The Two Faces of January by Patricia Highsmith Page B

possibly sleep, shaved, and sent his dirty shirt away via the maid to be washed. He got into bed and propped himself up against the pillows and read the newspaper for a while. He re-read the item on Chester. “. . . believed to be still within the country.” But they didn’t say where in the country they were looking. Maybe all over it. It occurred to Rydal that it might be wiser if they went to a smaller town in Crete. It would be wiser, too, if Chester and also Colette acquired some cheaper and less fashionable clothes. And it would be wise for him, Rydal thought, to clear out of the MacFarland, now Chamberlain, ensemble while he could. There was probably a boat to Athens tomorrow morning. Rydal had bought a one-way plane ticket. A lot would be wiser, a lot that he wasn’t yet doing, he supposed. He put the paper down, closed his eyes, and wriggled farther down into the welcome softness of the bed.
    There was a light knock on the door. Rydal lifted his head. He did not know how long he had slept. It seemed about fifteen minutes. He got up, fuzzy-headed, and went to the door. “Who is it?” he said through the door. Then he repeated it in Greek.
    â€œColette,” came the whispered answer.
    Rydal glanced down to see if his pajamas were properly buttoned—he had no robe—then opened the door.
    â€œOh. I disturbed you,” she said, coming in. She had her mink stole and her hat on, but she took off her hat and tossed it into the armchair. “Chester’s snoring away and I didn’t want to disturb him, somehow. He needs it, you know.”
    â€œUm-m. Where’ve you been?” Rydal sat down carefully on the bed, conscious of his bare feet, but Colette wasn’t looking at his feet.
    â€œOut for a walk. I had a bath, but I didn’t feel like sleeping, so I explored this church next door. You know, the one with the arches and the stained glass?”
    Rydal nodded. He vaguely remembered a church to the left of the hotel.
    â€œSo.” She smiled at him, then went to a window and looked out. “What an interesting old building. Looks Italian, doesn’t it, with those balconies?”
    Rydal turned his head. The building’s roof came midway up his window. He saw an iron balcony that looked about to fall out of its anchorage in the pink stone. He said nothing.
    She sat down on the bed, not beside him, but on the opposite side, half turned towards him. Then she lay back, so her head was near his hip.
    â€œTired? You should take a nap,” Rydal said somewhat irritably. “In your room,” he added.
    Her hand moved down his arm to his wrist, and pulled him towards her. Rydal hesitated—two starts and stops—then he swung his legs up on the bed, embraced her and kissed her. Her arms circled him like a delicious cloud. Her breath was warm and fragrant with American toothpaste, probably Colgate’s, and trembling with passion which inflamed him, too; but even as he felt it, he was thinking, pay no attention, it’s only because it’s been quite a while—a month? two months?—since you’ve had a girl, and this is only a continuation of last night, the kiss she was leading up to last night that you never took.
    â€œRydal!” she whispered, as if she had just discovered him.
    He drew back from her, smiling a little, his heart pounding. It was over.
    â€œCome back,” she said, her arms out again.
    And as she kicked off her shoes and pushed herself back towards the pillows, Rydal fell on her again. They lay side by side, tight and close, kissing, their eyes closed. It was like it had been with Agnes, always, with Agnes. The wild, blissful kisses like this ten times a day in the house, stolen, and then at night Agnes waiting for him in her bed, waiting for more than kisses. His body remembered. So did his mind. This is MacFarland’s wife, you ass.
    She was opening her blouse with her free hand. Her other hand pressed