`It would please me greatly, and you're the only one I'd trust to write it, Mr Q.'
`Please call me Qwill, because I'm going to call you Violet.'
`Then may I ask you a question? Have you ever acted on the stage? I recognize a certain quality in your voice and in your bearing that suggests a theatre background.'
Pleased by the compliment but wanting to keep the conversation light, he replied, 'In high school I was the youngest King Lear in the annals of Shakespeare. Miraculously, no one laughed at the grey beard.'
`That's because you were sincere. Did you ever act professionally?'
`No. I did a few plays in college but then switched to journalism. Recently, though, I learned something that indicates I have acting in my genes. My father, who died before I was born, was an actor with a road company playing in Chicago when my mother met him. He had the lead in what she called a dismal Russian play.'
No doubt it was The Lower Depths, Gorky's best play and the only one that would be playing in the U.S. at that time.'
`Is that so?' he said in surprise. 'Then listen to this. Twenty years later, I was in college and playing the role of Satine, the philosophical crook in The Lower Depths! In the last act he has a long, highly dramatic scene. While I was intoning the lines with vehemence and strong gestures, I had a sudden feeling of déjà vu that gave me goose bumps! Only recently did I see some of my mother's correspondence at the time, in which she mentioned the Russian play!'
`Do you remember any of your lines?'
`A few.' He thought a moment, stood up, and then proclaimed in what he called his Carnegie Hall voice:
`Shut up, you fools! You lie like the Devil! You're all as dumb as stones! . . . I know what lying means. The weakling - and whoever is a parasite to his own weakness - they both need lies. But the man who is free, who is strong - he needs no lies. Truth is the religion of the free man . . . and why can't a crook speak the truth, since honest people at times speak like crooks.'
Qwilleran looked at his hands as if remembering how he had used them in his argument.
Violet cried, 'Bravo! I felt a tremor of emotion myself!' Dundee came running to see what was happening.
`Do you have a special interest in drama?' Qwilleran asked.
`Drama and poetry - the two subjects that were my specialty.' Then with a roguish glance she added, 'Have you played any Shakespeare since King Lear?' She asked it with a twinkle in her eyes, which Qwilleran suddenly realized were violet. Was it natural? Could it be done with contact lenses? Didn't Elizabeth Taylor have violet eyes? Yum Yum's blue eyes had a violet tint.
Snapping out of his pondering, he replied, 'In college I played Brutus in Julius Caesar and Bottom in Midsummer Night's Dream. Most recently I was rehearsing with the Pickax Theatre Club for Arsenic and Old Lace. I was the crazy brother. Unfortunately, it never opened, but that's a long story.'
With your Teddy Roosevelt moustache, you were well cast. Did you ever do any Mark Twain readings?'
Obviously they had much to talk about, and Qwilleran said, 'I think we should have dinner some evening. We haven't begun to discuss Moliere, Ibsen, and Euripides. I could suggest the Old Grist Mill Friday night.'
`I'd be delighted!' she cried, her eyes flashing violet again.
Later he phoned the restaurant. 'I'd like to reserve a table for two. This is Jim Qwilleran.'
`Hi, Mr Q! This is Derek. It's been a long time since we saw you and Mrs Duncan.'
`I'm not taking Mrs Duncan, Derek, so watch your step!'
`Oh-oh! I put my foot in my mouth again. Sorry! . . . Do you have a choice of table, Mr Q?'
Amiably, Qwilleran said, 'The one beneath the scythe, if it's available.' The restaurant walls were decorated with old-time farm implements. 'Just be sure it's firmly attached to the wall.'
Qwilleran chuckled over Derek's innocent faux pas as he prepared dinner for the Siamese. They sat tall, shoulder to shoulder, waiting. What was going through their little brown heads? he wondered. He had run out of homilies to inspire them and witticisms to entertain them. He paraphrased a little Shakespeare: To be fed, or not to be fed, that is the question. They flicked neither an ear nor a whisker. All they wanted was their food.
`Okay, you ungrateful brats. I'm going to dinner at Lois's, and I may or may not bring you a treat. Today's special is meat loaf.' Qwilleran knew very well why he talked to the cats. It was to hear the sound of a human voice in the cavernous emptiness of the barn.
He put on his owl-proof orange baseball cap and carried a flashlight: the days were getting shorter. He went by way of Walnut Street in order to check the readiness of the park.
The shrouded statue stood calmly, waiting for the next day's unveiling and Friday's 'Qwill Pen' column, which would list the public's guesses as to its design. Some guesses made sense; some were ludicrous, good for a laugh; some were unprintable. The mysterious obelisk stood waiting in a kind of form-fitting canvas bag that had been dropped over it. To remove it, a grappling hook or a mechanical claw might be lowered from a helicopter, lifting the shroud and carrying it away, leaving onlookers on the ground to ooh and aah! It was an unlikely premise but not impossible. Qwilleran had learned that anything can happen in Pickax.
A male voice behind him said, 'Hi, Mr Q. Got it figured out?' It was the bearded copy facilitator from the newspaper.
'I was just wondering how they plan to unveil it. There isn't enough width on the paths to accommodate a derrick . . . All I can say is: it had better be something good under that shroud, or the public will riot . . . How do you like your new job?'
'I like it! Everybody's very friendly.'
'I'm afraid I don't know your name.'
'Kenneth. In the city room they call me Whiskers,' he said with a grin.
'Is that so?' Qwilleran replied seriously. 'I have a cat by that name. Very intelligent animal. That's because he has sixty whiskers instead of the usual forty-eight.'
The copyboy looked sceptical and changed the subject abruptly. 'Mr Q, could I ask you a big favour?'
'Of course! But I reserve the right to refuse if it's illegal or hazardous to the health.'
'I have one of your books. Would you sign it for me?'
'If I wrote it, I'll sign it. Which one do you have?' Qwilleran wondered whether it would be the book on local legends, the collection of Moose County photographs, or his favourite - the think-piece on life with Koko and Yum Yum.
But he was stunned when Ken said that he owned City of Brotherly Crime.
'What? . . . Where? . . . How?'
'I got it somewhere in Ohio. A public library was having a book sale.'
'Amazing! It's been out of print for twenty years. I have a copy that Edd Smith found for me after a long search.'
'It must be valuable,' Ken said, 'although I didn't pay much for it. It's in my luggage. I haven't unpacked everything yet. I just moved into one of these apartments.'
'Then take it to the paper Friday morning, and I'll be happy to sign it when I file the copy for my column.'
Happier, he thought, than anyone would understand. He had never dreamed that he would be asked to sign the long-forgotten and totally unmourned tome. He had written it while working in Philadelphia, and it had made him no friends.
Then Qwilleran had meat loaf and mashed potatoes at
Lois's, where he heard gossip about couples who elope to
Bixby County, a county noted for quick marriage licences and accommodating judges. Qwilleran walked home with a slight detour past the bookstore. Sure enough, Polly's car was the only one in the parking lot; she was working late again. He rang the doorbell at the side entrance.