Part 15 (2/2)

She wanted to know about Mr. Nelson but she didn't want to breach his reserve. She might, she thought, reasonably ask where he was from.

”Scotland, originally. Near Aberdeen. My people are there. I have relations; they'd like me to go back there but I don't think I could. It's been too long, too much between us. For years, they called me a communist. I never was, though, never a member of the Communist Party. I simply believed in justice, in equal distribution of wealth. I'm afraid they're too snooty for me, my relations.”

Andrea was surprised at the personal quality of what he'd said. Perhaps she was wrong about the English; the famous reserve, perhaps, was only the stuff of myth.

”Ah, your husband seems to be awake,” he said. She thought she heard relief that she might be moving away. So perhaps he felt he had been excessively revelatory; perhaps she had done something wrong, something to disturb him, but she didn't know what. Had it been a mistake to ask him where he was from? How would she have known that?

”You seem to be enjoying yourself,” Paul said. ”But be careful. I'm afraid your new best friend dips in and out of lucidity. Last night, in the middle of the night, he shook his cane at me, accusing me of sneaking into his house and stealing his things.”

”I don't believe you.”

”Andrea, why in G.o.d's name would I make something like that up?”

”Of course you wouldn't,” she said, trying not to dislike her husband, who was still having trouble breathing even though he was wearing an oxygen cone. ”It's just that he seems like such a fine person.”

”He can be a fine person and go in and out of lucidity, Andrea, for G.o.d's sake, one has nothing to do with the other. After all he is ninety-three.”

The man across from Mr. c.o.x-Ralston, sitting behind his bower of fruit, raised his teacup as if to toast them.

”I lof Ni York,” he said.

”Another of your fans,” Paul said, smiling and waving. ”Why don't you go over and sign his autograph book?”

Had Paul been p.r.o.ne to this kind of pettiness before? She couldn't remember that he had. She told herself that he must be very frightened; the ground on which he had stood so firmly all his life, all the thirty-four years of it, had proved unstable. He could never really feel safe again. She saw how terrible it must be for him, and she understood why it would make him touchy. The best thing was to pretend that he had meant it as a harmless joke; she would laugh as if it were a good joke. She kissed the top of his head.

” Go on, Madonna, you belong to your public.” He was trying, too, to make a joke of it, and that in honor of their marriage they must both engage in this pretense.

”I lof Ni York,” the old man said. ”I was there once, one time. 1952.”

”Where is your home?” Andrea asked.

”Cyprus.”

Andrea was trying to place the political situation of Cyprus; she knew it was a site of conflict but she couldn't call up the details, so she was afraid to say anything specific.

”It's a long way to New York from Cyprus,” she said.

”I had lived in Germany. I was in German army. I was deserter. That was why I was in New York: I didn't want to fight for the Germans in Korea.”

Andrea's mind spun. She couldn't get the pieces of the story to fit together. Why was he in the German army? And why would he have fled to America to avoid fighting in Korea when it was an American war?

”I'm glad you liked New York,” she said, not knowing what else to say. ”Many people find it difficult.”

”I lofed the subways. Many different peoples.”

”But you have that in London too.”

”More there. Better.”

She looked at the table beside his bed. On it were arranged, in descending order, a pineapple, a papaya, a bunch of purple grapes, an apple, and two green plums.

”I see that you like fruit,” Andrea said.

”Fruit keeps me alive,” he said.

She didn't want to ask: Are you sure you want to be alive? What do you live for? She had seen him sitting all day in his chair, tilting dangerously when he slept. Was that life? Was that so precious?

”I must get back to my husband,” she said.

”Lucky,” he said. ”Lucky.” He lifted up the grapes and holding them up to the fluorescent light, he took a small bunch and put them, all of them at once, into his mouth.

When the dinner was brought around, Andrea left for her own meal. It was early; she was the only one in the Trattoria Siciliana, and her friend, the waiter whose name she didn't know and was too shy to ask, was delighted to see her.

She looked at his toupee, his sunken chest, the belly he made no attempt to suck in, and wondered about the details of his private life. He asked after her husband. He said that when her husband was well they should both come in. He said to be sure to come back tomorrow. Her meal cost less than five pounds; she waved the check gaily, as if it were a banner she was waving at a game.

”At these prices, how could I refuse?”

”Too many people thinking too many thoughts about too much money,” he said. ”Come back tomorrow, early, like this, where there are not too many people.”

On the subway, she felt lonely and tired, yet proud of herself for having mastered a system that was not her own. Mrs. Romilly heard her come in and offered her a cup of tea. She sat on the wine-colored couch, looked at the dim watercolors and the stuffed birds, and cuddled the brindle-colored cat, Ivy, worried that she would not have the courage to leave when the time came and make her way up the dark stairs.

”Ivy was a stray,” Mrs. Romilly said. ”Strong she was. I found her in front of a church in the Dordogne, in France, where my sister retired. I don't think they care about animals in the southern countries. Not the way we do here.”

Andrea was amused that Mrs. Romilly considered France a southern country, like Libya, or Sudan.

”A stray's more grateful, that's what I think. They don't take you for granted, like some of those snooty types.”

Andrea wondered whether, when they had children, she and Paul would get a pet. She would prefer a dog, but perhaps it would be wiser to start with a cat, as neither of them had any experience with animals.

The next morning, when she got out of the tube station, Andrea saw a beautiful display of fruit on sidewalk tables. She was drawn to the figs, purple at the base, narrowing upward and lightening toward the top, ending in a dot of yellow green. She bought three figs for her Cypriot and six for Paul. She stopped at a newsagent and bought two bars of dark chocolate- she was sure Mr. Nelson would like dark rather than milk chocolate. She bought a magazine with Nicole Kidman on the cover for Mr. c.o.x-Ralston. She bought the Economist for Paul and a bunch of yellow chrysanthemums. She bought no flowers for the old men.

They were so happy with their gifts, she wished she had thought of them sooner. Paul seemed in better humor; his parents had finally gotten through on the phone. Andrea had asked them to sort out the details of their insurance; they had determined that their American company would cover Paul's hospital stay. This cheered him enormously. He had had a shower and shaved. He loved the chrysanthemums.

”Pull the curtain,” he said, ”and sit down beside me on the bed.”

He unb.u.t.toned her s.h.i.+rt.

”Paul,” she said, ”one of the doctors, one of the nurses could come in.”

”They've just been,” he said, and put his hand inside her bra.

”Is this all right for your health?”

”It's excellent for my health,” he said, running his thumb over her nipple.

She was embarra.s.sed when she pulled the curtain back a few minutes later. She didn't want to face Mr. Nelson's eye.

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