HE GOT OFF at the third floor again and opened the door cautiously. Julia kept it unlatched now, usually, because he had had so much trouble with keys. Inside, all was quiet.
Maggie, the cat, strolled up to greet him with a querulous sound. The young man dropped to all fours to touch noses with her. Her nose was wet and cold. She rubbed her face against his, arching her back and twitching her tail.
A moment later there was a sound from the bedroom and Churchill came out, looking dangerous. When he saw it was only the young man, the mad glare left his eyes. He waddled up and sniffed, then caressed the young man’s face with his ill-smelling tongue.
The young man got up and wiped his face with a tissue.
“Martin?” came a sleepy voice from the bedroom.
The young man went down the hall and peered in through the doorway. Julia was looking sleepily at him from the bed. “What time is it?”
The young man glanced at his wristwatch. “Nearly three o’clock. Are you feeling better, Julia?”
“Yes, I think so. Would you mind bringing me a drink of water?”
“Not at all, dear Julia.” The young man trotted into the kitchen and filled a glass.
He sat on the bed to watch her drink it, feeling rather peculiar. It was the first time he had ever been invited into her bedroom. Once before, he had happened to look in while she was undressing, and had seen her naked breasts, which interested him very much, but made him feel so odd that he had run out of the apartment. Now he could see their round shapes under the thin white nightdress she wore, and out of curiosity he touched one. It was soft and swinging, but had a hard protrusion of another color in the middle.
“Oh!” she said, looking startled; her hand went up to grasp his.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No … no, it’s all right, Martin. Touch them if you like.” She set the glass down and taking both his hands, guided them to her breasts.
“Dear Martin,” she said. He saw that her eyes were bright with tears.
“Dear Julia.” Leaning over, he kissed her. For a first attempt, it was not at all bad; the noses went to one side of each other, which he had always thought would be very difficult.
The woman’s breath caught; after a moment her arms went around him, held him tightly. The kiss continued, and after a short time, other interesting things began to happen.
When it was over, the young man lay on his back, exhausted and astonished. Julia was sitting up, brushing her hair and humming quietly to herself.
Suddenly the door-light flashed. They looked at each other. “Oh, dear, who can that be?”
“I’ll go and see.”
“Darling!” said the woman, holding out her hand to stop him, half weeping, half laughing: “First put your clothes back on.”
“Oh.” The young man kissed her again, because she looked so rosy and contented, then got dressed. The door-light flashed repeatedly. “All right, I’m coming, I’m coming,” he muttered.
In the hall stood a mediumsized man in a gray summer surcoat, puffing a cigar. “Well, Naumchik?” he said smiling.
“Yes?” asked the young man uncertainly.
“Don’t you know me? Tassen, of the Freie Presse - remember?”
“No. Herr Tassen? What do you want?”
“I was passing by,” said Tassen, looking him over with shrewd, friendly eyes. “So this is where you’re holed up? Mind if I come in a moment?”
“Well - I suppose not.” The young man backed away uncertainly, and Tassen followed him, looking around the apartment with interest.
THERE WAS a bellow from the bedroom, then the sound of claws scratching frantically against the closed door, followed by Julia’s muffled voice: “Churchill, stop it! Bad dog!”
Tassen cocked an eyebrow toward the sounds but made no comment. “Well, this is a cozy place, Naumchik. I won’t keep you a moment. You won’t mind if I sit down, I suppose?”
“Please.”
“Seen anything of Zellini lately?”
“Please?”
Tassen frowned, tapped his cigar into an ashtray. “Have you been back to Paris at all - since the - ?” He raised his eyebrows again.
“To Paris?” asked the young man, confused. “No.”
“I suppose you know they’ve tied a rocket to you?”
“Pardon?”
“Discharged you - given you the sack.”
“Oh. No, I didn’t know it.” Tassen drew on his cigar, staring at the young man. After a moment he asked, “Just what happened to you, anyhow, Naumchik? One moment, as far as I understand, you were a perfectly regular young newspaperman - then that biped business, and next, you were swinging from the ceilings in Elektra. I gather you’re all right now.”
“Oh, yes, perfectly.”
“Well?”
“Well?”
Tassen looked baffled and faintly annoyed. “Of course, if you don’t want to discuss it with me -”
“But I don’t remember.”
“Oh?” Tassen blinked. “What don’t you remember?”
“Anything - before Elektra.”
“I see. So that’s it. Then you’re not likely to tell me what you were up to with that biped, are you?”
“No.”
“I see that. Well, anyhow, Naumchik, it’s good to know you’re on your feet again. I take it you haven’t been doing any journalistic work lately?”
“No.”
“Want to do any?”
“I hadn’t thought about it,” the young man said.
“Not too easy for you to get a job on any of the Berlin papers, after that stunt, probably,” said Tassen. “But you might get some free-lance work. Do a feature on your experiences in Elektra - why not?” He stood up, took a card from his surcoat pocket. “Here’s my address. If I can be any help -”
With a cheerful wave, he was gone.
On the following day, the young man remembered the fruit from Brecht’s Planet, and decided to open it before it should spoil. The greenish-yellow rind was quite thin; inside was a rather sickly-looking yellow pulp. Julia ate a slice and pronounced it interesting. The young man, however, took one bite and immediately spat it out: the pulp was soft and unpleasant, with a distinct rancid flavor. The disappointment was so acute that he mourned for days.
The good weather lasted until October; then it turned blustery and cold, with snow and occasional flurries of sleet. On an evening in late November, the young man entered the bar of the Correspondents’ Club. He stood for a moment, shaking melted snow from his hat. The long mahogany bar was half deserted; the hooded bar lights were reflected in the mirrors, and the little green telephone lights glowed down the bar.
Emile, the bartender, a redfaced Saxon, raised an eyebrow in greeting as the young man approached.
“Good evening, Herr Naumchik. We haven’t seen you in some time.”
“No, I’ve been in Westphalia, Emile. Give me a double Long John.”
“Yes, sir.” Emile reached behind him for the bottle, poured a glass brimming full. He leaned nearer to remark, “There was a call for you earlier, Herr Naumchik. A lady.”
“Oh? Did she give her name?”
“No, sir. If she calls again, shall I say you are here?”
The young man reflected. “Might as well. I wonder who it is, Nina? Olga? What sort of a looking woman was she, Emile?” he asked, but the stout bartender had already moved away and was cupping an ear toward another customer.
“Hello, Naumchik, when did you get in?” A tall man wearing tweeds and a Tyrolean hat edged in beside him at the bar. He spoke in a thick English accent. By a short leash he held a slim, silkenhaired greyhound with great mournful eyes. The dog nudged his cold nose into the young man’s palm.
“Oh, hello, Potter.” The young man slapped absently at the dog’s muzzle. “Just this morning. Down, Bruno. Should have been two o’clock last night, but we were stacked up five hours over Templehof.”