Part 9 (2/2)

Vousi, in a flaming orange blouse, was sitting in the chair in my study. Her long legs in pointy shoes rested on the table, while her slender fingers held a long slim cigarette.

With her head thrown back, she was blowing thick streams of smoke at the ceiling, through her nose.

”At long last!” she cried, seeing me. ”Where have you been all this time? As you can see, I've been waiting for you.”

”I've been delayed,” I said, trying to recollect if I had indeed promised to meet her.

Wipe off the lipstick,” she demanded. ”You look silly!

What's this? Books? What do you need books for?”

”What do you mean by that?”

”You are really quite a problem! Comes back late, hangs around with books. Or are those p.o.r.nos?”

”It's Mintz,” I said.

”Let me have them!” She jumped up and s.n.a.t.c.hed the books out of my grasp. ”Good G.o.d! What nonsense -- all three are alike. What is it? History of Fascism... are you a Fascist?”

”How can you say that, Vousi!”

”Then, what do you need them for? Are you really going to read them?”

”Reread them.”

”I just don't understand,” she said peevishly. ”I liked you from the first. Mother says you're a writer, and I went and bragged to everyone, like a fool, and then you turn out to be the next thing to an Intel.”

”How could you, Vousi!” I said with reproach. By now I had realized that it was impermissible to be taken for an Intel.

”These bookos were simply needed in my literary business, that's all.”

”Bookos!” she laughed. ”Bookos! Look at what I can do.”

She threw back her head and blew two thick streams of smoke out of her nostrils. ”I got it on the second try. Pretty good, right?”

”Remarkable apt.i.tude,” I remarked.

”Instead of laughing at me, you should try it yourself.

... A lady taught me at the salon today. s...o...b..red all over me, the fat cow... Will you try it?”

”How come she did that?”

”Who?”

”The cow.”

”Not normal. Or maybe a sad sack.... What's your name? I forgot.”

”Ivan.”

”An amusing name! You'll have to remind me again. Are you a Tungus?”

”I don't think so.”

”So-o... and I went and told everyone that you are a Tungus. Too bad.... Say, why not have a drink?”

”Let's.”

”Today I should have a strong drink to forget that s...o...b..ring cow.”

She ran out into the living room and came back with a tray. We had some brandy and looked at each other, not having anything to say. I felt ill at ease. I couldn't say why, but I liked her. I sensed something, something I couldn't put my finger on; something which distinguished her from the long-legged, smooth-skinned pin-up beauties, good only for the bed. I had the impression that she sensed something in me, too.

”Beautiful day, today,” she said, looking away.

”A bit hot,” I observed.

She sipped some brandy; I did too. The silence stretched.

”What do you like to do the most?” she asked.

”It depends. And you?”

”Same with me. In general, I like to have fun and not have to think about anything.”

”So do I,” I said. ”At least I do right now.”

She seemed to perk up a little. I understood suddenly what was the matter: during the whole day, I had not met a single truly pleasant person, and I simply had gotten tired of it.

There was nothing to her, after all.

”Let's go somewhere,” she said.

”We could,” I said. I really didn't want to go anywhere, I wanted to sit and relax in the cool room for a while.

”I can see you're not too eager,” she said.

”To be honest, I would prefer to sit around here for a bit.”

”Well then, amuse me.”

I considered the problem, and recounted the story of the traveling salesman in the upper bunk. She liked it, but I think she missed the point. I made a correction in my aim, and told her the one about the president and the old maid. She laughed a long time, kicking her wonderfully long legs. Then, taking courage from another shot of brandy, I told about the widow with the mushrooms growing on the wall. She slid down to the floor and almost knocked over the tray. I picked her up under the armpits, hoisted her back up in the chair, and delivered the story of the drunk s.p.a.ceman and the college girl, at which point Aunt Vaina came rus.h.i.+ng in and inquired fearfully what was going on with Vousi, and whether I was tickling her unmercifully. I poured Aunt Vaina a gla.s.s, and addressing myself to her personally, recounted the one about the Irishman who wanted to be a gardener. Vousi was completely shattered, but Aunt Vaina smiled sorrowfully and confided that Major General Tuur liked to tell the same story, when he was in a good mood. But in it there was, she thought, a Negro instead of the Irishman, and he aspired to the duties of a piano tuner and not a gardener. ”And you know, Ivan, the story ended somehow differently,” she added after some thought. At this point I noticed Len standing in the doorway, looking at us. I waved and smiled at him. He seemed not to notice, so I winked at him and beckoned for him to come in.

”Whom are you winking at?” asked Vousi, through lingering laughter.

<script>