He sat on a stool at the bar and ordered a marismeiio and opened and read his letters while he ate the garlic-flavored olives from the saucer the bartender had placed before him with his glass. One of the letters had two cuttings of reviews of his novel from monthly magazines and he read them with no feeling that they dealt with him or with anything that he had written.
He put the cuttings back in the envelope. They had been understanding and perceptive reviews but to him they had meant nothing. He read the letter from the publisher with the same detachment. The book had sold well and they thought that it might continue selling on into the fall although nobody could ever tell about such things. Certainly, so far, it had received an extraordinarily fine critical reception and the way would be open for his next book. It was a great advantage that this was his second and not his first novel. It was tragic how often first novels were the only good novels American writers had in them. But this, his publisher went on, his second, validated all the promise his first had shown. It was an unusual summer in New York, cold and wet. Oh Christ, David thought, the hell with how it was in New York and the hell with that thin-lipped bastard Coolidge fishing for trout in a high stiff collar in a fish hatchery in the Black Hills we stole from the Sioux and the Cheyenne and
bathtub-ginned-up writers wondering if their baby does the Charleston. And the hell with the promise he had validated. What promise to whom? To The Dial, to The Bookman, to The New Republic? No, he had shown it. Let me show you my promise that I'm going to validate it. What shit.
"Hello, young man," said a voice. "What are you looking so indignant about?"
"Hello, Colonel," David said and felt suddenly happy. "What the hell are you doing here?"
The Colonel, who had deep blue eyes, sandy hair and a tanned face that looked as though it had been carved out of flint by a tired sculptor who had broken his chisel on it, picked up David's glass and tasted the marisme no.
"Bring me a bottle of whatever this young man is drinking to that table," he said to the bartender. "Bring a cold bottle. You don't need to ice it. Bring it immediately."
"Yes sir," said the bartender. "Very good sir."
"Come along," the Colonel said to David, leading him to the table in the corner of the room. "You're looking very well."
"So are you."
Colonel John Boyle was wearing a dark blue suit of a cloth that looked stiff but cool and a blue shirt and black tie. "I'm always well," he said. "Do you want a job?"
"No," said David.
"Just like that. Don't even ask what it is," His voice sounded as though he had hawked it up out of a dusty throat.
The wine came and the waiter filled two glasses and put down saucers of the garlic olives and of hazelnuts.
"No anchovies?" the Colonel asked. "What sort of a fonda is this?"
The bartender smiled and went for the anchovies.
"Excellent wine," the Colonel said. "First rate. I always hoped your taste would improve. Now why don't you want a job? You've just finished a book."
6o
"I'm on my honeymoon."
"Silly expression," the Colonel said. "I never liked it. It sounds sticky. Why didn't you say you've just been married? It makes no difference. You'd be worthless in any event."
'What was the job?"
"No use talking about it now. Who did you marry? Anyone I know?"
"Catherine Hill."
"Knew her father. Very odd type. Killed himself in a car. His wife too."
"I never knew them."
"You never knew him?"
"No."
"Strange. But perfectly understandable. He's no loss to you as a father-in-law. The mother was very lonely they say. Stupid way for grown up people to be killed. Where did you meet this girl?"
"In Paris."
"She has a silly uncle who lives there. He's really worthless. Do you know him?"
"I've seen him at the races."
"At Longchamps and Auteuil. How could you help it?"
"I didn't marry her family."
"Of course not. But you always do. Dead or alive."
"Not the uncles and aunts."
"Well anyway, have fun. You know, I liked the book. Has it done well?"
"It's done pretty well."
"It moved me very deeply," the Colonel said. "You're a decep tive son of a bitch."
"So are you, John."
"I hope so," the Colonel said.
David saw Catherine at the door and stood up. She came over to them and David said, "This is Colonel Boyle."
"How do you do, my dear?"
Catherine looked at him and smiled and sat down at the table. David watched her and it seemed as though she were holding her breath.
"Are you tired?" David asked.
"I think so."
"Have a glass of this," the Colonel said.
"Would it be all right if I had an absinthe?"
"Of course," David said. "I'll have one too."
"Not for me," the Colonel said to the bartender. "This bottle's lost its freshness. Put it back to chill and bring me a glass from a cold bottle."
"Do you like the real Pernod?" he asked Catherine. "Yes," she said. "I'm shy with people and it helps." "It's an excellent drink," he said. "I'd join you but I have work I must do after lunch."
"I'm sorry I forgot to make a rendezvous," David said.
"This is very nice."
"I stopped by for the mail at the bank. There's quite a lot for you. I left it in the room."
"I don't care about it," she said.
"I saw you in the Prado looking at the Grecos," the Colonel said.
"I saw you too," she said. "Do you always look at pictures as though you owned them and were deciding how to have them re-hung properly?"
"Probably," the Colonel said. "Do you always look at them as though you were the young chief of a warrior tribe who had gotten loose from his councillors and was looking at that marble of Leda and the Swan?"
Catherine blushed under her dark tan and looked at David and then at the Colonel.
"I like you," she said. "Tell me some more.
"I like you," he said. "And I envy David. Is he everything you want?"
"Don't you know?"
"'To me the visible world is visible,'" the Colonel said. "Now go on and take another sip of that wormwood-tasting truth serum."
"I don't need it now.
"Aren't you shy now? Drink it anyway. It's good for you. You're the darkest white girl I've ever seen. Your father was very dark though."
