He glanced at her. “What?”
Teddy kicked a stone from the sidewalk. It rolled into the gutter. “You’re right about your apartment, of course. I remember how he looked at me— the manager. I should have realized. But that’s all over with.” She turned toward Verne, smiling. “Anyhow, it’s better to start fresh.”
“Fresh?”
“In a new place. Where you’ve never been before. Where you can paint and clean. Put up drapes, pictures. Start all over. Do you stay in one place very long? The same place gets stale, after a while.”
Verne said nothing.
“We’ll find a place with a yard. I want to plant some herbs. I’ve always wanted an herb garden. You can do wonderful things with herbs. And I can get Sheshahgen back again.”
“What’s that?”
“My cat.”
“Your cat! You said—”
“This is a different cat. I gave her to some friends. They’ll give her back again.”
Verne was dazed. He shook his head. “I don’t get it. You’re giving up your apartment? Why? Don’t you intend to—”
Teddy smiled. “I’ve already told the landlady. I told her this morning. Verne—there’s so many things we can do! Have you ever painted an apartment? Have you? Do you know how it smells, late at night, the wet smell of the paint? You turn on the stove for coffee. The smell of the paint mixing with the coffee smell. The gas. The bright overhead light.”
They walked on. Above them the last star had been absorbed, swallowed by the vastness of the grey continent that swelled across the sky. How could it be? How could great flaming suns, thousands of miles in diameter, burning masses bigger than the earth, be eaten up and absorbed by something so small, so unimportant as a cloud? Everything was disappearing, vanishing. All around him the world was fading into the grey mists, the hodge-podge of stars, and trash, and tree branches, newspapers, the little things that roll around in the wind.
And himself.
He would be swept along with the rest; he had no power to stop the motion of these things. He glanced at the girl striding along beside him. Was it possible that things could be devoured by something so weak, so thin and small, so gaunt?
Had he always been so helpless? Was this the way it would always be? Was there nothing else for him?
They stopped at a corner for a street light. No one was in sight. The wet streets stretched out in all directions, dark and barren. Suddenly Verne tensed. He pulled back, away from the girl.
“What is it?” Teddy said. “Why did you stop?”
“Listen.”
She listened. “I don’t hear anything.”
He moved down the sidewalk, straining to hear. A sound—a faint, familiar sound. A sound he had not heard for a long time. Someone was playing a musical instrument. But he could not tell where.
He came to a house and stood listening, his head to one side. Then he went back farther, past the house, until he stood by a fence, a lattice fence overgrown with ivy. Light was coming through the fence, where the holes were not filled up with the leaves and stems of ivy. He bent down, peering through the fence, cupping his hands.
On the other side a boy was sitting in the middle of a garden, on a wooden stool, playing an oboe. He stared intently ahead, his eyes fixed on a music stand. Above his head an electric light bulb hung. Nothing else seemed to exist for him. Only the cold instrument in his hands, the music in front of him. Nothing else.
All at once he stopped and turned his head. He looked past Verne, off into the distance, his instrument in his lap. Then he lifted it up again and began to play as before.
Down at the end of the block Teddy was calling angrily. Verne stepped back onto the sidewalk and made his way slowly toward her, his hands in his pockets.
“What happened? Why did you go back?”
“A high school boy. Practicing on his oboe.”
Teddy shrugged.
They walked on.
Verne was still gazing at Carl when the young man began to wake up. He turned slowly in the bed, stretching and opening his eyes. He blinked at Verne.
“How long have you been awake?”
“Not very long,” Verne murmured.
Carl sat up. “What kind of a day is it?” He pulled back the shade above his bed and peered out. The sky was bright blue. The sun shone down everywhere. Off in the distance they could see the machines of the Company, tall columns, rising up like abandoned towers.
“I guess it’s time to get up,” Carl said. He struggled out of his covers and onto his feet. He smiled cheerily at Verne; his blond hair hung down over his face. He pushed it back out of the way.
“Let’s go eat breakfast.” Carl was all excitement. “Just think—we can have anything we want! We can have turkey and creamed peas and plum pudding with brandy sauce.”
“Is that what you want for breakfast?”
“No, but we could have it. Just think—everything here is ours. Maybe we’re not so bad off, after all. We’re like kings. We’re wealthy. Emperors!”
“It’s not so much. You’ll get tired of it before the end of the week.”
“Do you think so? Well, we’ll see.”
Verne nodded absently. He was trying to adjust to the present. The past was still with him very much.
They washed and shaved and dressed. Together they walked down the path toward the commissary.
“Do you think Barbara will be there already?” Carl asked.
“I don’t know.”
“She certainly seems to be a nice person. Don’t you think so? But I get the impression that at some time she suffered a great deal.”
Verne laughed out loud.
“Wait! Don’t laugh. I can tell quite a lot about people, more than you’d think. It’s the way she holds herself, and talks. And the words she uses. There’s something in her face. Maybe we’ll find out, before we leave.”
Verne scowled. “Christ’s sake.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Verne seemed sunk in irritable gloom. He gazed down at the path, his hands pushed into his pockets.
“Sorry,” Carl murmured. They walked in silence the rest of the way. The commissary was deserted. There was no one there. They wandered around inside.
“Well?” Verne said.
Carl looked sad. “I thought maybe she’d already be here, cooking breakfast for us. Waffles and ham and orange juice. Or something like that.”
“Cook it yourself.”
“I’m not very good at cooking. Anyhow, it’s not the same when you have to cook it yourself.”
“All I want is a cup of coffee.” Verne sat down at the table.
Suddenly Carl brightened. “Maybe one of us could run over and wake her up. She’s probably still asleep.”
Verne grunted. “Probably.”
“Do you want to?”
“Why me?”
“You know her.” Carl waited hopefully.
“Do it yourself. It won’t hurt you. Haven’t you ever got a woman out of bed? It’s time you learned.”
Carl’s ears turned red. He moved toward the door. “I’ll go over. I guess it’s all right.”
“It’s all right You don’t have to go inside. Just rap on the door. Of course, if she invites you in, that’s another thing.”
“Goodbye.” Carl pushed the door open.
Verne watched him go sourly. After a time he got up and went over to the sink. He fixed himself a glass of baking soda and warm water.
Making a face, he drank it down.
Seven
Barbara Mahler lay in bed half asleep. From an open window the sun streamed across her body, across the bed covers, her pajamas, onto the floor. Suddenly she threw the covers back, away from her. She stretched out, her legs wide apart, her arms at her sides.