第17章 Terminus

She agrees to live with him for "a few months"; where? probably at the Hotel Terminus, which is close to the Central Station, the blue coaches leaving for Lyons, Munich, the outerlands. . . Of course she has a Gold Card, no, it was not left at the florists, absolutely not. . . The bellmen at the Hotel Terminus find the new arrival odd, even furtive; her hair is cut in a funny way, wouldnt you call it funny? and her habits are nothing but odd, the incessant pumping of the huge accordion, "Malague?a" over and over again, at the hour usually reserved for dinner. . .

The yellow roses are delivered, no, white baby orchids, the cream-colored walls of the room are severe and handsome, tall windows looking down the avenue toward the Angel-Garden. Kneeling, with a sterilized needle, she removes a splinter from his foot; hes thinking, clothed, and in my right mind, and she says, now I lay me down to sleep, I mean it, Red Head --

Theyve agreed to meet on a certain street corner; when he arrives, early, she rushes at him from a doorway; its cold, shes wearing her long black coat, its too thin for this weather; he gives her his scarf, which she wraps around her head like a babushka; tell me, she says, how did this happen? When she walks, she slouches, or skitters, or skids, catches herself and stands with one hip tilted and a hand on the hip, like a cowboy; shes twenty-six, served three years in the Army, didnt like it and got out, took a degree in statistics and worked for an insurance company, didnt like it and quit and fell in love with him and purchased the accordion. . .

Difficult, he says, difficult, difficult, but she is trying to learn "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling," the sheet music propped on the cream marble mantelpiece, in two hours time the delightful psychiatrist will be back from his Mexican vacation, which he spent in perfect dread, speaking to spiders --

Naked, she twists in his arms to listen to a sound outside the door, a scratching, she freezes, listening; hes startled by the beauty of her tense back, the raised shoulders, tilted head, theres nothing, she turns to look at him, what does she see? The telephone rings, its the delightful psychiatrist (hers), singing the praises of Cozumel, Cancun. . .

He punches a hole in a corner of her Gold Card and hangs it about her neck on a gold chain. What are they doing in this foreign city? Shes practicing "Cherokee," and hes plotting his next move, up, out, across, down. . . Hes hired in Flagstaff, at a succulent figure, more consulting, but he doesnt want to do that any more, they notice a sullen priest reading his breviary in the Angel-Garden, she sits on a bench and opens the Financial Times (in which his letter to the editor has been published, she consumes it with intense comprehension), only later, after a game of billiards, does he begin telling her how beautiful she is, no, she says, no, no --

Ill practice for eighteen hours a day, she says, stopping only for a little bread soaked in wine; he gathers up the newspapers, including the Financial Times, and stacks them neatly on the cream-colored radiator; and in the spring, he says, Ill be going away. Shes setting the table and humming "Vienna"; yes, she says, it will be good to have you gone.

Theyre so clearly in love that cops wave at them from passing cruisers; what has happened to his irony, which was supposed to protect him, keep him clothed, and in his right mind? I love you so much, so much, she says, and he believes her, sole in a champagne sauce, his wife is skiing in Chile --

And while you sit by the fire, tatting, he says . . . She says, no tatting for me, Big Boy. . . In the night, he says, alone, to see of me no more, your good fortune. Police cars zip past the Hotel Terminus in threes, sirens hee-hawing. . . No one has told him that he is a husband; he has learned nothing from the gray in his hair; the additional lenses in the lenses of his spectacles have not educated him; the merriment of dental assistants has not brought him the news; he behaves as if something were possible, still; theres whispering at the Hotel Terminus.

He decides to go to a bar and she screams at him, music from the small radio, military marches, military waltzes; shes confused, she says, she really didnt mean that, but meant, rather, that the bell captain at the Hotel Terminus had said something she thought offensive, something about "Malague?a," it was not the words but the tone --

Better make the bed, he says, the bed in which youll sleep, chaste and curly, when Im gone. . . Yes, she says, yes thats what they say. . . True, hes lean; true, hes not entirely stupid; yes, hes given up cigarettes; yes, hes given up saying "forgive me," no longer uses the phrase "as I was saying"; hes mastered backgammon and sleeping with the radio on; hes apologized for his unkind remark about the yellow-haired young man at whom she was not staring -- And when a lover drifts off while being made love to, its a lesson in humility, right? He looks at the sleeping woman; how beautiful she is! He touches her back, lightly. The psychiatrist, learned elf, calls and invites them to his party, to be held in the Palm Room of the Hotel Terminus, patients will dance with doctors, doctors will dance with receptionists, receptionists will dance with detail men, a man who once knew Ferenczi will be there in a sharkskin suit, a motorized wheelchair -- Yes, says the psychiatrist, of course you can play "Cherokee," and for an encore, anything of Victor Herberts -- She, grimly: I dont like to try to make nobody bored, Hot Stuff. Warlike music in all hearts, she says, why are we together? But on the other hand, she says, that which exists is more perfect than that which does not. . . This is absolutely true. He is astonished by the quotation. In the Hotel Terminus coffee shop, he holds her hand tightly. Thinking of getting a new nightie, she says, maybe a dozen. Oh? he says. Hes a whistling dog this morning, brushes his teeth with tequila thinking about Geneva, she, dying of love, shoves him up against a cream-colored wall, biting at his shoulders. . . Little teed off this morning, arent you, babe? he says, and she says, fixin to prepare to get mad, way Im bein treated, and he says, oh darlin, and she says, way Im bein jerked around -- Walking briskly in a warm overcoat toward the Hotel Terminus, he stops to buy flowers, yellow freesias, and wonders what "a few months" can mean: three, eight? He has fallen out of love this morning, feels a refreshing distance, an absolution -- But then she calls him amigo, as she accepts the flowers, and says, not bad, Red Head, and he falls back into love again, forever. She comes toward him fresh from the bath, opens her robe. Goodbye, she says, goodbye.