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Yes, Jessie and I must have been wearing nightgowns.”
    â€œBut you were naked underneath.”
    â€œProbably.”
    She still didn’t seem to understand. But she had enough presence of mind to stop in the middle of the square, turn, and say, “I forgot to show you Mrs. Roosevelt’s house. You know the one? That’s it, over there, on the corner. When he was in the White House, the President would sneak off to spend a few days or hours there, unknown to anyone, even the Secret Service.”
    She came back to her subject. “That night …”
    He almost twisted her wrist to shut her up.
    â€œThat night, I remember wanting to go into the bathroom to take a shower. Ric was restless, I don’t know why. Well, I think I do know, looking back. He said we were all idiots, that we’d be better off getting undressed and taking a shower together … You see?”
    â€œAnd you did?” he said spitefully.
    â€œI took a shower alone, and I locked the door. Ever since, I refused to go out with him unless Jessie came, too.”
    â€œBut you’d gone out with him alone before?”
    â€œWhy not?”
    Then she asked, with all apparent innocence, “What are you thinking about?”
    â€œNothing. Everything.”
    â€œAre you jealous of Ric?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œListen. Have you ever been to the Number One bar?”
    Suddenly he felt very tired. For a moment he was so sick of walking around the streets with her that he was ready to leave her at the first opportunity. What were they doing, clinging to each other as though they’d always been in love and were destined to love each other forever?
    Enrico … Ric … the three of them in the shower. She was lying. He sensed it, he knew it. She couldn’t have resisted something like that.
    She was lying, not on purpose but because she needed to, just like she needed to look at every man who went by, using her smile to win the homage of a bartender, a waiter, a taxi driver.
    â€œDid you see the way he was looking at me?”
    She had said that a little while before—about the taxi driver who had brought them to Greenwich Village, who’d probably barely noticed them, whose only thought was probably his tip.
    Still, he followed her into a dimly lit room done in soft rose, where someone was casually playing the piano, letting his long pale fingers play over the keys, scattering notes that created an atmosphere thick with nostalgia.
    She stopped in the doorway and said, “Leave your coat in the cloakroom.”
    As though he didn’t know! She led the way. She was glowing. She crossed the room behind the maître d’, an excited smile on her lips.
    She must have thought herself beautiful, but she wasn’t. What he really liked about her were the signs of wear and tear on her face, her eyelids with their tiny wrinkles like onionskin and occasional traces of purple, or at other times, the fatigue that dragged down the corners of her mouth.
    â€œTwo scotches.”
    She had to speak to the maître d’, to practice on him what she imagined to be her powers of seduction. She was solemn as she asked him pointless questions, what numbers they’d missed in the floor show, what had become of a singer she’d seen there a few months back.
    She lit a cigarette, of course, shrugged her fur off her shoulders, tilted her head back, sighed with pleasure.
    â€œYou’re not happy?”
    He was in a bad mood. “Why would I be unhappy?” he replied.
    â€œI don’t know. Right now I think you hate me.”
    How sure she must be of herself to state the truth so simply, so bluntly! Sure of what? Because, after all, what kept him from leaving her? What kept him from just going home?
    He didn’t find her seductive. She wasn’t beautiful. She wasn’t even young. And she’d obviously known more than enough men.
    Was that what drew him to her and moved him