— Oh, she said, seeing him. — Well, we meet again. We can’t go on meeting like this, she laughed, shaking her small, dark head provocatively. — Are you enjoying the paintings? she queried.
— Oh, yes, immensely. As a matter of fact, they have given me a great peace, a deep spiritual equilibrium which lately I seem to have lacked to a considerable degree. They’ve offered an order to my chaos.
— The artist is my present lover, she said in a flat voice.
— Ah? Ah, well … ahem, how shall I say it, then? How nice? Or, perhaps, congratulations? Or would it be more polite to admit a personal relation and hope he’s like his paintings — that is, lucid, totally consistent, witty, and well-hung. He smiled coldly at her, pushed past and out the door, broke into a flagrant run and exited from the museum to the downpour outside.
4.
(AT THE CAFÉ)
— Actually, I’m all right now. Things are much better for me, he assured her.
— Are they? Good. I was worried, she said, motioning with one hand for the waiter. The waiter arrived, and Naomi Ruth ordered their drinks, in French, which impressed him, for her accent was quite good.
— Yes, I have a girl friend, a good woman who loves me well, he lied. — We share a nice little flat in a charming quarter of the city. Very comfortable place. A lot of Russian émigrés live in the district. We’re very happy. She’s a dancer. Quite young. Lovely. Smokes those Russian cigarettes. Young. A sparkling beauty. Tanya. She’s Russian. A dancer. Quite young. She loves me.
— Ah, good. And you? Do you love her as well? The waiter brought their drinks, a martini for Naomi Ruth, Campari and soda for Egress.
— Oh, well, you know. As I said, she’s quite young. Let’s just say that I’m “fond” of her, and grateful. She’s a marvelous dancer. Flying feet.
— How nice, said Naomi Ruth, nipping at her martini with pursed lips. Though she didn’t believe a word he said, she judged him as she would if she had believed everything. The man’s still a cad, she decided. Even his lies betray him. It’s no use. — It’s no use, she informed him.
— No?
— No, she said, getting up from the table.
— Must you rush off?
— Oh, I left long ago, Egress. If only I could get you to leave, I’d be a free woman, she declared, and she picked up her coat and walked hurriedly away.
He finished his drink slowly, thoughtfully, then, brightening, drained hers. He suddenly felt like celebrating. — Garcon! he called. — Bring me a double martini, s’il vous plait!
5.
(IN THE HANSOM CAB)
— Where my money comes from, said Egress to Naomi Ruth, is not of much importance, you know that. After all, it doesn’t matter to me where it comes from, so why should it matter to anyone else? Most of my economic theories are of the type used to describe other people’s financial situations, not one’s own, which happily places me in the grand tradition of modern economic theorists, and also leaves me free to take whatever I can get from wherever I can get it without offending the glorious abstract — letting the general principles freely transcend the particularities of my usually very complex finances. So, the answer to your question, What am I doing for money these days? is, casually, I get by. What about you, however? Since you happen to be a woman and thus have spent most of your life locked by the abstract into a very particularized and personal dependence on other individuals (first your father and then me) for your money — to the degree that your most important personal relations have been, as they must be, with whomever you have economic relations — What are you doing for money these days? Asking a woman about her financial life is not much different from asking her whom she’s sleeping with, I know, and if you had not slept with me for twenty-five years or more, believe me, I would not feel entitled, as I do, to pry.
— I get by.
— We’re quite a pair, Egress laughed, aren’t we? It’s a damned good thing nobody’s counting on us to play big historical roles, to lead his revolution or put one down.
Naomi Ruth responded with a chuckle. Egress, leaning forward in the seat, called to the driver and instructed him to stop at the next corner, in front of the American Express office. Then, to Naomi Ruth, he said, — Well, I’ll leave you here. It’s been kind of you to share your ride with a walking-man, a member of the walking class, heh-heh. Seriously, though, thanks for the lift. I might’ve had to stand there for hours before convincing a cab to stop. The hansom cab stopped in front of the American Express office. — Well, here we are! Good old American Express, eh? By the way, if you’re going to be here in the city for a few days, maybe we can get together for lunch…?
— No.
— Right, right. ’Bye, then.
—’Bye.
Exit Egress cheerily. Naomi Ruth signaled for the driver to go on. Exit hansom cab.
6.
(AT THE PLAZA)
— Ah, you breakfast at the Green Tulip Room? I didn’t realize…
— Well, yes, I’ve been coming here on Sundays for several months, all winter, in fact. It’s a bit ornate, but quiet, peaceful, and of course there is the food, and the service…
— Yes, the Plaza…
— What about you, is this your first time, I mean, for breakfast?
— No, not really. I mean, not that I haven’t dined here before, as you must remember… We stopped here many times together, for lunch, remember? Never on Sundays, though. Oh, will you listen to me, making jokes like that! It’s so difficult, though, when you reach a certain age, I guess, to avoid references either to the past or to the popular culture … so difficult just to be personal and immediate. I’m sorry about that.
— You think it’s age? That we’ve gotten so old, or so tired, that now our lives are either in the past or “public”…? I wish I believed that. I’d give up fighting it, if I thought it was an impossible fight to win. I’d let myself go, either into the past or into the public life, you know, that fantasy of one’s life as a movie, or a TV series, or maybe a Time magazine cover story…
— Which appeals to you more?
— I don’t know, to be honest about it. Today, seeing you, here, on an early spring morning, with all this hushed, tasteful luxury around us, I think I prefer the past. But any other time, when the associations aren’t so strong and aren’t especially pleasant anyhow, well, then I prefer the other.
— But never this, this life now, here, the real one…?
— No, I suppose not. But I can’t imagine it any different from the way it is — I can only fantasy a different life, my old life, with you, or as someone else altogether, someone created by the public, as a kind of community effort, you know…? That’s how bitter I am.
(Both Egress and Naomi Ruth break into nervous laughter.)
— Well, I don’t suppose we should have breakfast together, do you? The pain…
— We might be seen by a columnist, you know. The Green Tulip Room is not exactly your cozy, little, out-of-the-way café. We don’t need any more gossip than we’ve already endured, do we, now? As it is, by the time you get back to your apartment, or wherever you’re living now, you’ll flip on the radio or TV, only to hear that Egress and Naomi Ruth “accidentally” met in the lobby of the Plaza outside the Green Tulip Room, spoke quietly together for a few moments, and then went their separate ways, etc. Where are you living now, incidentally? In the city?