whisper of his feet moving away. She said again, âHow can I?â but this time it was an appeal for him to speak and to deny the accumulated experience of poverty. âLook,â he said, âsit down and let me show you things. Thatâs the Rhine.â She found herself laughing. âI guessed that.â âDid you see the rock we passed jutting out into the stream? Thatâs the Lorelei rock. Heine.â
âWhat do you mean, Heine?â He said with pleasure, âA Jew.â 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 agentsâ 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, âThat little girl in the front row, sheâs not worth her keep.â He was never angered or abusive, never spoke worse of anyone than as âthat little girl,â 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 girlâs duty to be amiable, âJews are artistic, arenât they? Why, almost the whole orchestra at Atta Girl were Jewish boys.â
âYes,â he said with a bitterness which she did not understand.
âDo you like music?â
âI can play the violin,â he said, ânot well.â For a moment it was as if behind the familiar eyes a strange life moved.
âI always wanted to cry at âSonny Boy,ââ 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.
âLook,â he said sharply. âNo more river. Weâve left the Rhine. Not long before breakfast.â
She was a little pained by a sense of unfairness, but she was not given to argument. âIâll have to fetch my bag,â she said, âIâve got sandwiches in it.â
He stared at her. âDonât tell me youâve brought provisions for three days.â
âOh, no. Just supper last night and breakfast this morning. It saves about eight shillings.â
âAre you Scotch? Listen to me. Youâll have breakfast with me.â
âWhat more do you expect me to have with you?â
He grinned. âIâll tell you. Lunch, tea, dinner. And tomorrow . . .â She interrupted him with a sigh. âI guess youâre a bit rocky. You havenât escaped from anywhere, have you?â His face fell and he asked her with sudden humility, âYou couldnât put up with me? Youâd be bored?â
âNo,â she said, âI shouldnât be bored. But why do you do all this for me? Iâm not pretty. I guess Iâm not clever.â She waited with longing for a denial. âYou are lovely, brilliant, witty,â 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. âI can talk so easily to you. I feel I know you.â She knew what that meant. âYes,â she said with the dry trivial grief of disappointment, âI
John Ramsey Miller
S. K. Ng
J.J. Marstead
Marjorie Eccles
Myra Nour
David Zieroth
JG Faherty
Michelle Mulder
Paige Shelton
Kami García