just a figure of speech. He said he hoped to see more of us. He struck me as being a lonely man, although after reading about him it doesn’t seem possible.”
“I had the impression,” Strand said, “that you didn’t like him very much.”
“It wasn’t that, exactly,” Eleanor said. She sounded uncertain, as though she still hadn’t made up her mind about Hazen. “I just sensed a gap between him and us. No, not a gap. An abyss. Didn’t you?”
Strand laughed. “I’m not really an abyss man,” he said. “No. Are we going to see you over the weekend?”
“Sorry, I’m off to Connecticut for a spot of rural luxury. I’ll call on Monday.”
“Have a good time,” Strand said, as he hung up. He wondered where Eleanor had found a copy of Who’s Who. She hadn’t sounded as though she was in a library and he knew she didn’t have one in her apartment. Probably she had been calling from her young man’s place. He tried not to think of what she had been doing the night before, after she had dropped Hazen. He shook his head. Her life.
As he went back to the bedroom and picked up Prescott again he wondered, without envy, how a man could divide himself into as many parts as Hazen, by Eleanor’s report, must manage, and why he did so.
He started reading again, but there was a knock on the door. It was Mrs. Curtis. “The man who had dinner here last night is here,” she said. “He looks something awful, all the colors of the rainbow, but he has some flowers for Mrs. Strand and he said if you weren’t busy he’d like to see you for a minute. He wants his bicycle but Alexander’s not around this morning.”
“When will Alexander be back?” Strand asked, as he put on a worn old tweed jacket, his Saturday costume, and slipped his feet into moccasins.
“Not for an hour. He had to go downtown for a piece for the boiler.”
Strand went along the long dark hallway past Jimmy’s closed door to the foyer. There were some prints on the walls, and some old posters for one-man shows, as well as a flower piece of Leslie’s. Not mentioned in Who’s Who, Strand thought. Hazen was standing holding a big bouquet of flowers wrapped in paper. Another long paper-wrapped package was lying on the table in the foyer.
“Good morning, sir,” Hazen said. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Good morning,” Strand said as they shook hands. “Nobody disturbs me on Saturday morning. It’s my time for doing nothing.” Hazen did look awful, as Mrs. Curtis had said. He had a wool ski hat pulled over the bandage on his head, making his head look grotesquely large, and his face was swollen and misshapen, the skin below the pad of bandage on his cheek a sickly mixture of yellow, purple and green. His eyes, though, were clear and bright and he was neatly dressed in a beautifully fitting dark gray suit, his shoes glittering in a mahogany shine.
“How did the night go?” Strand asked.
“It passed.” Hazen shrugged. “And your daughter?”
“Off playing tennis. She was gay as a bird at breakfast.”
“The resilience of youth,” Hazen said.
He says the most banal things, Strand thought, as though they are pearly-new gems of observation.
“I bought a few flowers for your wife,” Hazen said, moving the bouquet with a little rustling of paper. “For her kind ministrations.”
“She’s busy now with a lesson,” Strand said.
“I hear,” Hazen said. He made no comment on the quality of what he heard.
“She’ll be most pleased. Mrs. Curtis,” Strand said, “would you please put Mr. Hazen’s flowers in water.”
Mrs. Curtis took the bouquet from Hazen and went back into the kitchen.
“I have something for Caroline.” Hazen indicated the paper-wrapped package on the table. “A new racquet. Made by the Head people. I noticed that the racquet she demolished in my defense was a Head.”
“It wasn’t necessary,” Strand said, “but I’m sure she’ll be delighted.”
“The gut is in the
“I had the impression,” Strand said, “that you didn’t like him very much.”
“It wasn’t that, exactly,” Eleanor said. She sounded uncertain, as though she still hadn’t made up her mind about Hazen. “I just sensed a gap between him and us. No, not a gap. An abyss. Didn’t you?”
Strand laughed. “I’m not really an abyss man,” he said. “No. Are we going to see you over the weekend?”
“Sorry, I’m off to Connecticut for a spot of rural luxury. I’ll call on Monday.”
“Have a good time,” Strand said, as he hung up. He wondered where Eleanor had found a copy of Who’s Who. She hadn’t sounded as though she was in a library and he knew she didn’t have one in her apartment. Probably she had been calling from her young man’s place. He tried not to think of what she had been doing the night before, after she had dropped Hazen. He shook his head. Her life.
As he went back to the bedroom and picked up Prescott again he wondered, without envy, how a man could divide himself into as many parts as Hazen, by Eleanor’s report, must manage, and why he did so.
He started reading again, but there was a knock on the door. It was Mrs. Curtis. “The man who had dinner here last night is here,” she said. “He looks something awful, all the colors of the rainbow, but he has some flowers for Mrs. Strand and he said if you weren’t busy he’d like to see you for a minute. He wants his bicycle but Alexander’s not around this morning.”
“When will Alexander be back?” Strand asked, as he put on a worn old tweed jacket, his Saturday costume, and slipped his feet into moccasins.
“Not for an hour. He had to go downtown for a piece for the boiler.”
Strand went along the long dark hallway past Jimmy’s closed door to the foyer. There were some prints on the walls, and some old posters for one-man shows, as well as a flower piece of Leslie’s. Not mentioned in Who’s Who, Strand thought. Hazen was standing holding a big bouquet of flowers wrapped in paper. Another long paper-wrapped package was lying on the table in the foyer.
“Good morning, sir,” Hazen said. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Good morning,” Strand said as they shook hands. “Nobody disturbs me on Saturday morning. It’s my time for doing nothing.” Hazen did look awful, as Mrs. Curtis had said. He had a wool ski hat pulled over the bandage on his head, making his head look grotesquely large, and his face was swollen and misshapen, the skin below the pad of bandage on his cheek a sickly mixture of yellow, purple and green. His eyes, though, were clear and bright and he was neatly dressed in a beautifully fitting dark gray suit, his shoes glittering in a mahogany shine.
“How did the night go?” Strand asked.
“It passed.” Hazen shrugged. “And your daughter?”
“Off playing tennis. She was gay as a bird at breakfast.”
“The resilience of youth,” Hazen said.
He says the most banal things, Strand thought, as though they are pearly-new gems of observation.
“I bought a few flowers for your wife,” Hazen said, moving the bouquet with a little rustling of paper. “For her kind ministrations.”
“She’s busy now with a lesson,” Strand said.
“I hear,” Hazen said. He made no comment on the quality of what he heard.
“She’ll be most pleased. Mrs. Curtis,” Strand said, “would you please put Mr. Hazen’s flowers in water.”
Mrs. Curtis took the bouquet from Hazen and went back into the kitchen.
“I have something for Caroline.” Hazen indicated the paper-wrapped package on the table. “A new racquet. Made by the Head people. I noticed that the racquet she demolished in my defense was a Head.”
“It wasn’t necessary,” Strand said, “but I’m sure she’ll be delighted.”
“The gut is in the
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