She would have to go back and take things up just as before. Without change. Except that now she would be more alone than ever; Penny and Felix would be married and off by themselves.
She shut her eyes. The murmur of the room rolled around her. How could she face it?
While she was thinking about it a man came over to her. He was a small man, older than most of them, with a pipe and a grey rumpled suit.
“You’re not drinking. Can I bring you anything? Scotch and water?” He had a glass in his hand.
Barbara shook her head. “No thanks.”
“Nothing?”
“No.”
“You wouldn’t mind holding my drink for a second, would you?” He held his glass out to her, and she took it slowly. The man went off, and in a moment he came back with another glass. He grinned, his eyes dancing behind horn-rimmed glasses. She thought: what an odd little face, so thin and wrinkled. Like a little prune.
“I’ll keep this one,” he said. “It’s fuller.”
She started to get angry. But then she laughed, because he was grinning at her, watching her.
“All right,” she said. “Give me the drink.”
They exchanged drinks. Barbara sipped a little. The liquor was cold and biting. She wrinkled her nose. The man had not gone away. He was still standing beside her, at the end of the couch.
“My name’s Verne Tildon,” the man said.
Three
At last Carl left the porch and went slowly back inside the office. He put his suitcase and package down, deep in thought, oblivious to his surroundings. The office was barren, in the glare of the overhead light. The curtains and small furnishings were all gone; only a table and two chairs and a metal file cabinet were left. The bare plaster wall was marred by two screw holes where the pencil sharpener had been. A notice was still tacked on the wall.
Suddenly he noticed there was another person in the room. Verne was sitting at the table, watching him through his horn-rimmed glasses.
“Hello,” Carl said. “You still here?”
“You look upset.”
“They didn’t consider it important enough to let me know about it. About staying. That’s what gets me the most. If I had known I could have let my family know in time. This way, they’ll—”
“Oh, your family.” Verne got up and clapped the young man on the shoulder. The solid flesh hardly budged. “Don’t worry. They won’t care whether you come back.”
Carl gave up. “What the heck. Anyhow, it’s only for a week.” His usual good spirits were returning.
“A week! You should live so long.”
“What do you mean?”
“A week. More like two.”
“They said we could go—”
“When the yuks come. But the yuks may take their time getting here. The Oriental mind is inscrutable. It requires centuries to reach a decision.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter. Lord, it’s dreary in here with everything gone!” Carl took off his coat and took it to the closet. He stopped, the door half open.
“What’s the matter?” Verne came over. Inside the closet, piled high to the ceiling, were cardboard boxes full of dusty ledgers and file cards, account books and papers. All tied with string, crushed together in a heap, ready to fall any moment.
Carl slammed the door. “I give up. I thought they were going to take that.”
“Why should they? It’s not worth anything. The files of a unit that’s gone bust. That’s all they are. Records of a short, brief flame of economic passion.”
“Not so short. A good many years.”
“A good many years indeed,” Verne agreed. “And in view of that fact, a week or so shouldn’t make any difference.”
Carl picked up the traffic notification paper from the table and scanned it again. “Who is this? This woman, Barbara Mahler. Do you know her?”
“A little.”
“I thought you knew all the women here.”
“I’ve heard the name. That’s all.”
“What’s she like?”
“Nothing in particular.”
Suddenly there was a deep roar outside the window. A heavy truck was starting up. As they watched, a load of workmen drove by, down the road, along the rim of the Company property and out through the gate. Then the truck was lost into the darkness. They could still hear its rumble for a time after it had disappeared, going away down the highway.
“What was that?” Carl said nervously.
“The workmen. I didn’t think they’d finish up so fast. I guess they were in a hurry to get out of here.”
“You mean there’s just the three of us left?”
Verne nodded.
“Good Lord. Already. Things happen fast.” Carl moved around the office. “Just us. Where is this Barbara Mahler? I’d like to meet her and see what she’s like.”
“She was around here earlier. She’ll turn up, before the week’s over. She has plenty of time.”
Carl fidgeted. He paced restlessly, rubbing his hands together. “Lord, it’s bleak in here.”
“I guess so.” Verne sat down at the table again.
“You wouldn’t mind if I went and looked around for her, would you?” Carl asked.
“Why?”
“I’m curious to see what she’s like.”
Verne sighed. “Go ahead, if you want.”
“Thanks.” Carl took hold of the doorknob. “After all, we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, the next couple of weeks.” He opened the door and went outside, onto the dark porch.
“Goodbye,” Verne said listlessly He listened to Carl’s footsteps die away down the gravel path.
Barbara Mahler. Well, he wasn’t curious. He knew what she looked like. And a lot more besides. Verne lit a cigarette, putting his feet up on the table. Barbara—what an irony. Of all the people in the world! He grinned wryly. It almost seemed intentional. The next week was going to be interesting. How would she act? Could she keep pretending that—
But of course, it had been a long time. Maybe she had really forgotten.
When had he first met her? It was in Castle, sometime or other. Years, years ago. Castle. His thoughts began to drift. What an irony! She had been at some kind of a party. He had met her at a party. Sitting on a chair. No: a couch.
Sitting on a couch. And he had got her a drink.
Verne Tildon looked down at the girl sitting on the end of the couch. He was trying to understand her, to fix firmly in his mind what kind of person she was. She seemed like— What was her name? Vivian. Only Vivian had longer hair, and smoother. This girl’s hair was hard and short and heavy. Like a pelt. It was hard cut, like a little helmet. He felt himself smiling at her, and presently he saw her set expression fade, and she smiled back.
“My name is Barbara Mahler,” she said.
He considered the name. Jewish? German? “That’s the same as the composer. Do you spell it the same way?”
“What?”
“Gustav Mahler. Or hadn’t you been told?”
“I didn’t know.” There was a pause.
“Well, what do you know?” And he laughed out loud. The girl looked down at the floor. He could not tell if she were angry or embarrassed or what. With him, a person who had known many girls, who had, in fact, approached many under just such circumstances, the first few moments decided the issue. Either the girl liked him or she did not. If she did not he went away. He was too old to worry about it.
To Verne, life was a short affair. No long drawn-out eternity stretched away ahead of him. What he got he expected to get within a span of time so definite that he could fairly well see the end of it. He did not imagine that the kind of life he appreciated was going to continue forever. Looking down at the silent girl he waited, prepared for the next move, a sign telling him whether to go on off again or to stay. At the far end of the room a girl with long blonde hair had just arrived and was gazing around her. Slender, with large eyes and full breasts, this girl stood waiting. He looked down at Barbara again.