On the Wing by Eric Kraft Page A

one’s neglectful egoism, as you put it, is genuine,” he went on, “it may be the worst kind of egoism. It’s the kind that considers other people beneath contempt. What they think, what they do, what they feel, what becomes of them is simply of no interest whatsoever.”
    â€œMy grandmother warned me against that,” said the woman, with, again, that note of wistfulness.
    â€œWhat?” he demanded of her.
    â€œWhat you said,” she said, from a distance.
    â€œI said quite a number of things—”
    â€œMust an egotist be an egoist first?” Albertine asked quickly, touching the arm of the distant woman. “Or can a person be an egotist without being an egoist?”
    The woman didn’t answer. Instead, with that odd distance still in her voice, she said, “I try to remind myself that talking must also be interpreted figuratively. It stands for many other ways of drawing attention to oneself or putting oneself forward.” Then, suddenly bridging the distance, she squealed, “Oh! Don’t get me started on the way my sister used to hog the camera when Uncle Jerry took those nudes of us in his ‘studio’ !”
    Just to show that I was still in the game, I responded to Albertine’s question with one of my own. “Must an egoist be an egotist or necessarily become one?” I asked. “Can one be an egoist without advertising it through egotism?”
    â€œOh, yes,” said Albertine. “We saw it there at the Athenæum. The egotists were continually talking about their experiences with chocolate, demonstrating their superiority and the superiority of their experiences, while the egoists were quietly consuming all the chocolate they could get.”
    The distance had returned to the woman’s voice when she said, “I think the saddest type of egotist is the one who is always telling you, or anyone she can find to listen, what she intends to do, because she doesn’t have anything that she actually has done to brag about.”
    â€œTalking about the superb chocolate she intends to eat when she takes that tasting tour through Belgium, France, and Switzerland,” said Albertine. A note of wistful distance had come into her voice, too, so I took her by the hand and led her away from all that.
    *   *   *
    AS SOON AS we were in our room, Albertine looked through all the drawers in our bedside tables, and then picked up the phone. “Front desk?” she said cheerily. “This is room four forty-five. There’s no dictionary in our room. I think it might have been stolen.… What do you mean, you don’t put dictionaries in the rooms? There’s a Bible here. There ought to be a dictionary. All the better caravansaries supply them, I’d like to think.… Well, let me speak to the concierge.… Thank you.” A moment passed, then she said, “This is room four forty-five. I need to know everything you can tell me about egoist and egotist.… No, they’re not a band. They’re words.… That’s what I said: words.… I’ve just been talking to some people in your cocktail lounge, and I want to verify their assertions about them. I would have looked them up myself, but there’s no dictionary in our room. If you would check the OED for me, I’d be very grateful.… What?… You’re kidding.… Well, what’s a concierge for, I’d like to know.” She put her hand over the mouthpiece and said, “This is quite a hotel.”
    â€œAsk him to connect you to room service,” I said. “I’m starving.”
    *   *   *
    IN THE MORNING, when we were checking out, the couple we had met in the bar were also checking out. We exchanged pleasantries. After that, we stood in awkward silence. Then, inspired by the memory of my earlier trip, I broke the silence.
    â€œAlbertine and I are re-creating a