Appointment in Samarra (31 page)

“A Martini, rather dry,” she said.

“Two,” said the man, and the waiter left them.

They lit cigarettes. “Well,” said the man, “how do you feel?”

“Hmm,” she said, with a smile.

“Ah, you’re darling,” he said. “Where do you come from?”

“Originally I came from Pennsylvania,” she said.

“Why, so do I. Where are you from? I’m from Scranton.”

“Scranton? I’m not from there,” she said. “I live in a little town you never heard of.”

“But what part of the State? What’s it near?”

“Well, did you ever hear of Gibbsville?”

“Sure I heard of Gibbsville. I’ve visited there often. Are you from Gibbsville?”

“No, but near there. A place called Ridgeville.”

“I’ve been there. Just driven through, though. Who do you know in Gibbsville? Do you know Caroline Walker? That’s right, she’s married. She married Julian English. Do you know them?”

“I know him,” she said.

“Do you know Caroline at all?”

“No. I never met her. I just knew Julian.”

“Well, I didn’t know him very well. I haven’t seen either of them in years. So you’re from Pennsylvania.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Mary Manners,” he said, “you’re the prettiest girl I ever saw.”

“Thank you, kind sir, she said,” she said. “You’re all right yourself, Ross Campbell.”

“I am now. I will be if you go away with me this afternoon.”

“Not this week-end.”

“But next week-end I won’t have Ed’s car.”

“You can hire one. No, I have to watch my step. We shouldn’t of come here, Ross. Rifkin comes here sometimes and his friends, a lot of movie people, they all come here.”

“Come on, while I have the car.”

“No, positively not. Not this week.”

*   *   *

“Lute, give me five dollars. I want to pay the garbage man.”

Lute Fliegler was lying on the davenport, his hands in back of his head, his coat and vest on the chair beside him. He reached in his trousers pocket and took a five dollar bill from a small roll. His eyes met his wife’s as the money appeared, and she was grateful to him for not saying what they both were thinking: that maybe they had better be more careful about money till they saw how things were. She went out to
the kitchen and paid the garbage man and then came back to the living-room. “Can’t I make you a sandwich, Lute? You ought to have something.”

“No, that’s all right. I don’t feel like eating.”

“Don’t worry. Please don’t worry. They’ll make you the head of it. You know more about the business than anybody else, and you’ve always been reliable. Dr. English knows that.”

“Yeah, but does he? What I’m afraid of is he’ll think we were all a bunch of drunks. I don’t mean that against Julian, but you know.”

“I know,” she said. If only daytime were a time for kissing she would kiss him now. All this, the furniture, the house, the kids, herself—all this was what Lute was worrying about. She was almost crying, so she smiled.

“Come here,” he said.

“Oh, Lute,” she said. She knelt down beside him and cried a little and then kissed him. “I feel so sorry for Caroline. You, I—”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I still get my check from the government, and I can get lots of jobs—” he cleared his throat “—in fact, that’s my trouble. I was saying to Alfred P. Sloan the other day. He called me up. I meant to tell you, but it didn’t seem important. So I said to Al—”

“Who’s Alfred P. Sloan?”

“My God. Here I been selling—he’s president of General Motors.”

“Oh. So what did you say to him?” said Irma.