Waltz Into Darkness

47

The gentle but insistently repeated pressure of her small hand on his shoulder, rubbed sleep threadbare, wore it away. He started upward spasmodically.

Then it came back. Then he remembered. Like a waiting knife it struck and found him.

“I’m going to get the tickets, Lou. Lou, wake up, it’s after ten. I’m going to get the tickets. For us, at the station. I’ve done all the packing, while you were lying there. I’ve left out your one suit, everything else is put away — Lou, wake up, clear your eyes. Can’t you understand me? I’m going to get the tickets. What about money?”

“Over there,” he murmured vacantly, eyes turned inward on yesterday. “Back pocket, on the left side—”

She had it in a moment, as though she’d already known, but only wanted his cognizance to her taking it.

“Where will I get them for? Where do you want us to go?”

“I don’t know—” he said blurredly, shading his eyes. “I can’t tell you that—”

She gave her head a little toss of impatience at his sluggishness. “I’ll go by the trains, then. Whichever one is leaving soonest, we’ll take.”

She came to him and, bending, gave him a hurried little peck of parting. The fragrance of her violet toilet water swirled about him.

“Be careful,” he said dismally. “It may be dangerous.”

“We have time. There’s no danger yet. How can there be? It’s not even known.” She gave him a shrug of assurance. “If we go about it right, there may never be danger.”

The froufrou of her skirts crossed the floor. She opened the door. She turned there. She bent the fingers of her hand as if beckoning him to her.

“Ta ta,” she said. “Lovey mine.”