“She’s damned attractive,” he said.
“Attractive!” moaned Smith. “She’s a ringtailed screecher. She’s got me going — yes, sir, she’s got me going. She can put her slippers—”
He broke off, pondering. Click, and then cluck, went the water bottle, while he ponderously pondered. The throb of the ship’s engines was the throb of Smith, pondering the imponderable. One could see him in the act of evoking Faubion; an old wizard, toothless and long-bearded, putting one claw out of his coffin to make the last sign, then hooking his nail over the coffin’s edge, batlike. What, to him, was Faubion? “Faubion!” cried the withered brain; and saw flames dancing scarflike in a jungle of lewd sounds and sights. Faubion, flame-bodied, wavered toward the coffin, bearing a slipper in each hand. Zebra-striped were the slippers, white and green, ophidian, with ruby eyes; and a fount of ostrich plumes jetted from each. She placed these adoringly beside the coffin, kneeling, and the bat claw was drawn in, drawing with it flames and plumes … Are you warm enough, Mr. Smith?… Quite warm enough, thank you, Mr. Demarest!.. And what is the flavor of Faubion, Mr. Smith?… Flamingo, hibiscus, and guava, Mr. Demarest!.. Take then — eat, drink, live!.. And lo, Smith lived; the coffin glowed about him, an incadescent chrysalis, burning translucently, within which lay Smith, gleaming and waxing; the fiery chrysalis flaked away, in small dissolving flakes of flame; and Smith, luminously waxing, with fiery veins and godlike nimbus, sprang up rejoicing, naked and blazing, a leafy vine of gold rapidly growing all over his body and burning off as it grew. To right and left of him jetted the ostrich plumes, spouted higher, arched flashing, and crashed upon him foaming. Caligula. King Caligula and the immortal daughter. King Caligula setting forth: after a seven days’ meditation: marched huge armies a day to the north: and in the evening took his station: on a green hilltop: peaked and—
“I wouldn’t like to make a mistake though. No, sir. Not much … Barnes — that officer — is supposed to be looking after her. Suppose my foot slipped? — Mmmm. No.”
“You’d be shot at sunrise. Walk the plank.”
“All the same — with care. And the circumstances are favorable. These dresses — and their cabin being just opposite — don’t you think—?”
“Take my advice and go slow.”
Smith blinked brown eyes under his tweed hat.
“You know — it’s bad when you get to my age. Bad.”
“When isn’t it bad?”
“You wait … Specially if you’re sort of a timid fellow like me. I never was much good at love affairs. Guess they don’t like the timid fellows. That’s where I always made my mistake …”
“Well, I don’t think there’s any golden rule for success. I’m no Don Juan myself.”
“No? You look like the sort they throw themselves at. I’ve only had one what you’d call “affair” in my life — yes, sir, just one. And that was my wife.”
“Oh … Is your wife dead?” Demarest smoothed his voice — discreetly, hypocritically.
“I don’t know, and I don’t care much. She ran away from me after six months. Flew the coop. With a little shrimp of a one-lunged candy salesman — married man, too. Sixteen years ago — all but three weeks. She wrote me a couple of years afterward and wanted to come back … Not much! No siree, Bob. She had another ‘think’ coming.”
“Was she young?”
“Young? Yes — too young. Twenty-one, and I was thirty-five. She came to work in the piano department; played the piano, too; good little pianist … Last I heard of her she was playing the piano in a movie in St. Louis … Good riddance, I guess … Of course I’ve had a little fling now and then — you know — but never what you’d call a nice girl … That’s what I’d like, to settle down for good with a nice girl.”
“Marry again?”
“Oh, well, I’m not so particular about marriage — besides, I’ve never got a divorce … But some nice young girl to wash the dishes, and look after me, and get my money when I die. I’ve got a tidy little sum saved up and nobody to leave it to.”
… I’m tired of living alone.
I’d like some young wife of my own.
Some bow-legged Venus,
To call me Silenus—
Smith had bored his young Venus? Too attentive and exacting, too worshiping. Pawing her all the time, probably. “Now, darling! I don’t want you tiring yourself out. You stay home and rest this afternoon, and I’ll come home early …” Mrs. Smith sat down at the piano when she heard the front door shut. The Holy City. Ho-sanna-i-in the highest, ho-sann-a-a-for-evAH mooore … Singing captivatingly, eyes on the ceiling, nevertheless she revolved on her stool now and then to see if anyone was coming. Nope! — not yet. Flutter — flutter. — Waltz me around again Will-ee; around — around — around. A footstep on the “stoop?” Mrs. Smith turned sharply her eager white chin and oystery blue eyes. There he was. He had a newspaper in one hand and a box of candy in the other. He tapped with the folded newspaper on the window. She rose and opened it. “Did you meet him?” “Yes, but he didn’t notice me. I’ve got tickets to Nashville. Four o’clock.” “I told you not to.” “Hurry up and pack your things.” “Don’t stand there! — wait for me at the station. I haven’t got a cent.” “Here … if you leave a note for him, don’t tell him where you’ve gone.” “Darling! Do you think I’m such a fool? I may be crazy—!” She took the five-dollar bill and the box of chocolates. Huylers: with pistachio acorns. Smiling, she put her forefinger to her lip, transferred the kiss to the back of his right hand, drawing it softly the whole length of his yellow-haired little finger, then shut the window and ran to pack … Waltz me around again Will-ee … around — around … At four-twenty Smith came in, beaming. “Coo-hoo!” he fluted, and then again softly stepping toward the kitchen, “Coo-hoo!” … No answer. “Waltz Me Around Again Willie” on the piano, and still hanging in the air. An opened box of chocolates, with only the pistachio acorns gone. A note on the dining-room table. “Frank — I’ve gone away. Try to forgive me. I couldn’t have stood it. I don’t love you and wouldn’t have made you a good wife. Terribly sorry. Will write you sometime. Miss Dillingham will be glad to take the cat. Try not to think too badly of me. I’m not good enough for you, and that’s a fact. Maydie …” Poor old Smith. Incredulous, he cried “Coo-hoo” again; then again. All a joke. He flapped his wings, goggled, and turned into a cuckoo, flying from top to bottom of the house, dashing against walls, looking repeatedly and dementedly in the cellar, the kitchen, the bathroom, the attic. “Coo-hoo!” he cried, and even put his absurd head out of the cupola window and coo-hooed at the roof, thinking she might be there. No answer. Not a sound. He returned to the kitchen, where he met Nicodemus, the cat. “Ptrnyow!” said Nicodemus. His saucer was empty, and Smith filled it. Tears came into his eyes. “Poor old Nik,” he said, “was a nice old Nickums …” Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone … He had a sense of having been excavated — a hollow, aching shell. He sat and thought. At eight o’clock, getting hungry, he opened the ice chest. And at the sight of the butter dish he burst into tears. Coo-hoo: boo-hoo. Tohubohu.