here!â
Weighed down with shopping, Nancy dragged the mass of her body up the stairs laboriously. Mario held out his hands, apologized clumsily while retreating into his apartment, then offered to help Nancy with her bags.
âYou little turd,â answered Nancy, dropping her packages on the floor. She breathed heavily as she hunted around in a pocket of her very ample dress that in vain sought to sow confusion with respect to the true dimensions of what it hid. She took out a bunch of keys, adding, âThatâs far enough, you Italian swine. Iâm phoning the old lady right now.â
âNo, Nancy, please,â begged Mario, stepping towards her, his arms outstretched in an almost imploring manner. âNot Mrs Workman.â
Nancy had opened the door. She turned to confrontMario: he noticed the drops of sweat pearling on the womanâs brow.
âBut what the fuck were you doing there?â
âThe new tenant,â Mario mumbled. âI just wanted to see if Berkowickz . . . was . . . um.â
Mario smiled without finishing his sentence. Nancy regarded him with resignation, almost with pity.
âYouâre not just a pig,â she diagnosed, shaking her head gently from left to right. âYouâre also going crazy.â
Nancy slammed the door. Mario returned to his apartment, closing the door softly.
After a short time Ginger arrived. She was wearing a blue sweater with red buttons, a black miniskirt and slightly worn black shoes; her eyes shone. Mario thought: She looks lovely. They sat down on the sofa in the dining room. Mario offered a whisky. Ginger accepted. Mario poured whisky over ice in two glasses in the kitchen and went back into the dining room.
They talked animatedly, laughing and drinking.
âIâm pleased,â said Ginger at one point, after a silence, looking at Mario with serious, blue, love-struck eyes.
âWhat about?â asked Mario, sipping his whisky.
âI donât know,â said Ginger. She smiled weakly. She added, âYouâve been so strange this week.â
âI can imagine,â said Mario.
There was a silence.
âI thought we were through,â declared Ginger after a while.
âMe too,â said Mario.
He set his glass of whisky down on the floor, he moved closer to her, put his arm around her neck, stroked the nape of her neck and her hair, kissed her softly on the lips. Lengthening the kiss they slid over to rest against the right arm of the sofa, and laughed as they heard the books and papers heaped there fall on to the floor: an ItalianâGerman dictionary, outlines for lectures, notes, a phonology manual and a photocopied article entitled âThe Syllable in Phonological Theory, with Special Reference to the Italianâ, by Daniel Berkowickz.
The Motive
Â
Il y a une locution latine qui dit à peu près: âRamasser un dénier dans lâordure avec ses dentsâ. On appliquait cette figure de rhétorique aux avares, je suis comme eux, je ne mâarrête à rien pour trouver de lâor.
GUSTAVE FLAUBERT
I
Ãlvaro took his work seriously. Every day he got up punctually at eight. He cleared his head with a cold shower and went down to the supermarket to buy bread and the newspaper. When he returned he made coffee and toast with butter and marmalade and ate breakfast in the kitchen, leafing through the paper and listening to the radio. By nine he was sitting in his study ready to begin the dayâs work.
Heâd made his life subordinate to literature: all friendships, interests, ambitions, possibilities for professional or economic advancement, days or evenings out had been displaced in its interest. He disdained anything he didnât consider an impetus to his work. And, since the majority of well-paid jobs he could have had with his law degree demanded almost exclusive dedication, Ãlvaro preferred a modest position as consultant in a modest legal
Weighed down with shopping, Nancy dragged the mass of her body up the stairs laboriously. Mario held out his hands, apologized clumsily while retreating into his apartment, then offered to help Nancy with her bags.
âYou little turd,â answered Nancy, dropping her packages on the floor. She breathed heavily as she hunted around in a pocket of her very ample dress that in vain sought to sow confusion with respect to the true dimensions of what it hid. She took out a bunch of keys, adding, âThatâs far enough, you Italian swine. Iâm phoning the old lady right now.â
âNo, Nancy, please,â begged Mario, stepping towards her, his arms outstretched in an almost imploring manner. âNot Mrs Workman.â
Nancy had opened the door. She turned to confrontMario: he noticed the drops of sweat pearling on the womanâs brow.
âBut what the fuck were you doing there?â
âThe new tenant,â Mario mumbled. âI just wanted to see if Berkowickz . . . was . . . um.â
Mario smiled without finishing his sentence. Nancy regarded him with resignation, almost with pity.
âYouâre not just a pig,â she diagnosed, shaking her head gently from left to right. âYouâre also going crazy.â
Nancy slammed the door. Mario returned to his apartment, closing the door softly.
After a short time Ginger arrived. She was wearing a blue sweater with red buttons, a black miniskirt and slightly worn black shoes; her eyes shone. Mario thought: She looks lovely. They sat down on the sofa in the dining room. Mario offered a whisky. Ginger accepted. Mario poured whisky over ice in two glasses in the kitchen and went back into the dining room.
They talked animatedly, laughing and drinking.
âIâm pleased,â said Ginger at one point, after a silence, looking at Mario with serious, blue, love-struck eyes.
âWhat about?â asked Mario, sipping his whisky.
âI donât know,â said Ginger. She smiled weakly. She added, âYouâve been so strange this week.â
âI can imagine,â said Mario.
There was a silence.
âI thought we were through,â declared Ginger after a while.
âMe too,â said Mario.
He set his glass of whisky down on the floor, he moved closer to her, put his arm around her neck, stroked the nape of her neck and her hair, kissed her softly on the lips. Lengthening the kiss they slid over to rest against the right arm of the sofa, and laughed as they heard the books and papers heaped there fall on to the floor: an ItalianâGerman dictionary, outlines for lectures, notes, a phonology manual and a photocopied article entitled âThe Syllable in Phonological Theory, with Special Reference to the Italianâ, by Daniel Berkowickz.
The Motive
Â
Il y a une locution latine qui dit à peu près: âRamasser un dénier dans lâordure avec ses dentsâ. On appliquait cette figure de rhétorique aux avares, je suis comme eux, je ne mâarrête à rien pour trouver de lâor.
GUSTAVE FLAUBERT
I
Ãlvaro took his work seriously. Every day he got up punctually at eight. He cleared his head with a cold shower and went down to the supermarket to buy bread and the newspaper. When he returned he made coffee and toast with butter and marmalade and ate breakfast in the kitchen, leafing through the paper and listening to the radio. By nine he was sitting in his study ready to begin the dayâs work.
Heâd made his life subordinate to literature: all friendships, interests, ambitions, possibilities for professional or economic advancement, days or evenings out had been displaced in its interest. He disdained anything he didnât consider an impetus to his work. And, since the majority of well-paid jobs he could have had with his law degree demanded almost exclusive dedication, Ãlvaro preferred a modest position as consultant in a modest legal
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