began the game tonight. Jeez.
“By the way,” Dr. Abernathy said. “How is Lurine in bed? Are her breasts, for example, as firm as they appear?”
“She’s like the tides of the sea,” Pete said gloomily. “Or the wind that sweeps across the plain. Her breasts are like mounds of chicken fat. Her loins—”
Grinning, Dr. Abernathy said, “In any case, it’s been a pleasure for you to have known her. In the biblical sense.”
“You really want to know how she is? Average. And after all, I’ve had plenty of women. Lots of them were better lays, and lots of them worse,” Pete said. “That’s all.”
Dr. Abernathy continued to grin.
“What’s funny?” Pete demanded.
“Perhaps it’s the way hungry men speak of smorgasbords,” Dr. Abernathy replied.
Pete reddened, knowing the flush would reach the crown of his head, all visible.
He shrugged and turned away. “What’s it to you?”
“Curiosity,” said Dr. Abernathy, scratching his chin and pulling his smile straight. “I’m a curious man, and even secondhand carnal knowledge
is
knowledge.”
“And perhaps too many years in the confessional promote a certain voyeurism,” Pete observed.
“If so, this in no way vitiates the sacrament,” said Dr. Abernathy.
“I know about the Waldensians,” said Pete. “What I said was—”
“—That I’m a peeping Tom.” Dr. Abernathy sighed and rose, adjusting his cassock as he stood. “Okay, I’ll be going now.”
Pete accompanied him to the door, letting Tom Swift And His Electric Magic Carpet out at the same time, for his usual evening business.
The dust fought the dew and the former settled to the ground, save for that raised by the cow and kicked back into his face.Tibor turned his head to the side and regarded the colors of morning.
The colors … Christ! the colors! he thought. In the morning everything lives in a special way—the wetgreen leaves and the oily grayblue of the jay’s feathers—the brownwetblack of the road-apple—everything! Everything is special until about eleven o’clock. Then the color is still there, but a certain magic is gone out of the word, a wet magic. There was a faint haze in the western corner of the nine-thirty world. He thought of all the shadows in all the Rembrandt repros he had seen. So easy to fake, that man, he thought. They talk of the Rembrandt eyes. What ever do they see? Whatever they want. Because there is nothing there but shadows. He was not a morning painter, so he would be easy to fake. But all those wetmorning people, the impressionists—lumped together perhaps only because they sat in the same corner of the Cafe Gaibois—they would be harder to emulate. They saw something like this and drew perfect circles about it.
He watched the birds and digested their flight. It was
too
good a morning. He etched it within his mind. He did it in watercolors. He did it in oils, the hard way, layer by painful layer.
To keep something else out, he did it.
What?
The cow made a soft, lowing noise and he murmured to her as softly.
God! how he hated to work by artificial light! It was sufficient for pieces, for corners and borders, for supporting material, but the final product—
das Dinge selber
—this must be a thing of
Morgen
.
And his mind came back, full circle, and the morning and the colors went away, for a time.
Dr. Abernathy’s place was over the hill and around the corner, and then about a mile. By ten o’clock, at this pace, he would be at the front door. What then? He tried to block the thought by sketching a tree, in his mind. But autumn came down upon it, the leaves withered and fell, were swept away. What then?
It was a thing that had taken him suddenly, the notion of a God of mercy and love. Only a few days ago, as a matter of fact. If they’d take him in and baptize him, he would not even have tobe shrived, as he understood it. Not to be confused with the heretical notions of the Anabaptists, he realized with a certain pleasure
“By the way,” Dr. Abernathy said. “How is Lurine in bed? Are her breasts, for example, as firm as they appear?”
“She’s like the tides of the sea,” Pete said gloomily. “Or the wind that sweeps across the plain. Her breasts are like mounds of chicken fat. Her loins—”
Grinning, Dr. Abernathy said, “In any case, it’s been a pleasure for you to have known her. In the biblical sense.”
“You really want to know how she is? Average. And after all, I’ve had plenty of women. Lots of them were better lays, and lots of them worse,” Pete said. “That’s all.”
Dr. Abernathy continued to grin.
“What’s funny?” Pete demanded.
“Perhaps it’s the way hungry men speak of smorgasbords,” Dr. Abernathy replied.
Pete reddened, knowing the flush would reach the crown of his head, all visible.
He shrugged and turned away. “What’s it to you?”
“Curiosity,” said Dr. Abernathy, scratching his chin and pulling his smile straight. “I’m a curious man, and even secondhand carnal knowledge
is
knowledge.”
“And perhaps too many years in the confessional promote a certain voyeurism,” Pete observed.
“If so, this in no way vitiates the sacrament,” said Dr. Abernathy.
“I know about the Waldensians,” said Pete. “What I said was—”
“—That I’m a peeping Tom.” Dr. Abernathy sighed and rose, adjusting his cassock as he stood. “Okay, I’ll be going now.”
Pete accompanied him to the door, letting Tom Swift And His Electric Magic Carpet out at the same time, for his usual evening business.
The dust fought the dew and the former settled to the ground, save for that raised by the cow and kicked back into his face.Tibor turned his head to the side and regarded the colors of morning.
The colors … Christ! the colors! he thought. In the morning everything lives in a special way—the wetgreen leaves and the oily grayblue of the jay’s feathers—the brownwetblack of the road-apple—everything! Everything is special until about eleven o’clock. Then the color is still there, but a certain magic is gone out of the word, a wet magic. There was a faint haze in the western corner of the nine-thirty world. He thought of all the shadows in all the Rembrandt repros he had seen. So easy to fake, that man, he thought. They talk of the Rembrandt eyes. What ever do they see? Whatever they want. Because there is nothing there but shadows. He was not a morning painter, so he would be easy to fake. But all those wetmorning people, the impressionists—lumped together perhaps only because they sat in the same corner of the Cafe Gaibois—they would be harder to emulate. They saw something like this and drew perfect circles about it.
He watched the birds and digested their flight. It was
too
good a morning. He etched it within his mind. He did it in watercolors. He did it in oils, the hard way, layer by painful layer.
To keep something else out, he did it.
What?
The cow made a soft, lowing noise and he murmured to her as softly.
God! how he hated to work by artificial light! It was sufficient for pieces, for corners and borders, for supporting material, but the final product—
das Dinge selber
—this must be a thing of
Morgen
.
And his mind came back, full circle, and the morning and the colors went away, for a time.
Dr. Abernathy’s place was over the hill and around the corner, and then about a mile. By ten o’clock, at this pace, he would be at the front door. What then? He tried to block the thought by sketching a tree, in his mind. But autumn came down upon it, the leaves withered and fell, were swept away. What then?
It was a thing that had taken him suddenly, the notion of a God of mercy and love. Only a few days ago, as a matter of fact. If they’d take him in and baptize him, he would not even have tobe shrived, as he understood it. Not to be confused with the heretical notions of the Anabaptists, he realized with a certain pleasure
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