“I don’t see much of him. He comes into the station once in a while. He tries to get me to play more Dixieland on the program.”
“I see.”
“What do you think of him?”
“I think he’s an intellectual simp.”
Verne laughed. “Well, you don’t have to go around with him.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Why do you, then?”
She shrugged. “Don’s a nice boy. In some ways.”
“He looks as if he were rotting away from some sort of fungus.”
“Don knows some interesting places. You learn from each person you meet.”
“What did you ever learn from him? All about mouldie-fygg jass?”
“He’s quite an authority on New Orleans jazz.”
“If that means anything. Well, let’s forget it.”
The listened to the Suite. “This part is so beautiful,” Teddy said. “Do you remember what Huxley said about it in Point Counter Point? I liked that passage.”
“About the guts of a cat? The violins? That was when the old scientist was coming down the stairs, down to the party. Where they were playing this.”
“Music figured a lot in the book.”
Verne listened to the music. Gradually it absorbed his attention. Some of the loneliness he had felt earlier began to seep back. He pulled himself up on the couch, rubbing his eyes.
“What’s the matter?” Teddy said.
“Nothing. Thinking about the book.” He lifted his glass, but it was empty. He held the empty glass up to the light, turning it slowly.
“The book was about death,” Teddy said.
Verne got up and went over to the bookcase. He turned his back to hear, reading the titles of the books. After a time Teddy came over and stood beside him.
“I see Jrou like Eliot,” Verne said. “Great man, for a neo-fascist.” He slid a slender book out. “What the hell is this? ‘Murder in the Cathedral.’ ”
“It’s a play about Thomas Becket.”
Verne put it back. “You have a lot of Jung. All the neo-fascists. Integration of the Personality.”
“He’s a nice old man. He goes for long walks in the snow. What’s wrong with you, all of a sudden?”
Verne turned around suddenly. “Well, young lady. Let’s go someplace. Where would you like to go? Or do you want to go anywhere? Or shall I leave and go home?”
Teddy laughed. “Let’s just talk. I’m tired of going around to dark little places. Okay?”
Verne sat down on the couch. “I know what you mean.”
Six
Verne saw Don Field the following day. Don looked more morose than ever. He plodded up to Verne as he was leaving the station after work.
“Well,” Verne said. “It’s you again. You’re getting to be a familiar sight around this time of day.”
“Where were you last night?” Don said hoarsely.
“Last night? Why?”
“You weren’t home. I called you.”
“What do you care where I was last night?”
“I wondered.”
Verne unlocked his car door. “You can keep on wondering.” He drove off. Through the rear view mirror he could see Don standing on the curb, watching sadly after him, his armload of records and books sagging.
That evening, Verne mentioned to Teddy that he had seen Don. She said nothing. They were going down to the Morning After Club to hear Muggsy Spanier.
“Spanier,” Verne said. “One of the greatest jazz men alive. It’s an experience.”
“I’ve heard his records.”
“That’s not the same. You don’t get the bite of the music from a record. The feel. Wait and see.”
Did she enjoy the evening? She seemed to. On the way home she leaned against him, humming to herself. She appeared quite happy and content; her eyes were bright and held that same merry gleam he had first noticed that night in the Walker Club.
At the corner of the block near her apartment Teddy suddenly put her hand on his arm. “Verne, park her for a second. I’ll be right back.”
She got out and trotted up to a liquor store. It was just closing; the man had already turned the signs off and emptied the register. Teddy banged on the door, waving. The man shuffled over and unlocked it Teddy went inside. A few moments later she came out with a paper bag.
She hopped in the car. “This is on me.”
They drove up along the curb to her place. As they got out Verne began to check the doors and windows of the car to make sure they were locked.
Teddy laughed, standing on the sidewalk. “You’re so earnest. No one’s going to run off with your car!”
Verne grunted. “I suppose not. But it makes me feel better. Let’s go.”
He followed her up the stairs. She strode along, holding onto the banister, a pace ahead of him. At the top she halted, waiting for him to catch up.
Under her door was a slip of white paper, pushed half way inside. She picked it up and read it.
“It’s from Don.” She passed it to him. He read it and handed it back. Teddy put the note in her pocket and they went on inside. The living room light was on, a feeble glow hidden behind the table. It left the room dark and mysterious. He could smell things in the air. The perfumes and odors of women, the faint hanging scent of liquor and cigarettes. And when he went to hang up his coat in the closet, another smell. Almost an animal smell.
“Do you have a pet?”
“I had a cat, but she was run over. Her back was broken. I saw it out the window.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s hard to keep a cat when you have only an apartment. Box of newspapers in the kitchen, furniture all clawed up. Come sit down.”
He sat down. Teddy disappeared into the kitchen, humming as she went. He heard things being opened.
Now, sitting by himself in the living room, hearing the sound of the girl bustling around in the kitchen, he began to feel the first faint stirrings of a profound peace and contentment. He allowed his body to relax; his mind sank into a kind of half-sleep. A cloud of soft darkness moved over him, mixed with the smells of the room.
In the blanket of woman smells, the smells of perfumes and deodorants and female bodies, he found himself going to sleep. From a great distance he realized that Teddy had come back into the room and was standing in the doorway, gazing silently at him. Presently he struggled a little and managed to become awake.
He smiled at her. He had taken his glasses off and put them into his pocket. He loosened his tie, lying with his head against the rough fabric of the couch.
Teddy crossed the room noiselessly, growing and expanding until she stood before him. She put down a tray and then seated herself beside him. He did not look up. He was content. The warmth, the smells hovered over him. He was falling asleep again, and it was a long way to fall. Down and down he plummeted. The world noises, the coldness, the bright lights, everything rushed away from him.
Teddy’s small hard fingers were against his face. He sighed. The pressure of her hands was increasing. Like the force of a coiled up spring the energy was coming out of her, moving through her arms and hands, into him. Surges of power, a flowing, overwhelming force. The demands of desire. He sighed again. Of bodily need.
The smells, the warmth, the room and the girl next to him, all blended and merged together. He ceased to know where one began, the other ended. Everything in and around him was rising to the surface, flowing out. A tide, a vast drumming tide was washing him away. He closed his eyes.
Without resistance, he allowed himself to be lost into it.
He ached. His body felt seared and blistered; he winced to the touch. Dazed, his mind struggled to collect itself. He was scattered, strewn everywhere, all over. Fragments and particles. He gasped, breathing like an animal that had come out of some desperate battle.