“No, I don’t suppose you can,” Epstein says thoughtfully. “Wasn’t there something in Time about this Peace Train? Number of cars, and so on?”
“I didn’t see it”
“I’m sure there was. Let me look through my back magazines. I’ll contact you if I locate it”
“Do you know where I’m staying?”
“We all know where you’re staying,” Epstein says. “Well, this is getting a bit steep for me. If you don’t mind, I’ll turn back. I enjoyed your company. Good day.”
He wheels his bicycle around and starts coasting back toward town. Sara and I continue pedaling uphill. In a little while, we get off the bicycles and walk them.
“Did you know he’d be at the bicycle shop?” I ask.
“No.”
“Mmmm”
“Don’t worry,” she says. “You can trust me.”
“Now.”
“Yes. Now.”
We stop for lunch at a tiny restaurant some five miles outside of town. There is an open hearth with a roaring fire. Western ladies in pretty hats sit drinking Manhattans. We scan the menu, realize the food will be anything but exceptional, and decide to drink the afternoon away. After her fourth drink, I find myself becoming fiercely protective. It occurs to me for the first time that Sara has parents someplace, and that they might not approve of her drinking this way. It also occurs to me that they might not approve of her going to bed with a married man twice her age, but I conveniently put this out of my mind. When at last we order, it is close to three p.m., and the ladies in their hats have all departed. The waitress, a blowzy blonde with the look of an habitual drinker, impressed by our capacity for booze, has adopted us as her very own. She fusses around the table as we order, recommending one house specialty after another.
“How's the spaghetti?” I ask.
“Oh, very good, sir.”
“Are you Italian?”
“No,” she says.
“What are you?”
“American,” she says, and laughs. “I'm so American it hurts.”
“You're an Indian?”
“No, no,” she says, still laughing. ‘'But my people practically came over on the Mayflower. Do you want the spaghetti?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I don’t think so,” Sara says.
“Shall we try the London broil?”
“Yes,” Sara says.
“Two London broil,” I say.
“How would you like those, sir?”
“Medium rare,” Sara says.
“Medium rare,” I say.
“French fries, baked, or mashed?”
“French fries,” Sara says.
“French fries,” I say.
“Green beans, peas, or succotash?”
“No vegetable,” I say.
“No vegetable,” Sara says.
“French, Russian, or Roquefort on your salad?”
“Roquefort,” Sara says.
“Roquefort,” I say.
“Would you care to see the wine list, sir?”
“I’d prefer beer, but perhaps…”
“Beer,” Sara says.
“We have Ballantine’s, Schaefer’s, Michelob, and Miller’s. Or if you prefer imported beer, we have Heineken’s, Lowenbrau, Amstel and…”
“Amstel,” I say.
“Amstel,” Sara says.
“Thank you, sir,” the waitress says, and leaves.
Sara is smiling. She is looking at her hands on the tablecloth and smiling.
“What is it?” I say.
“Nothing,” she answers, “nothing.”
But she is still smiling.
Later that night, Hester arrives at the hotel unannounced.
“I thought it best not to telephone,” she says. “I hope I'm not interrupting anything.” She says this with a sidelong glance at Sara, who is naked in bed with the covers pulled to her throat Since I have not thought to bring a robe with me, I am standing in the doorway with my coat on over my nightshirt. The whole scene is entirely embarrassing. My one fear of burglars has always been that they will enter the house while I am in bed and find me with my hairy legs hanging out “What is it, Hester?” I ask.
“May we close the door, please? Hello, Sara,” she says.
“Hullo.”
I close the door and lock it. Hester walks in and takes the chair alongside the television set In bed, Sara is looking up at the ceiling, perhaps visualizing paper stars pasted to it Hester is wearing a short car coat over a tweed skirt. A long blue-and-white striped muffler is wrapped around her throat. She looks like an aging sophomore. “I think we've found a dynamiter for you,” she says.
“Good.”
“His name is Sygmunt Weglowski. He’s a Pole.”
“Fine.”
“Actually, we were very lucky to get hold of him. Did you know that you need a permit to buy explosives in this state?”
“No, I didn’t”
“Well, you do. Weglowski has one because he’s a building contractor and does blasting in his normal line of work. He’ll pick you up here at nine tomorrow morning.” Hester pauses. “Do you think you’ll be awake by then?”
“I'll be awake.”
“Good.”
“How much have you told him about the plan?”
“Only what he needs to know.”
“He understands I’m going to kill a man?”
“He understands he’s to wire a bridge.”
“And the rest?”
“The rest is no concern of his. He’s not a fool. He knows if it's wired to explode, someone will undoubtedly detonate the explosives.”
“Did you tell him who that ‘someone’ might be?”
“No.”
“But since he’s not a fool, he’ll undoubtedly realize it’s me.”
“I can’t be held responsible for whatever conclusions he may draw. You asked us to secure a dynamiter, and we've done so. Quite frankly, Mr. Eisler, your personal safety no longer interests me. You forfeited all rights to immunity the moment you began lying to us.”
“I began lying to you at the very start”
“Exactly,” she says. She glances at the bottle of scotch on the dresser. “Are you going to offer me a drink?”
“No.”
“In that case, good night.” She rises and walks to the door. “Good night, Sara.”
“Good night,” Sara answers.
“Nine tomorrow,” Hester says to me. “Be ready.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“Good night,” she says again, and leaves.
The moment she is gone, Sara gets out of bed, walks to the chair Hester just vacated, sits in it, stretches her legs, folds her arms across her chest and says, “This is sordid. Jesus, this is really sordid.
“Sara…”
“It is sordid, Arthur. Even you have to admit that.”
I am still wearing my overcoat, my legs are still hanging out. I feel very foolish, but I do not feel particularly sordid. I am thinking, in fact, that tomorrow morning at nine o’clock a man named Weglowski will be coming to the hotel, and we will begin discussing the somewhat delicate subject of how to blow up a bridge.
“You’ve got a wife, for Christ’s sake,” Sara says.
“That’s true.”
“What’s her name?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“If I’m going to be involved in a goddamn sordid affair, I guess I ought to at least know your wife’s name.”
“Abigail.”
“Abigail. Do you call her Abby?”
“Yes.”
“What does she call you?”
“Sam.”
“I am at least unique in that respect,” Sara says.
“What?”
“I call you Arthur.”
“Yes. You call me Arthur.”