"I must have his skin. My mother was very fair."
"I never knew her."
"Did you know my father well?"
"Quite well."
"How was he?"
"He was a very difficult and charming man. Are you really shy?"
"Truly. Ask David."
"You get over it awfully quickly."
"You rode over it. How was my father?"
"He was the shyest man I ever knew and he could be the most charming."
"Did he have to use Pernod too?"
"He used everything."
"Do I remind you of him?"
"Not at all."
"That's good. Does David?"
"Not in the least."
"That's even better. How did you know I was a boy in the Prado?"
'Why shouldn't you be?"
"I only started it again last evening. I was a girl for almost a month. Ask David."
"You don't need to say ask David. What are you right now?"
"A boy if it's all right with you."
"It's fine with me. But you're not."
"I just wanted to say it," she said. "Now that I said it I don't have to be it. But it was wonderful in the Prado. That was why I wanted to tell David about it."
"You'll have plenty of time to tell David."
"Yes," she said. "We have time for things."
"Tell me where you got so dark," the Colonel said. "Do you know how dark you are?"
"That was from le Grau du Roi and then not far from la Napoule. There was a cove there with a trail that went down to it through the pines. You couldn't see it from the road."
"How long did it take to get so dark?"
"About three months."
"And what are you going to do with it?"
"Wear it," she said. "It's very becoming in bed."
"I shouldn't think you'd want to waste it in town."
"'The Prado isn't wasting. I don't really wear it. It's me. I really am this dark. The sun just develops it. I wish I was darker."
"You probably will be then," the Colonel said. "Do you have other things like that to look forward to?"
"Just every day," Catherine said. "I look forward to every day."
"And has today been a good one?"
"Yes. You know it has. You were there."
"Will you and David lunch with me?"
"All right," Catherine said. "I'll go up and change. Will you wait for me?"
"Don't you want to finish your drink?" David asked.
"I don't care about it," she said. "Don't worry about me. I won't be shy."
She walked to the door and they both looked after her. "Was I too rough?" the Colonel asked. "I hope not. She's a very lovely girl."
"I just hope I'm good for her."
"You are. How are you doing yourself?"
"All right I think."
"Are you happy?"
"Very."
"Remember everything is right until it's wrong. You'll know when it's wrong."
"You think so?"
"I'm quite sure. If you don't it doesn't matter. Nothing will matter then."
"How fast will it go?"
"I didn't say anything about speed. What are you talking about?"
"Sorry."
"It's what you have, so have a lovely time." "We do."
"So I see. There's only one thing." "What?"
"Take good care of her." "That's all you've got to tell me?"
"One small thing more: The get's no good."
"There isn't any get yet."
"It's kinder to shoot the get."
"Kinder?"
"Better.
They talked about people for a while, the Colonel speaking outrageously, and then David saw Catherine come through the door wearing a white sharkskin outfit to show how really dark she was.
"You do really look extraordinarily beautiful," the Colonel said to Catherine. "But you must try to get darker."
"Thank you. I will," she said. "We don't have to go out now in the heat do we? Can't we sit here in the cool? We can eat here in the grill."
"You're lunching with me," the Colonel said.
"No please. You're lunching with us."
David stood up uncertainly. There were more people at the bar now. Looking down at the table he saw that he had drunk Catherine's drink as well as his own. He did not remember drinking either of them.
It was the siesta time and they lay on the bed and David was reading by the light that came in the window on the left of the bed where he had pulled up one of the slatted curtains about a third of its length. The light was reflected from the building across the street. The curtain was not pulled high enough to show the sky.
"The Colonel liked me being so dark," Catherine said. "We must get to the sea again. I have to keep it."
"We'll go there whenever you want."
"That will be wonderful. Can I tell you something? I have to."
"What?"
"I didn't change back to be a girl for lunch. Did I behave all right?"
"You didn't?"
"No. Do you mind? But now I'm your boy and I'll do anything for you."
David continued reading.
"Are you angry?"
"No." Sobered, he thought.
"It's simpler now."
"I don't think so."
"Then I'll be careful. This morning everything I did felt so right and happy, so clean and good in the daylight. Couldn't I try now and we see?"
"I'd rather you didn't."
"Can I kiss you and try?"
"Not if you're a boy and I'm a boy."
His chest felt as though there were an iron bar inside it from one side to the other. "I wish you hadn't told the Colonel."
"But he saw me, David. He brought it up and he knew all about it and understood. It wasn't stupid to tell him. It was better. He's our friend. If I told him he wouldn't talk. If I didn't tell him he had a right to."
"You can't trust all people like that."
"I don't care about people. I only care about you. I'd never make scandals with other people."
"My chest feels like it is locked in iron.
"I'm sorry. Mine feels so happy."
"My dearest Catherine."
"That's good. You call me Catherine always when you want. I am your Catherine too. I'm always Catherine when you need her. We'd better go to sleep or should we start and see what happens?"
"Let's first lie very quiet in the dark," David said and lowered the latticed shade and they lay side by side on the bed in the big room in The Palace in Madrid where Catherine had walked in the Museo del Prado in the light of day as a boy and now she would show the dark things in the light and there would, it seemed to him, be no end to the change.
Chapter Eight
IN THE BUEN RETIRO in the morning it was as fresh as though it was a forest. It was green and the trunks of the trees were dark and the distances were all new. The lake was not where it had been and when they saw it through the trees it was quite changed.
