They could have lunch by the pool. It was sunny enough to do that now. Paul had gotten them a table.
“You like that young man, don’t you?”
Unne looked flushed from hurrying upstairs, except that Unne never hurried.
“I think he’s quite nice.”
Lotte recognized the answer-to-an-awkward-question-asked-during-a-tea-party tone, but ignored it.
“You know what he is, of course?”
“Oh, my goodness,” said Unne. “People aren’t what they are. May we go?”
Lotte thought about it and then said yes.
*
The swimming pool was the usual fashionable fish fry, with slim bodies well oiled, under a sun like a cooking lamp, baste every half hour and turn. Only the young go in the water. Their elders are warier and come down only at dusk.
Charlie sat at a white enameled cast-iron table, sucking the lemon from his Collins glass, holding it clumsily the way a boxer does between rounds. He wore nothing but some gingham plaid swim trunks and his monocle, which dangled beside the Greek coin he had picked up somewhere as a periapt. He had kept thin and trim. All the same, at his age, no matter how good the trim, what you really look like is ahalf-unfolded camp cot, with the canvas wrinkled at the folds. But he could have looked far worse. Lotte couldn’t feel that Paul suffered any great hardship, less, certainly, than the average starlet had to put up with.
She herself was not exposed. She had taken precautions. If you are famous for your legs, that usually means your legs are too thin. Otherwise they wouldn’t photograph well. The only person famous for his legs who had legs that were too thick was Nijinsky, and he, as we all know, went mad. Also, as you get older, you get sinewy. The phrase, if she remembered it correctly, was “stuck together with spit.” So though she had nothing against swimming in her own swimming pool, Lotte did not think it wise to go swimming in an outdoor pool surrounded by starlets draped in the manner of an Ingres bathhouse. So she wore slacks.
She sat there and watched Charlie suck his lemon. They’d had crab for lunch. Luxembourg is too far inland for crab. It didn’t sit well.
Paul, stripped to the waist, was exactly what she would have expected. He had a swimmer’s body, a broad chest, and was muscular in the right places. Like most such people, he didn’t so much use his body as wear it, like a very well-cut suit of clothes, with the air of negligence which comes from being sure of what one has on. Such people never look naked. They do look as though they had another body, somewhat more human and rumpled in design, under the actual body they are wearing. Paul must have done weightlifting at some time in his life. He had the weightlifter’s manner of being his own artifact, and a connoisseur at that.
Unne looked exactly what she was, well-bred all over, without a seam anywhere. She was wearing a one-piece bathing suit, not from any sense that a bikini was vulgar, but from a birthright certainty that it was not quite her sort of thing. Nor was she wrong.
At the moment both of them were in the pool, splashing each other decorously.
“How are you?” asked Lotte, feeling on the back bench herself.
“Avuncular,” said Charlie. “As always, avuncular.”
He seemed to mean it. He must feel safe. If Unne was with Lotte, then it was safe for her to be with Paul. Charlie wasn’t jealous of people, only of their doing something he couldn’t. Paul couldn’t. That explained that.
The afternoon went by.
Paul and Unne clambered out of the pool and went off hand in hand toward the bar. Charlie looked after them mildly.
“ Nemo repente fuit turpissimus ,” he said.
Lotte burst out laughing.
“Well, I like Latin,” he said. “It dignifies our griefs. Of course I have to use a crib.”
“They seem to get along well enough.”
“When I’m grief-stricken,” said Charlie, persisting, “I always use a crib.”
“Very well, what does it mean?” He had completely
“You like that young man, don’t you?”
Unne looked flushed from hurrying upstairs, except that Unne never hurried.
“I think he’s quite nice.”
Lotte recognized the answer-to-an-awkward-question-asked-during-a-tea-party tone, but ignored it.
“You know what he is, of course?”
“Oh, my goodness,” said Unne. “People aren’t what they are. May we go?”
Lotte thought about it and then said yes.
*
The swimming pool was the usual fashionable fish fry, with slim bodies well oiled, under a sun like a cooking lamp, baste every half hour and turn. Only the young go in the water. Their elders are warier and come down only at dusk.
Charlie sat at a white enameled cast-iron table, sucking the lemon from his Collins glass, holding it clumsily the way a boxer does between rounds. He wore nothing but some gingham plaid swim trunks and his monocle, which dangled beside the Greek coin he had picked up somewhere as a periapt. He had kept thin and trim. All the same, at his age, no matter how good the trim, what you really look like is ahalf-unfolded camp cot, with the canvas wrinkled at the folds. But he could have looked far worse. Lotte couldn’t feel that Paul suffered any great hardship, less, certainly, than the average starlet had to put up with.
She herself was not exposed. She had taken precautions. If you are famous for your legs, that usually means your legs are too thin. Otherwise they wouldn’t photograph well. The only person famous for his legs who had legs that were too thick was Nijinsky, and he, as we all know, went mad. Also, as you get older, you get sinewy. The phrase, if she remembered it correctly, was “stuck together with spit.” So though she had nothing against swimming in her own swimming pool, Lotte did not think it wise to go swimming in an outdoor pool surrounded by starlets draped in the manner of an Ingres bathhouse. So she wore slacks.
She sat there and watched Charlie suck his lemon. They’d had crab for lunch. Luxembourg is too far inland for crab. It didn’t sit well.
Paul, stripped to the waist, was exactly what she would have expected. He had a swimmer’s body, a broad chest, and was muscular in the right places. Like most such people, he didn’t so much use his body as wear it, like a very well-cut suit of clothes, with the air of negligence which comes from being sure of what one has on. Such people never look naked. They do look as though they had another body, somewhat more human and rumpled in design, under the actual body they are wearing. Paul must have done weightlifting at some time in his life. He had the weightlifter’s manner of being his own artifact, and a connoisseur at that.
Unne looked exactly what she was, well-bred all over, without a seam anywhere. She was wearing a one-piece bathing suit, not from any sense that a bikini was vulgar, but from a birthright certainty that it was not quite her sort of thing. Nor was she wrong.
At the moment both of them were in the pool, splashing each other decorously.
“How are you?” asked Lotte, feeling on the back bench herself.
“Avuncular,” said Charlie. “As always, avuncular.”
He seemed to mean it. He must feel safe. If Unne was with Lotte, then it was safe for her to be with Paul. Charlie wasn’t jealous of people, only of their doing something he couldn’t. Paul couldn’t. That explained that.
The afternoon went by.
Paul and Unne clambered out of the pool and went off hand in hand toward the bar. Charlie looked after them mildly.
“ Nemo repente fuit turpissimus ,” he said.
Lotte burst out laughing.
“Well, I like Latin,” he said. “It dignifies our griefs. Of course I have to use a crib.”
“They seem to get along well enough.”
“When I’m grief-stricken,” said Charlie, persisting, “I always use a crib.”
“Very well, what does it mean?” He had completely
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