o’clock.”
“Spoilsport,” he said, and got up. Timothy, telescoping the wolf’s eyes, ears and mouth and unzipping Grandma in three well-chosen sentences, got up too. The twenty-five children started to cry. A well-coiffed mother with three offspring and a prenatale outfit covering possibly several more said, “You should send back Mr. Paladrini.”
“Of course,” said Timothy kindly, and slid out after Johnson into the deodorized heat of the salon. Di came toward us, laden with a packet of bread sticks, some crochet work and a 1903 Baedeker, from which she was reading aloud, when she could get a word in edgewise from the crowd hanging over her shoulder.
“… Chapter Five.
Intercourse with Italians
.” (Happy applause.) “Guides… Gratuities… Waiters.
If too importunate in their recommendations or suggestions, they may be checked by the word, Basta
.” (Ironic cheers.)
I said, “Di? Who won the raffle?”
“Guess who?” said Di, and lifting the dark glasses down again on her nose, looked at me through them. “Innes Wye.”
I said softly, “Di?” Poor Innes, ticketed like the Mad Hatter for all to see, had been easy meat. “Di,” I said. “What did he win?”
But even before I finished speaking, a certain muted confusion was making itself felt from the raffle stand. Among the heads turning, I noticed, was that of Timothy’s predecessor, the teller of fairy tales, presumably about to return to his post. An odd idea stirred somewhere at the back of my mind. “First prize,” Di said lightly. “Jungle After-Shave, the Essence for Men Born to Conquer. I’m rather afraid I gave him the Organizer’s crocodile handbag, too.”
Growing cries from the raffle stand told all too plainly the perfect success of the project. Further cries defined the extent of the tragedy. There had been two hundred-dollar bills and a Cartier cigarette case in the crocodile handbag. The crowd seethed and then began making off, in a surge, down the length of the room to the staircase.
I said to Johnson, “Mr. Paladrini. The storyteller in glasses.”
“Yes?” said Johnson. Pursued by Timothy we were being swept forward by the crowd; the last I saw of Di she was settling down at a table and being brought a drink by a boy from the Embassy.
I said, “If you took off his glasses, he would be the spitting image of the man at the zoo with the balloon cart.”
I had, for once, Johnson’s fullest attention. “The storyteller?” he said. “Then let’s have a chat with him. Can you spot him, Ruth?”
A man in a shortie raincoat who had been walking just behind us suddenly slipped sideways and began unobtrusively to forge ahead in the crush. It was Mr. Paladrini. “Oh, damn,” I said. “He heard us.”
“And he doesn’t want to know us,” said Johnson, accelerating. “Isn’t that interesting?” He began, with the greatest politeness, to thrust through the crowd in the wake of the vanishing storyteller and, as best I could, I followed him.
I dare say, if you lost a crocodile handbag with two hundred dollars and a Cartier cigarette case in it, and saw it vanishing across a room and downstairs in the possession of a small unknown man with a shopping bag, you would lose your razor-cut head and go ape over it. I don’t know who started the cries of “Stop thief!” but I strongly suspected Mr. Paladrini. At any rate, they were taken up with touching enthusiasm by all the unlucky raffle contestants and most of the Organizer’s friends who up till then had been trotting rather self-consciously through the marble halls, and suddenly Johnson and I found the pursuit had turned into gallop. It began to look, indeed, as if with a little encouragement it would turn into a lynching squad. And ahead of us, a bobbing spectacled face in the throng, was the escaping person of Mr. Paladrini.
I shoved. Kipper ties and fine jersey knits flinched from me; I stood on a handmade shoe and wriggled through the resulting small
“Spoilsport,” he said, and got up. Timothy, telescoping the wolf’s eyes, ears and mouth and unzipping Grandma in three well-chosen sentences, got up too. The twenty-five children started to cry. A well-coiffed mother with three offspring and a prenatale outfit covering possibly several more said, “You should send back Mr. Paladrini.”
“Of course,” said Timothy kindly, and slid out after Johnson into the deodorized heat of the salon. Di came toward us, laden with a packet of bread sticks, some crochet work and a 1903 Baedeker, from which she was reading aloud, when she could get a word in edgewise from the crowd hanging over her shoulder.
“… Chapter Five.
Intercourse with Italians
.” (Happy applause.) “Guides… Gratuities… Waiters.
If too importunate in their recommendations or suggestions, they may be checked by the word, Basta
.” (Ironic cheers.)
I said, “Di? Who won the raffle?”
“Guess who?” said Di, and lifting the dark glasses down again on her nose, looked at me through them. “Innes Wye.”
I said softly, “Di?” Poor Innes, ticketed like the Mad Hatter for all to see, had been easy meat. “Di,” I said. “What did he win?”
But even before I finished speaking, a certain muted confusion was making itself felt from the raffle stand. Among the heads turning, I noticed, was that of Timothy’s predecessor, the teller of fairy tales, presumably about to return to his post. An odd idea stirred somewhere at the back of my mind. “First prize,” Di said lightly. “Jungle After-Shave, the Essence for Men Born to Conquer. I’m rather afraid I gave him the Organizer’s crocodile handbag, too.”
Growing cries from the raffle stand told all too plainly the perfect success of the project. Further cries defined the extent of the tragedy. There had been two hundred-dollar bills and a Cartier cigarette case in the crocodile handbag. The crowd seethed and then began making off, in a surge, down the length of the room to the staircase.
I said to Johnson, “Mr. Paladrini. The storyteller in glasses.”
“Yes?” said Johnson. Pursued by Timothy we were being swept forward by the crowd; the last I saw of Di she was settling down at a table and being brought a drink by a boy from the Embassy.
I said, “If you took off his glasses, he would be the spitting image of the man at the zoo with the balloon cart.”
I had, for once, Johnson’s fullest attention. “The storyteller?” he said. “Then let’s have a chat with him. Can you spot him, Ruth?”
A man in a shortie raincoat who had been walking just behind us suddenly slipped sideways and began unobtrusively to forge ahead in the crush. It was Mr. Paladrini. “Oh, damn,” I said. “He heard us.”
“And he doesn’t want to know us,” said Johnson, accelerating. “Isn’t that interesting?” He began, with the greatest politeness, to thrust through the crowd in the wake of the vanishing storyteller and, as best I could, I followed him.
I dare say, if you lost a crocodile handbag with two hundred dollars and a Cartier cigarette case in it, and saw it vanishing across a room and downstairs in the possession of a small unknown man with a shopping bag, you would lose your razor-cut head and go ape over it. I don’t know who started the cries of “Stop thief!” but I strongly suspected Mr. Paladrini. At any rate, they were taken up with touching enthusiasm by all the unlucky raffle contestants and most of the Organizer’s friends who up till then had been trotting rather self-consciously through the marble halls, and suddenly Johnson and I found the pursuit had turned into gallop. It began to look, indeed, as if with a little encouragement it would turn into a lynching squad. And ahead of us, a bobbing spectacled face in the throng, was the escaping person of Mr. Paladrini.
I shoved. Kipper ties and fine jersey knits flinched from me; I stood on a handmade shoe and wriggled through the resulting small
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