Three Bedrooms in Manhattan by Georges Simenon Page B

the—”
    â€œFrançois!”
    â€œYes. You’re right. I’m being stupid, aren’t I? As you say, it’s so unimportant.”
    Then, after a few steps: “I’ll bet he was married, your officer, that he talked to you about his wife.”
    â€œAnd he showed me pictures of his children.”
    Staring straight ahead, he saw the pictures of his own children on his wall, and still he dragged her on. They reached their little bar. He shoved her inside.
    â€œYou’re sure, absolutely sure, that you haven’t come here before with someone else? You’d better admit it now.”
    â€œI’ve never been here with anyone but you.”
    â€œMaybe, after all, for once you’re telling the truth.”
    She wasn’t resentful. She was doing her best not to be upset. She held out her hand for a nickel. She didn’t protest. As if performing a rite, she went to put on their record.
    â€œTwo scotches.”
    He drank three or four. He pictured her in other bars with other men, dragging out the night, begging for a last drink, lighting a last cigarette, always the last. He pictured her waiting on the sidewalk for the man, walking awkwardly because her heels were too high and her feet hurt, taking his arm …
    â€œDon’t you want to go home?”
    â€œNo.”
    He wasn’t listening to the music. He seemed to be looking inside himself. Suddenly he paid the bill. Once again, he said: “Come on.”
    â€œWhere are we going?”
    â€œTo look for other memories. Which is to say we could go pretty much anywhere, couldn’t we?”
    The sight of a dance hall made him ask, “Do you dance?”
    She misunderstood. She said, “Do you want to go dancing?”
    â€œI only asked you if you dance.”
    â€œYes, François.”
    â€œWhere did you go those nights when you felt like dancing? Show me. Don’t you understand that I want to know? And listen. If we run into a man … Are you listening to me? A man you’ve slept with. It’s bound to happen one of these days, if it hasn’t already. When it happens, I want you to do me a favor, tell me, ‘That one.’”
    Without meaning to, he turned back toward her, noting that her face was flushed and her eyes glistening. But he didn’t feel sorry for her, he was too unhappy for that.
    â€œTell me. Have we come across one?”
    â€œOf course not.”
    She was crying. She cried without crying, like a child hanging on to its mother’s hand while being dragged through a crowd.
    â€œTaxi!”
    He shoved her in. “This should stir some memories,” he said. “Who was he, this taxicab lover of yours? Assuming there was just the one. It’s quite the thing in New York, isn’t it, sex in a taxi? Who was he?”
    â€œI already told you, a friend of Jessie’s. Of her husband, Ronald, I mean. We met him by accident.”
    â€œWhere?”
    He needed to fix the images in his mind.
    â€œIn a little French restaurant on Forty-second Street.”
    â€œAnd he bought you champagne. And then Jessie discreetly withdrew, like your sailor’s friend. How discreet people can be! They understand right away. Let’s get out here.”
    It was the first time they had come back to the corner and the diner where they’d met.
    â€œWhat do you want to do?”
    â€œNothing. Just a pilgrimage. And here?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œYou know very well what I mean. It couldn’t have been the first time you came here to eat at night. It’s right near where you lived with your Jessie. I’m beginning to know both of you, and I’d be amazed if you hadn’t struck up a conversation with someone. You have quite a knack for engaging men in conversation, don’t you, Kay?”
    He looked at her face, and it was drawn. He looked so hard that she didn’t have the courage to reply. He tightened his