked up at me
abruptly. "Would you like me to write to you?" she asked,
with a certain amount of color in her face. "I
looked at me with his exposed eyes, which were full of slowly
subsiding mirth and the pride of someone who knows a really good
riddle or two.
"May
I inquire how you were employed before entering the Army?" Esme
asked me.
I
said I hadn't been employed at all, that I'd only been out of college
a year but that I like to think of myself as a professional
short-story writer.
She
nodded politely. "Published?" she asked.
It
was a familiar but always touchy question, and one that I didn't
answer just one, two, three. I started to explain how most editors in
America were a bunch--
"My
father wrote beautifully," Esme interrupted. "I'm saving a
number of his letters for posterity."
I
said that sounded like a very good idea. I happened to be looking at
her enormous-faced, chronographic-looking wristwatch again. I asked
if it had belonged to her father.
She
looked down at her wrist solemnly. "Yes, it did," she said.
"He gave it to me just before Charles and I were evacuated."
Self-consciously, she took her hands off the table, saying, "Purely
as a momento, of course." She guided the conversation in a
different direction. "I'd be extremely flattered if you'd write
a story exclusively for me sometime. I'm an avid reader."
I
told her I certainly would, if I could. I said that I wasn't terribly
prolific.
"It
doesn't have to be terribly prolific! Just so that it isn't childish
and silly." She reflected. "I prefer stories about
squalor."
"About
what?" I said, leaning forward. "Squalor. I'm extremely
interested in squalor."
I
was about to press her for more details, but I felt Charles pinching
me, hard, on my arm. I turned to him, wincing slightly. He was
standing right next to me. "What did one wall say to the other
wall?" he asked, not unfamiliarly.
"You
asked him that," Esme said. "Now, stop it."
Ignoring
his sister, and stepping up on one of my feet, Charles repeated the
key question. I noticed that his necktie knot wasn't adjusted
properly. I slid it up into place, then, looking him straight in the
eye, suggested, "Meetcha at the corner?"
The
instant I'd said it, I wished I hadn't. Charles' mouth fell open. I
felt as if I'd struck it open. He stepped down off my foot and, with
white-hot dignity, walked over to his own table, without looking
back.
"He's
furious," Esme said. "He has a violent temper. My mother
had a propensity to spoil him. My father was the only one who didn't
spoil him."
I
kept looking over at Charles, who had sat down and started to drink
his tea, using both hands on the cup. I hoped he'd turn around, but
he didn't.
Esme
stood up. `Il faut que je parte aussi," she said, with a sigh.
"Do you know French?"
I
got up from my own chair, with mixed feelings of regret and
confusion. Esme and I shook hands; her hand, as I'd suspected, was a
nervous hand, damp at the palm. I told her, in English, how very much
I'd enjoyed her company.
She
nodded. "I thought you might," she said. "I'm quite
communicative for my age." She gave her hair another
experimental touch. "I'm dreadfully sorry about my hair,"
she said. "I've probably been hideous to look at."
"Not
at all! As a matter of fact, I think a lot of the wave is coming back
already."
She
quickly touched her hair again. "Do you think you'll be coming
here again in the immediate future?" she asked. "We come
here every Saturday, after choir practice."
I
answered that I'd like nothing better but that, unfortunately, I was
pretty sure I wouldn't be able to make it again.
"In
other words, you can't discuss troop movements," said Esme. She
made no move to leave the vicinity of the table. In fact, she crossed
one foot over the other and, looking down, aligned the toes of her
shoes. It was a pretty little execution, for she was wearing white
socks and her ankles and feet were lovely. She looked up at me
abruptly. "Would you like me to write to you?" she asked,
with a certain amount of color in her face. "I
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