Read Online Stamboul Train by Graham Greene - Free Book Online Page B

whisper of his feet moving away. She said again, ‘How can I?’ but this time it was an appeal for him to speak and to deny the accumulated experience of poverty. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘sit down and let me show you things. That’s the Rhine.’ She found herself laughing. ‘I guessed that.’ ‘Did you see the rock we passed jutting out into the stream? That’s the Lorelei rock. Heine.’
    â€˜What do you mean, Heine?’ He said with pleasure, ‘A Jew.’ She began to forget the decision she was forced to make and watched him with interest, trying to find a stranger behind the too familiar features, the small eyes, the large nose, the black oiled hair. She had seen this man too often, like a waiter in a dinner-jacket sitting in the front row at provincial theatres, behind a desk at agents’ offices, in the wings at rehearsal, outside the stage door at midnight; the world of the theatre vibrated with his soft humble imperative voice; he was mean with a commonplace habitual meanness, generous in fits and starts, never to be trusted. Soft praise at a rehearsal meant nothing, in the office afterwards he would be saying over a glass of whisky, ‘That little girl in the front row, she’s not worth her keep.’ He was never angered or abusive, never spoke worse of anyone than as ‘that little girl,’ and dismissal came in the shape of a typewritten note left in a pigeon-hole. She said gently, partly because none of these qualities prevented her liking Jews for their very quietness, partly because it was a girl’s duty to be amiable, ‘Jews are artistic, aren’t they? Why, almost the whole orchestra at Atta Girl were Jewish boys.’
    â€˜Yes,’ he said with a bitterness which she did not understand.
    â€˜Do you like music?’
    â€˜I can play the violin,’ he said, ‘not well.’ For a moment it was as if behind the familiar eyes a strange life moved.
    â€˜I always wanted to cry at “Sonny Boy,”’ she said. She was aware of the space which divided her understanding from her expression; she was sensible of much and could say little, and what she said was too often the wrong thing. Now she saw the strange life die.
    â€˜Look,’ he said sharply. ‘No more river. We’ve left the Rhine. Not long before breakfast.’
    She was a little pained by a sense of unfairness, but she was not given to argument. ‘I’ll have to fetch my bag,’ she said, ‘I’ve got sandwiches in it.’
    He stared at her. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve brought provisions for three days.’
    â€˜Oh, no. Just supper last night and breakfast this morning. It saves about eight shillings.’
    â€˜Are you Scotch? Listen to me. You’ll have breakfast with me.’
    â€˜What more do you expect me to have with you?’
    He grinned. ‘I’ll tell you. Lunch, tea, dinner. And tomorrow . . .’ She interrupted him with a sigh. ‘I guess you’re a bit rocky. You haven’t escaped from anywhere, have you?’ His face fell and he asked her with sudden humility, ‘You couldn’t put up with me? You’d be bored?’
    â€˜No,’ she said, ‘I shouldn’t be bored. But why do you do all this for me? I’m not pretty. I guess I’m not clever.’ She waited with longing for a denial. ‘You are lovely, brilliant, witty,’ the incredible words which would relieve her of any need to repay him or refuse his gifts; loveliness and wit were priced higher than any gift he offered, while if a girl were loved, even old women of hard experience would admit her right to take and never give. But he denied nothing. His explanation was almost insulting in its simplicity. ‘I can talk so easily to you. I feel I know you.’ She knew what that meant. ‘Yes,’ she said with the dry trivial grief of disappointment, ‘I