“No,” I said.
“Did you read my chapter?” she asked as Gunther came out of my room to announce softly that he had unpacked my bag.
“I have a few pages to go,” I admitted, with a whisper to Jeremy to get me into my room.
“Do you not believe that Cousin Pyle’s encounter with Sitting Bull in the Baptist church in Cherokee was good stuff?” she asked.
I touched Jeremy’s shoulder to stop him. Since I seemed to be no burden to him I felt only a slight touch of guilt.
“Cherokee, Texas?” I asked.
“Family tree’s from there,” she said. “Cousin Pyle’s branch. Cousin Pyle was not my cousin but the cousin of my mother. I visited them often with the Mister.”
“Ever hear of an opera there?” I asked.
Gunther had gone back into my room.
“No opera in Cherokee,” she said emphatically. “Tried to do one a few years back. Cousin Pyle was sheriff. The opera people absconded with the receipts. Since that night, both Cherokee and the Plauts have refused to enter an opera house, though I do sometimes listen to Milton Cross on Saturdays.”
“I’m tired, Mrs. Plaut,” I said, looking at Jeremy. “And in awe of the way the gods tie our lives together in knots. Until two days ago, I had never heard of Cherokee, Texas. Now it’s haunting me.”
“Then sleep,” she said.
“Hearing aid’s working fine,” I added.
Mrs. Plaut smiled, and Jeremy carried me into my room and put me on the mattress, which Gunther had apparently wrestled to the floor.
“What are the odds of running into someone from Cherokee, Texas?” I said.
“It is not a coincidence,” Jeremy said, gently helping Gunther take off my clothes. “It is, like the process of birth, part of the mystery of being, of life. We are seldom receptive to seeing the silken links that bind us together.”
I could hear the phone ring in the hall and Mrs. Plaut’s footsteps start up the stairs.
“God’s got one heck of a sense of humor,” I said, trying to prop myself up.
“I too have noticed that,” said Jeremy.
“I will be in my room, Toby,” Gunther said. There were little dark circles under his eyes and his tie was slightly loose. He was tired from driving all night but also buoyed by the thought of Gwen of San Francisco coming to Los Angeles. “Please knock on the floor with your shoe should you need anything. I will return with a late lunch.”
“Thanks, Gunther,” I said.
Gunther bowed and exited. Mrs. Plaut was standing in the doorway holding Dash in her arms. She let the cat leap to the floor. He ran to me and began to use my cast as a scratching post.
“I had almost forgotten,” Mrs. Plaut said. “A woman in a funny hat came to the door two days ago and left you this.”
She handed me a pink envelope with an eye painted on it. Dash furiously continued to scratch while Mrs. Plaut watched. My leg began to itch under the cast where Dash was scratching.
“Cats,” she said.
“Cats,” I agreed and opened the envelope. The paper inside was red with green lettering which said:
I cannot understand why man should be capable of so little fantasy. I do not understand why, when I ask for a grilled lobster in a restaurant, I am never sewed a cooked telephone; I do not understand why champagne is always chilled, and why on the other hand telephones, which are habitually so frightfully warm and disagreeably sticky to the touch, are not also put in siluer buckets with crushed ice around them. Please try to locate a telephone which does not offend you and call me at the number below. I am in need of your services.
There was a phone number and a signature.
“Who’s it from?” asked Mrs. Plaut.
“Salvador Dali,” I said.
“The king of Tibet!” she said with awe.
I closed my eyes and went to sleep.