Desperate Characters. Paula Fox

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       THREE

      “I’m tired of parties,” Otto said in the taxi. “I get so bored. Movie talk bores me. I don’t care about Fred Astaire, and he doesn’t care about me. I care even less about Fellini. Flo is self-important simply because she knows actors.”

      “Why did you say you hadn’t seen Death Takes a Holiday? I know you saw it because we saw it together. And you were crazy about Evelyn Venable. You talked about her for weeks … those bones, that fluty voice, you said she looked the way Emily Dickinson should have looked … don’t you remember?”

      “My God!”

      “And Fredric March, you said, was a perfect expression of an American idea of death, a dissipated toff in a black cape.”

      “You stored all that away?” he asked wonderingly.

      “You fell asleep and everyone knew you were asleep. Mike poked me and told me to take you home.”

      “They were all trying to out-memory each other. It just proved how old we all are.”

      “You have to make an effort.”

      “What were you doing upstairs with Mike?”

      “He called some doctors about the cat bite.”

      “He thinks you ought to see someone?” he asked, alarmed.

      She held up her hand. “Look how swollen it is!” she said. She flexed her fingers and groaned. “Perhaps if I soak it, the swelling will go down.”

      “What did the doctor say?”

      “Nobody was in. Don’t you know you can’t get a doctor any more? Don’t you know this country is falling apart?”

      “Just because you can’t get a doctor on Friday evening does not mean the country is falling apart.”

      “Oh, yes it does. There was a stone in their bedroom. Someone had thrown a stone through the window. It must have happened just before we arrived. Picked up a stone from somewhere and tossed it through the window!” As she was speaking, she took hold of his arm and now, as she became silent, her grip tightened as though only her hand could continue the burden of her thoughts.

      “That’s awful,” he said. The taxi was idling. Otto saw they were home. He paid the driver. Sophie, suddenly animated by a murky but powerful conviction that she knew what was wrong with everything, ran up the steps. But she had to wait for Otto; she didn’t have her keys. He climbed the steps slowly, looking at the change in his hand. Sophie’s access of energy, so startling as to verge on pain, died at once. As they walked into the dark hall, the telephone rang.

      “Who …?” he began. “At this time of night,” she said, as Otto went to the phone. But he didn’t touch it. It rang three more times, then Sophie pushed past him and grabbed the receiver. Otto went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “Yes?” he heard her say. “Hello, hello, hello?”

      No one answered, but there was a faint throb as though darkness had a voice which thumped along the wire. Then she heard an exhalation of breath.

      “It’s some degenerate,” she said loudly. Otto, a piece of cheese in one hand, gestured to her with the other. “Hang up! For God’s sake, hang up!”

      “A degenerate,” she said into the mouthpiece. “An American cretin.” Otto stuffed the cheese in his mouth, then snatched the phone from her hand and replaced it with a bang in its cradle. “I don’t know what’s the matter with you!” he cried.

      “You could ask,” she said, and began to cry. “I’ve been poisoned by that cat.” They turned to look at the back door.

      “My God! It’s back!” she exclaimed.

      A gray shape was huddled against the bottom of the door, toward which Otto ran, waving his hands and shouting, “Get out!” The cat slowly raised its head and blinked. Sophie shuddered. “I’ll call the A.S.P.C.A. tomorrow,” Otto said. The cat got up and stretched. They saw its mouth open as it looked up at them hopefully. “We can’t have this,” Otto muttered. He looked reproachfully at her.