"Truthfully, my child, have you ever read a book of Wells'?"
"Yes, I have."
"Tell me--but the truth, just between you and me."
"I read one book, Father."
"One? One book by Wells is like trying to bathe in a single wave. What was the book?"
"It was about God."
"God the Invisible King?"
"That's the one."
"Did you finish it?"
"No."
"Neither did I."
"Oh, Father--you?"
"I just couldn't read it. Human evolution with God as Intelligence. I soon saw the point, then the rest was tedious, garrulous"
"But it was so intelligent. I read a few pages and was so thrilled. I knew he was a great man, even if I couldn't read the whole book. You know I can't read an entire book. I'm too restless. But you've read all his other books."
"No one could read them all. I've read many. Probably too many."
Smiling, Sammler emptied the envelopes and tossed the crumpled ball into Angela's wastepaper basket of gilded Florentine leather. Acquired by her mother on a tour. The keys he dropped into his pocket, leaning far to one side in the boudoir chair to get at the flap.
Shula, observing silently, was smiling also, holding her wrists with her fingers, forearms crossing on her bosom to keep the robe from falling open. Sammler, despite the washrag, had seen the brown-purple tips, enriched with salient veins. At the corner of her mouth, now that she had done her mischief, there was a chaste twist of achievement. The flat black kinked hair was covered up, towel-swathed, except, as always, for the kosher sidelocks escaping at her ears. And smiling as if she had eaten a plateful of divine forbidden soup, and what was to be done about it now that it was down? At the back, the white nape of her neck was strong. Biological strength. Below the neck there was a mature dorsal hump. A grown woman. But the arms and legs were not proportionate. His only begotten child. He never doubted that she performed acts originating far beyond, in the past, of unconscious ancestral origin. He was aware how true this was of himself. Especially in religious matters. She was a praying nut, but he, after all, was given to praying, too, often addressed God. Just now he asked to understand why he so much loved this fool woman with the thick, uselessly sensual cream skin, the painted mouth, and that towel turban.
"Shula, I know you did this for me--"
"You are more important than that man, Father. You needed it."
"But from now on, don't use me as an excuse. For your exploits..."
"We nearly lost you in Israel, in that war. I was afraid you wouldn't finish your lifework."
"Nonsense, Shula. What lifework! And killed? There? The finest death I could imagine. Besides, there was no danger. Ridiculous!"
Shula stood up. "I hear wheels," she said. "Somebody just drove up."
He had not heard. She had keen senses. Idiot ingenuous animal, she had ears like a fox. Rising so abrupt, standing silent to listen, queenly, dim-witted, alert. And the white feet. Her feet had not been disfigured by fashionable shoes.
"It probably is Emil."
"No, it's not Emil. I must get dressed."
She ran from the room.
Sammler went downstairs wondering where Wallace had gone. The doorbell began to chime and continued chiming. Margotte didn't know how to ring, when to stop pushing a button. He could see her, through the long narrow pane, in her straw hat, and Professor V. Govinda Lal was with her.
"We hired a Hertz car," she said. The Professor couldn't bear to wait. We talked to Father Robles on the phone. He hadn't seen Shula in days."
"Professor Lal. Imperial College. Biophysics."
"I am Shula's father."
There were small bows, a handshake.
"We can sit in the living room. Shall I make a pot of coffee? Is Shula here?" said Margotte.
"And my manuscript?" said Lal. "The Future of the Moon?"
"Safe," said Sammler. "Not actually in the house, but locked up safely. I have the keys. Professor Lal, please accept my apologies. My daughter has behaved very badly. Caused you pain."
Sammler under the foyer light saw the shocked and disappointed face of Laclass="underline" brown cheeks, black hair, neat, vivid, and gracefully parted, and a huge spreading beard. The inadequacy of words--the need for several simultaneous languages to address all parts of the mind at once, especially those parts left free by meager communication, functioning furiously on their own. Instead, as one were to smoke ten cigarettes simultaneously; while also drinking whisky; while also being sexually engaged with three or four other persons; while hearing bands of music; while receiving scientific notations--thus to capacity engagé... the boundlessness, the pressure of modem expectations.
Lal shouted, "Dear me! This is intolerable! Intolerable! Why am I sent this punishment!"
"Pour Dr. Lal a brandy, Margotte."
"I do not drink! I do not drink!"
In the dark setting of his beard the teeth were clenched. Then, aware of his own loudness, he said in more appropriate tones, "Normally I do not drink."
"But, Dr. Lal, you recommended beer on the moon. However--I am illogical. Go on, go on, Margotte, don't just look solicitous. Get the brandy. I'll have some if he won't. You know where the liquor is. Bring two glasses. Now, Professor, the anxiety will soon be over."
The living room was what they called "sunken. " You had to descend. A well, a pool, a tank of carpet. It was furnished or decorated with professional completeness, densely arranged. This, if you allowed it to, gave pain. Sammler had known the late Mrs. Gruner's decorator. Or stultifies. Croze. Croze was petit, but had the strength of an art personality. He stood like a thrush. His little belly came far forward and lifted his trousers well above the ankles. His face had lovely color, his hair was barbered to the shapely little head, he had a rosebud mouth, and after you shook hands with Croze, your own hand was all day perfumed. He was creative. Capable of criminal acts, probably. All this was his creation. Here many boring hours had occurred, especially after family dinners. it wouldn't be a bad custom to send these furnishings into the tomb with the deceased, Egyptian style. However, here they all were, these spoils of silk, leather, glass, and antique wood. Here Sammler led the hairy Dr. Lal, a small man, very dark. Not black, sharp-nosed, the Dravidian type, dolichocephalic, but round-featured. Probably from Punjab. He had thin and hairy wrists, ankles, legs. He was a dandy. A macaroni (Sammler could not surrender the old words it had given him so much pleasure in Cracow to pick up from eighteenth-century books). Yes Govinda was a beau. He was also sensitive, intelligent, nervous, keen, a handsome, elegant, birdy man. One major incongruity. the round face enlarged by soft but strong beard. Behind, thin shoulder blades stuck through the linen blazer. He had a stoop.
"Where is your daughter, may I ask?"
"Coming down. I will ask Margotte to fetch her. She was frightened by your detective."
"He was clever to find her at all. Ingenious work. He did his job."
"No doubt, but with my daughter Pinkerton methods did not apply. Because of Poland, you see, and the war police. She was hidden. So she panicked. Too bad you have had to suffer for it. But what can one do if she is somewhat...?"
"Psycho?"
"That's putting it strongly. She's not entirely out of touch. She made a copy of your manuscript, and she took two lockers in Grand Central Station for copy and original. Here are the keys."