again.
"What's the matter, Roy?" She looked startled.
"The doctor calls it literal paraphasia," I explained. "He says it will pass." I drew a deep breath. "What were you saying?"
"Of course people are going to talk."
"I'm sorry about that."
"I know you are, Roy. But I'm not reproaching you. It wasn't your fault that you had to pass out just in the yard where that little whore lives. It was jorce majeure.''^
"That's right."
"You didn't do it on purpose. You didn't intend to hurt me. We won't talk about it any more."
"Oh yes we will!"
"Well, I won't, darling." Her smile broadened. "Are you eoing to end the affair?"
"f don't know."
"Of course. You've got to give it more thought. Take your time. Right now all you have to do is rest. Professor Vogt said that was the most important thing. Don't let anything worry you. It would be bad for the examination. And for your work. I wish we could eo to the Riviera for a while, when you're through here. What do you think?"
"I hate the Riviera."
"Then go somewhere alone. Fve promised the Baxters to fly to Paris with them. They've rented a darling house in Saint Cloud. I've seen the pictures."
"Margaret, I want to divorce you."
"Darling, that's something you've often wanted.'*
^That's true."
She looked at her watch. "Heavens, it's three thirty!**
"So?"
"I'll have to take a taxi. Ted hates to be kept waiting.**
"You have a date with him?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"In the bar of the Vier Jahreszeiten. Vera's going to be there too." Vera was Baxter's wife. "They'll want to know how you are. May they come to see you?"
"No."
"All right, m come again tomorrow. And III call tonight. Oh ... I almost forgot." She dug around in her bag again and produced a picture, in a frame. Margaret, in a white bathing suit, on the beach in Los Angeles. She stood it up in front of the gladiolas. "There?"
"Whatever for?"
"It looks better." She leaned over me and kissed me on the mouth. She smelled fresh and clean. Of Pepsodent, Chanel #5 and Palmolive soap. "So . . . bye-bye. And do look at the New Yorker, The issue's really funny."
"Goodbye, Margaret," I said.
She walked to the door. Her tight-fitting suit showed oflf her perfectly proportioned figure. At the door there was a mirror. She stopped in front of it to adjust her hat. As she did so she looked at me in the mirror and smiled.
"I'll never give you a divorce," she said. "But you know that, darling, don't you?'*
"Yes. I know."
"Fine." She turned around. "So everything's okay,** she said, threw me a hand kiss and walked out. The fresh clean smell of her body remained. I crossed my arms behind my head and closed my eyes. I felt tired and a little
confused. Probably the aftereflfects of the sleeping pill they had given me. I tried to sleep, but I couldn't. After a while I stopped trying and picked up the clippings Margaret had brought me. They were out-of-town reviews that gave a brief synopsis of the film and a few trite words of praise, the sort of praise that gives no satisfaction because it is couched in the conventional phraseology that clearly shows the critic had no idea what he was talking about.
I picked up the New Yorker, It really was a good issue; the cartoons were great. I looked at them all, among them a Charles Addams—two members of his horror family were beheading a doll with the help of a toy guillotine. It was hilarious.
At the back there was a review of my last film. It was the cleverest, funniest and most devastating review imaginable. The critic didn't leave me a leg to stand on. I thought for a moment that Margaret had overlooked it but immediately discarded the notion. Margaret never overlooked anything, especially not my reviews. She had known just what she was doing when she had brought me the New Yorker. It was one of her many ways of taking revenge.
Actually this had been her main activity during the last years—^taking revenge. Finding the area where she could wound me most easily and painfully, and
"What's the matter, Roy?" She looked startled.
"The doctor calls it literal paraphasia," I explained. "He says it will pass." I drew a deep breath. "What were you saying?"
"Of course people are going to talk."
"I'm sorry about that."
"I know you are, Roy. But I'm not reproaching you. It wasn't your fault that you had to pass out just in the yard where that little whore lives. It was jorce majeure.''^
"That's right."
"You didn't do it on purpose. You didn't intend to hurt me. We won't talk about it any more."
"Oh yes we will!"
"Well, I won't, darling." Her smile broadened. "Are you eoing to end the affair?"
"f don't know."
"Of course. You've got to give it more thought. Take your time. Right now all you have to do is rest. Professor Vogt said that was the most important thing. Don't let anything worry you. It would be bad for the examination. And for your work. I wish we could eo to the Riviera for a while, when you're through here. What do you think?"
"I hate the Riviera."
"Then go somewhere alone. Fve promised the Baxters to fly to Paris with them. They've rented a darling house in Saint Cloud. I've seen the pictures."
"Margaret, I want to divorce you."
"Darling, that's something you've often wanted.'*
^That's true."
She looked at her watch. "Heavens, it's three thirty!**
"So?"
"I'll have to take a taxi. Ted hates to be kept waiting.**
"You have a date with him?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"In the bar of the Vier Jahreszeiten. Vera's going to be there too." Vera was Baxter's wife. "They'll want to know how you are. May they come to see you?"
"No."
"All right, m come again tomorrow. And III call tonight. Oh ... I almost forgot." She dug around in her bag again and produced a picture, in a frame. Margaret, in a white bathing suit, on the beach in Los Angeles. She stood it up in front of the gladiolas. "There?"
"Whatever for?"
"It looks better." She leaned over me and kissed me on the mouth. She smelled fresh and clean. Of Pepsodent, Chanel #5 and Palmolive soap. "So . . . bye-bye. And do look at the New Yorker, The issue's really funny."
"Goodbye, Margaret," I said.
She walked to the door. Her tight-fitting suit showed oflf her perfectly proportioned figure. At the door there was a mirror. She stopped in front of it to adjust her hat. As she did so she looked at me in the mirror and smiled.
"I'll never give you a divorce," she said. "But you know that, darling, don't you?'*
"Yes. I know."
"Fine." She turned around. "So everything's okay,** she said, threw me a hand kiss and walked out. The fresh clean smell of her body remained. I crossed my arms behind my head and closed my eyes. I felt tired and a little
confused. Probably the aftereflfects of the sleeping pill they had given me. I tried to sleep, but I couldn't. After a while I stopped trying and picked up the clippings Margaret had brought me. They were out-of-town reviews that gave a brief synopsis of the film and a few trite words of praise, the sort of praise that gives no satisfaction because it is couched in the conventional phraseology that clearly shows the critic had no idea what he was talking about.
I picked up the New Yorker, It really was a good issue; the cartoons were great. I looked at them all, among them a Charles Addams—two members of his horror family were beheading a doll with the help of a toy guillotine. It was hilarious.
At the back there was a review of my last film. It was the cleverest, funniest and most devastating review imaginable. The critic didn't leave me a leg to stand on. I thought for a moment that Margaret had overlooked it but immediately discarded the notion. Margaret never overlooked anything, especially not my reviews. She had known just what she was doing when she had brought me the New Yorker. It was one of her many ways of taking revenge.
Actually this had been her main activity during the last years—^taking revenge. Finding the area where she could wound me most easily and painfully, and
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