A Choice of Enemies by Mordecai Richler Page A

Bethnal Green of headlines and mashed brussels sprouts and unuseful memories. They laughed, they applauded, and their laughter was so sad, so savage, that Norman was immensely relieved when it was time to leave the theatre.
    Sally held on to his arm, just like she was his girl, and that made him feel better. They were joined by the Winklemans and Charlie and Joey, and together they piled into Winkleman’s car and drove to his house in Hampstead. Winkleman was in one of his more expansive moods. He told them how he had settled his accounts with the Home Office.
    Norman, who had heard the story many times before, joined Sally in the laughter that followed all the same, but he was not aware, as the others certainly were, that he was also holding her hand. He and Sally didn’t realize that the Winklemans and Charlie had been nudging each other whenever they looked in their direction. Joey alone remained aloof.
    Finally, it was time to go. Before Norman could protest Joey announced that she had called a taxi and that they could easily drop Sally off on their way home.
    The Winklemans went upstairs to bed.
    “I’m so glad for Norman,” Bella said. “I think she’s a very sweet girl.”
    “I hope it works out for Norm, too. That guy’s so lonely it’s a crime.”
    Charlie was too excited to sleep. “They’re like a couple of kids together,” he said to Joey.
    “Norman’s going to get hurt.”
    “How come?”
    “She’s far too young for him.”
    “Me,” Charlie said, “I like them under fifteen. Sixteen tops. Yum, yum.”
    The next morning, at nine-thirty, Norman presented himself at Sally’s hotel again. This time she was waiting for him. They kissed eagerly, and after breakfast Norman helped to move her things into Karp’s house. The cooking facilities in Sally’s bed-sitter looked fine and there was even a telephone extension on the table, but the gas heater seemed inadequate. The kitchenette part of the room closed like a cupboard. The walls, originally a bright yellow, were by this time a depressing brown. Bright yellow squares, where the last tenant’s pictures had used to hang, glared angrily at you. There was an abandoned Penguin on the mantelpiece.
Ballet
by Arnold Haskell. The kind of room, Norman imagined, where once or twice a year there had been bottle parties. Warm punch out of sticky glasses. A red-stained slice of lemon adhering to the bottom of your glass all night. A bearded boy with a guitar, perhaps.
    Sally was enthralled. She told him excitedly of her plans to make the room more “homey.” Norman was briefly conscious of the years that separated them. For her a rented room was an adventure. He remembered it as a place where you were alone. Terribly alone.
    Karp told Norman that his room would not be ready until Monday and then Norman went off to have lunch with Charlie.
    “I’m surprised you’ve got time for me these days,” Charlie said.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Hey,” Charlie said. “Hey there.”
    Norman grinned foolishly. “Do you like Sally?” he asked.
    “What are you trying to promote – a triangle?” Charlie laughed. “She’s crazy about you.”
    “I wish I thought so.”
    “Are you kidding?”
    “No.”
    “Hell, that girl can’t keep her eyes off you. You’re like a couple of honeymooners together. An iceberg of a guy like you. I’m shocked. Personally, I think you’re a couple of dirty pigs.”
    Norman laughed self-consciously and then quickly changed the subject. Charlie was disturbed. He complained to Norman that Winkleman was stalling. He had not yet been paid his advance on the script. So that afternoon Norman phoned Winkleman, told him to give Charlie some money, and promised to begin work on the script on Monday.
    “That’s a nice girl you’ve got there,” Winkleman said.
    Norman and Sally became inseparable. On Wednesday he borrowed Bob Landis’s car and took her to Cambridge. They rented a canoe, ate a picnic lunch beside the Cam, and on