She gulps it down absently, not waiting for his toast. "And that light from the airport," she goes on, batting at it as it passes as though to shoo it away. "How can you effer sleep here?"
"No one's supposed to sleep well in Casablanca," he replies with a worldly grimace. It's his best expression, he knows, but she isn't paying any attention. He stubs out the cigarette, refills her glass, blowing a melancholy whiff of smoke over it. "Hey, kid here's — "
"No, wait!" she insists, her ear cocked. "Is it?"
"Is what?" Ah well, forget the fancy stuff. He drinks off the champagne in his glass, reaches down for a refill.
"Time. Is it going by? Like the song is saying?"
He looks up, startled. "That's funny, I was just — !"
"What time do you haff, Richard?"
He sets the bottle down, glances at his empty wrist. "I dunno. My watch must have got torn off when we "
"Mine is gone, too."
They stare at each other a moment, Rick scowling slightly in the old style, Ilsa's lips parted as though saying "story," or "glory." Then the airport beacon sweeps past like a prompter, and Rick, blinking, says: "Wait a minute — there's a clock down in the bar!" He strides purposefully over to the door in his stocking feet, pausing there a moment, one hand on the knob, to take a deep breath. "I'll be right back," he announces, then opens the door and (she seems about to call out to him) steps out on the landing. He steps right back in again. He pushes the door closed, leans against it, his face ashen. "They're all down there," he says.
"What? Who's down there?"
"Karl, Sam, Abdul, that Norwegian — "
"Fictor?!"
"Yes, everybody! Strasser, those goddamn Bulgarians, Sasha, Louis — "
"Yffonne?"
Why the hell did she ask about Yvonne? "I said everybody! They're just standing down there! Like they're waiting for something! But for what?!" He can't seem to stop his goddamn voice from squeaking. He wants to remain cool and ironically detached, cynical even, because he knows it's expected of him, not least of all by himself, but he's still shaken by what he's seen down in the bar. Of course it might help if he had his pants on. At least he'd have some pockets to shove his hands into. For some reason, Ilsa is staring at his crotch, as though the real horror of it all were to be found there. Or maybe she's trying to see through to the silent crowd below. "It's, I dunno, like the place has sprung a goddamn leak or something!"
She crosses her hands to her shoulders, pinching her elbows in, hugging her breasts. She seems to have gone flat-footed, her feet splayed, her bottom, lost somewhat in the slatted shadows, drooping, her spine bent. "A leak?" she asks meaninglessly in her soft Scandinavian accent. She looks like a swimmer out of water in chilled air. Richard, slumping against the far door, stares at her as though at a total stranger. Or perhaps a mirror. He seems older somehow, tired, his chest sunken and belly out, legs bowed, his genitals shriveled up between them like dried fruit. It is not a beautiful sight. Of course Richard is not a beautiful man. He is short and bad-tempered and rather smashed up. Victor calls him riffraff. He says Richard makes him feel greasy. And it is true, there is something common about him. Around Victor she always feels crisp and white, but around Richard like a sweating pig. So how did she get mixed up with him, in the first place? Well, she was lonely, she had nothing, not even hope, and he seemed so happy when she took hold of his penis. As Victor has often said, each of us has a destiny, for good or for evil, and her destiny was Richard. Now that destiny seems confirmed — or sealed — by all those people downstairs. "They are not waiting for anything," she says, as the realization comes to her. It is over.
Richard grunts in reply. He probably hasn't heard her. She feels a terrible sense of loss. He shuffles in his black socks over to the humidor. "Shit, even the fags are gone," he mutters gloomily. "Why'd you have to come to Casablanca anyway, goddamn it; there are other places " The airport beacon, sliding by, picks up an expression of intense concentration on his haggard face. She knows he is trying to understand what cannot be understood, to resolve what has no resolution. Americans are like that. In Paris he was always wondering how it was they kept getting from one place to another so quickly. "It's like everything is all speeded up," he would gasp, reaching deliriously between her legs as her apartment welled up around them. Now he is probably wondering why there seems to be no place to go and why time suddenly is just about all they have. He is an innocent man, after all; this is probably his first affair.
"I would not haff come if I haff known " She releases her shoulders, picks up her ruffled blouse (the buttons are gone), pulls it on like a wrap. As the beacon wheels by, the room seems to expand with light as though it were breathing. "Do you see my skirt? It was here, but — is it getting dark or something?"
"I mean, of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the — !" He pauses, looks up. "What did you say?"
"I said, is it — ?"
"Yeah, I know "
They gaze about uneasily. "It seems like effry time that light goes past "
"Yeah " He stares at her, slumped there at the foot of the couch, working her garter belt like rosary beads, looking like somebody had just pulled her plug. "The world will always welcome lovers," the music is suggesting, not so much in mockery as in sorrow. He's thinking of all those people downstairs, so hushed, so motionless: it's almost how he feels inside. Like something dying. Or something dead revealed. Oh shit. Has this happened before? Ilsa seems almost wraithlike in the pale staticky light, as though she were wearing her own ghost on her skin. And which is it he's been in love with? he wonders. He sees she is trembling, and a tear slides down the side of her nose, or seems to, it's hard to tell. He feels like he's going blind. "Listen. Maybe if we started over "
"I'm too tired, Richard "
"No, I mean, go back to where you came in, see — the letters of transit and all that. Maybe we made some kinda mistake, I dunno, like when I put my hands on your jugs or something, and if — "
"A mistake? You think putting your hands on my yugs was a mistake — ?"
"Don't get offended, sweetheart. I only meant — "
"Maybe my bringing my yugs here tonight was a mistake! Maybe my not shooting the trigger was a mistake!"
"Come on, don't get your tail in an uproar, goddamn it! I'm just trying to — "
"Oh, what a fool I was to fall to fall "
"Jesus, Ilsa, are you crying ? Ilsa ?" He sighs irritably. He is never going to understand women. Her head is bowed as though in resignation: one has seen her like this often when Laszlo is near. She seems to be staring at the empty buttonholes in her blouse. Maybe she's stupider than he thought. When the dimming light swings past, tears glint in the corners of her eyes, little points of light in the gathering shadows on her face. "Hey, dry up, kid! All I want you to do is go over there by the curtains where you were when I — "
"Can I tell you a story, Richard?"
"Not now, Ilsa! Christ! The light's almost gone and — "
"Anyway, it wouldn't work."
"What?"
"Trying to do it all again. It wouldn't work. It wouldn't be the same. I won't even haff my girdle on."
"That doesn't matter. Who's gonna know? Come on, we can at least — "