“Yes,” Carella said.
“So you think I should marry her?”
“It sounds like you’re married already,” Carella said.
Kling turned abruptly from the wheel to see whether or not Carella was smiling. Carella was not. He was hunched on the seat with his feet propped up against the clattering heater, and his hands tucked under his arms, and his chin ducked into the upturned collar of his coat.
“I suppose it is sort of like being married,” Kling said, turning his attention to the road again. “But not exactly.”
“Well, how’s it any different?” Carella said.
“Well, I don’t know. That’s what I’m asking you.”
“Well, I don’t see any difference.”
“Then why should we get married?” Kling asked.
“Jesus, Bert, I don’t know,” Carella said. “If you want to get married, get married. If you don’t, then stay the way you are.”
“Why’d you get married?”
Carella thought for a long time. Then he said, “Because I couldn’t bear the thought of any other man ever touching Teddy.”
Kling nodded.
He said nothing more all the way to Turman.
Kling was about to propose to Augusta Blair.
It was almost nine-thirty, and they had finished their meal and their coffee, and Kling had ordered cognac for both of them, and they were waiting for it to arrive. There was a candle in a red translucent holder on the tabletop, and it cast a gentle glow on Augusta’s face, softening her features, not that she needed any help. There was a time when Kling had been thoroughly flustered by Augusta’s beauty. In her presence he had been speechless, breathless, awkward, stupid, and incapable of doing anything but stare at her in wonder and gratitude. Over the past nine months, however, he had not only grown accustomed to her beauty, and comfortable in its presence, but had also begun to feel somehow responsible for it — like the curator of a museum beginning to think that the rare paintings on the walls had not only been discovered by him, but had in fact been painted by him.
If Kling had been a painter, he would have put Augusta on canvas exactly the way she looked, no improvements, no embellishments; none were necessary. Augusta’s hair was red, or auburn, or russet, depending on the light, but certainly in the red spectrum, and worn long most of the time, usually falling to just below her shoulder blades, but sometimes worn back in a pony tail, or braided into pigtails on either side of her face, or even piled on top of her head like a crown of sparkling rubies. Her eyes were a jade-green, slanting upward from high cheekbones, her exquisite nose gently drawing the upper lip away from partially exposed, even white teeth. She was tall and slender, with good breasts and a narrow waist and wide hips and splendid wheels. She was surely the most beautiful woman he had ever met in his life — which is why she was a photographer’s model. She was also the most beautiful person he had ever met in his life — which is why he wanted to marry her.
“Augusta,” he said, “there’s something serious I’d like to ask you.”
“Yes, Bert?” she said, and looked directly into his face, and he felt again what he had first felt nine months ago when he’d walked into her burglarized apartment and seen her sitting on the couch, her eyes glistening with tears about to spill. He had clumsily shaken hands with her, and his heart had stopped.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” he said.
“Yes, Bert?” she said.
The waiter brought the cognac. Augusta lifted her snifter and rolled it between her palms. Kling picked up his snifter and almost dropped it, spilling some of the cognac onto the table cloth. He dabbed at it with his napkin, smiled weakly at Augusta, put the napkin back on his lap and the snifter back on the table before he spilled it all over his shirt and his pants and the rug and maybe the silk-brocaded walls of this very fancy French joint he had chosen because he thought it would be a suitably romantic setting for a proposal, even though it was costing him half-a-week’s pay. “Augusta,” he said, and cleared his throat.
“Yes, Bert?”
“Augusta, I have something very serious to ask you.”
“Yes, Bert, you’ve said that already.” There seemed to be a slight smile on her mouth. Her eyes looked exceedingly merry.
“Augusta?”
“Yes, Bert?”
“Excuse me, Mr. Kling,” the waiter said. “There’s a telephone call for you.”
“Oh, sh—” Kling started, and then nodded, and said, “Thank you, thank you.” He shoved his chair back, dropping his napkin to the floor as he rose. He picked up the napkin, said, “Excuse me, Augusta,” and was heading away from the table when she very softly said, “Bert?”
He stopped and turned.
“I will, Bert,” she said.
“You will?” he asked.
“I’ll marry you,” she said.
“Okay,” he said, and smiled. “I’ll marry you, too.”
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay,” he said.
Hail to the Chief, 1973
“If that guy takes one more picture…” Kling said.
“He’s doing a conscientious job,” Augusta said.
They had changed into street clothes and were at the front desk of the hotel now, registering for the room they had reserved. Across the lobby, Pike was standing with his camera to his eye, focusing for a long shot of the couple at the desk.
“Does he plan to sleep with us tonight?” Kling asked.
“Who plans on sleeping?” Augusta asked, and smiled slyly.
“I mean—”
“I’ll gently suggest that maybe he’s taken enough pictures, okay?” Augusta said. “He’s a dear friend, Bert. I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”
“Okay.”
“And it will be nice to have a record afterward.”
“Yes, I know. Gus, are you happy?”
“Yes, darling, I’m very happy.”
“It was a real nice wedding, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I mean, the ceremony itself.”
“Yes, darling, I know.”
“There’s something awesome about those words,” Kling said. “When you come to think of it, that’s one hell of a frightening contract.”
“Are you frightened?”
“Sure, aren’t you? I take this very seriously, Gus.”
“So do I.”
“I mean, I really do want it to last so long as we both shall live.”
“I do, too.”
“So… so let’s just make sure it does last, Gus.”
“Are you worried about it?”
“No, but — well, yes, in a way. I love you so much, Gus, I just want to do everything I can to make you happy and to see you grow and to—”
“Your key, sir,” the night clerk said.
“Thank you,” Kling said.
“That’s room 824, the bellhop will show you up.”
“Thank you,” Kling said again.
Across the lobby, Pike was sitting on one of the sofas, putting a fresh roll of film into his camera. The moment he saw them moving away from the desk, he snapped the back of the camera shut, and rose, and began walking swiftly toward them.
“I just want one more picture,” he said in immediate apology.
“You’ve really been an angel,” Augusta said. “Did you get a chance to enjoy the wedding, or were you just working all day long?”
“I had a marvelous time,” he said. “But I still need another picture.”