Death Sentence

25

“You’re in a good mood, Paul.”

“It’s New Year’s Eve. It comes with the territory.” He gave her a friendly swat on a firm bouncy buttock.

Irene carried her drink to the window. The blinds were open; frost rimmed the edges of the plate glass. “It’s a marvelous view from here. You’re very lucky.”

He moved to her; he felt her spine beneath his fingers. “Think of all the frantic parties tonight.”

“I never go to those. A quiet evening for me. My God, kazoos and noisemakers and funny hats.”

“And Auld Lang Syne and kissing everybody in the room.”

“I’ll go for that part,” she said; she gave him a sideways look, up from under; she was laughing and he pulled her forward and kissed her, felt her mouth push out, relax and open.

Then she stood in the circle of his arms; she tipped her cheek against his shoulder. She was still looking through the glass. Her voice came up to him very soft, muffled by his shirt: “Count the millions of lights out there, and realize only one of them is yours. Does that bother you?”

“No. Should it?” Anonymity was his protection.

“You’ve got your ego well under control. That’s one of the things I like about you.”

He leered. “What are the others?”

“Oh no. I’m not going to enumerate all your excellences, Paul — why should I give you ammunition?” She escaped with an impish pirouette and went inquisitively around the room pausing here and there to hover near a photograph of Paul and Sam Kreutzer on shipboard, a hard-cover copy of Plain Speaking, a silk-screen copy of a Picasso etching no bigger than an index file card, the small collection between bookends of Paul’s LP record albums: Karajan’s Beethoven, the Swingle Singers, P.D.Q. Bach, Lizst, Goldmark, Peter Nero, Al Hirt.

“You look gorgeous and girlish in that little skirt.”

“Well it’s not exactly the right season for it but I thought a little frivolity was called for.” But she was pleased by the compliment, clumsy as it may have been.

In his vague fantasies it was much too easy to see her making a warm serene home. He took her glass from her and went to refill them both; he felt unnerved.

She trailed him into the kitchen. “You really did a job on your face.”

“I hadn’t tightened the blade in the razor. Incredibly stupid. I did all this with one swipe before I realized the blade was loose.”

“I’d better get you a cartridge razor.”

“I bought one this morning.” Actually he’d always used a cartridge razor but he’d bought a brand new one today and thrown the old one out. The first time she went in the bathroom she’d see the cardboard-and-plastic package on the rim of the wastebasket. It was the details, he thought; concentrate on every detail, get it right, forget nothing.

“What’s this gizmo?”

“Trash compactor.”

“My goodness. You’ve really got all the mod cons in this building. Dishwasher, compactor — is that a self-cleaning oven?”

“I’m waiting for the self-making bed.”

“And the self-vacuuming rug. Wasn’t there a Ray Bradbury story ...?” She accepted the highball and moved back into the living room. “What’s your resolution for the new year?”

“I don’t know. What’s yours?”

“Haven’t you noticed — I haven’t had a cigarette all evening.” She attacked her drink like an addict snatching an overdue fix: she made a comic act of it. “I’m going out of my mind with nicotine withdrawal.”

“It’ll get worse before it gets better.”

“Were you a smoker?”

“Long time ago. I gave it up when the surgeon general started issuing threats.”

“My God you’re disgustingly virtuous. You don’t smoke, you eat and drink in moderation. You haven’t got anything to give up.”

“I was thinking of giving up sex.”

“Good Lord. Whatever for?”

“So that you could talk me out of it.”

“How strong a case would I have to present?”

“Not very.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Turnips,” he said triumphantly.

“What?”

“I’ll give up turnips.”

“You hate turnips.”

“Exactly.”

“Bastard. I’m getting no sympathy at all. Look at me. I’ve got the shakes, my eyes are watering, I’m knotted up with indescribable pain, I’m a complete and utter wreck with a ten-ton monkey on my back. And you’re offering to give up turnips.”

“How about Brussels sprouts?”

“I could kill you.”

“No you couldn’t,” he said.