The American Lady(71)
Marie sighed contentedly. She seemed to have it all these days. The best lover in the world and . . .
“What do you think, Marie?” she heard all of a sudden in her right ear. “You’re an artist yourself, wouldn’t you like that? It would be like Greenwich Village on a mountainside.”
“I’m sorry? What do I think of what now?” Marie blinked in the sunlight and looked up into Pandora’s face.
“Admit it, you weren’t even listening!”
Marie smiled ruefully. “I’m sorry; I must have been daydreaming.”
“I don’t think I need to ask what you were dreaming about! Are you so much in love that you’re losing track?” Pandora said, peering at her irritably, and then turned back to Sherlain. “I’m sticking with what I said before—if nobody but artists came to live here, it would be just a ghetto and it would do art more harm than good!”
“Which is exactly where I disagree with you. You’d get something like the purest form of art, crystallizing from the very air.”
Marie looked from Pandora to Sherlain and back again in confusion. What on earth were they talking about?
“Don’t worry about it,” Susanna said, her breath tickling her right ear. She came over so close that Marie could smell her body odor. “When I was in your condition, I couldn’t concentrate on anything for half an hour at a time either. I felt so restless—and so sick every morning! It’s the hormones, they say. Anyway I hear that there are doctors now who specialize in just this sort of thing.”
Sherlain and Pandora turned their heads like bloodhounds picking up an interesting new scent.
“A doctor? My condition? What do you mean?” Marie frowned.
For a moment Susanna looked at her in astonishment; then a knowing grin spread across her sunburned face.
“Well really, Marie, you don’t have to play the innocent with us! Here on Monte Verità we take a fairly relaxed view of that sort of thing as you know. Or are you really worried one of us might be shocked at the news?” Susanna seemed to be enjoying the moment enormously and glanced over at the others to be sure she had their attention. “How daft does she think we are?”
“Pardon me if I’m a little slow this morning, but I still don’t know what you’re talking about!”
Susanna’s knowing remarks were beginning to get on Marie’s nerves. The woman always seemed to have to let the whole world know how smart she was.
“Apart from having had a bad dream that left me feeling a little queasy, I’m perfectly all right. My hormones are certainly all in order,” she said, and rolled over onto her stomach to show that the conversation was over.
“I see what it is now,” Pandora said, groaning. “Oh no! Is it true? Marie, tell us—are you really . . . pregnant?”
4
Harold took his watch from his pocket for the umpteenth time and toyed with its gold chain. His heart gave a little leap of joy, as always, when he opened the lid and heard that satisfying click. As a little boy he had longed to have a pocket watch and now he had one—gilded, at that! He brushed away an imaginary wisp of lint from the watch glass and shut the lid. He would never indulge in this newfangled habit of wearing his watch on his wrist, the way some of his colleagues did!
He frowned and looked over at the door.
Where was Wanda? They were supposed to meet at eight o’clock, and now it was twenty past. I should have insisted on picking her up at home, he thought irritably. At least then he wouldn’t have had to worry about whether she was all right.
The waiter in tails who had been hovering near Harold’s table ever since he sat down took a step closer.
“Perhaps monsieur would like to choose a wine first? Or should I bring the menu?”
“No, thank you. I’m still waiting for someone.”
“May I bring monsieur an aperitif?”
“No,” Harold replied irritably. He hoped this restaurant wouldn’t turn out to be the wrong choice—he wanted the setting to be just right, tonight of all nights. His right hand wandered involuntarily to the breast pocket of his jacket. The little leather case felt cool and smooth to the touch.
The waiter hesitated a moment longer, then stepped back and waited three paces away from Harold’s table, his hands clasped behind his back.
Harold took a sip of his glass of water.
They could have met at Mickey’s Brooklyn Bar, of course. Or at one of the Italian restaurants they both liked. But Harold wanted more than just beer or spaghetti on this occasion, and a fancy French restaurant seemed just the thing.
Besides, he knew that he wouldn’t be confronted with German grilled wurst and potato dumplings here. He would hear no German conversation and no German songs. There were no German flags hanging on the wall and although the waiter was rather insistent, at least he wasn’t wearing German folk costume. Thank goodness!