Barbary Shore by Norman Mailer

into thekitchen whose sink and stove were covered with what seemed all the unwashed pots of all the meals of the last week. Upon the kitchen table was the litter of this repast: a half-eaten sandwich, a sliced tomato somewhat squashed upon the oilcloth, and meandering through it a pool of spilled coffee.
    “A business matter?” she repeated belatedly, and it was obvious my words had a poor effect. Business was reality. “Oh, you got to excuse this place,” she groaned. “I never can get in gear. Here, sit down, have some coffee.” The open sleeve of her imitation Japanese kimono trailed through bread crumbs. She reached over to the sink, found a rag, and flopped it upon the table to wipe a clear space for me. “Monina,” she bawled abruptly, “say hello to Mr. Lovett.”
    “Dello Ditter Luft,” a voice piped at me. In an alcove between the refrigerator and the window, a child was sitting in a high chair, a child of exceptional beauty. The sunlight illumined her golden hair and steeped her face and arms in a light so intense her flesh appeared translucent. In one small hand she grasped a spoon and was in the process of transferring some oatmeal to her lips. The maneuver was difficult and swatches of cereal mottled her tiny mouth and pouting cheeks. I had for a moment the whimsy that she was an angel come to earth, but a sullen angel, perplexed by the mechanics of living.
    “Why, she’s lovely,” I exclaimed.
    “Oh, she’s got the looks,” Mrs. Guinevere told me. “And don’t think she don’t know it, that little bitch.”
    Monina giggled. A sly expression formed beneath the oatmeal. “Mommie said dirty durd.”
    Guinevere groaned again. “Oh, that kid, you can’t put nothing over on her.”
    “How old is she?” I realized she was big to be in a high chair.
    “Three and a half going on four.” As if she guessed the reason behind my question, Mrs. Guinevere said with no attemptto conceal anything from the child, “I want to keep her a baby. I’ll tell you, I’ve got it all figured out. In about another year or two, I’m going to have enough money put together to head for Hollywood, and Monina’s a cinch. Only she’s got to remain a kid. There’s not so many roles for kids five years old as there is for infants, you know, one year old and up. So I want her to stay young.” She raised her forearm and kissed the flesh above her wrist. “Oh, is it chafed. I got to get my watch fixed. Here, look at that.” And Mrs. Guinevere gave me her arm to examine. “Just touch it there. Gee, it’s sore.”
    I could see a faint red mark. I pressed it and trailed my fingers over her arm. “It’s very smooth,” I murmured.
    “Yeah, I got good skin.” Her eyes closed and she leaned back, a look of sentience upon her face.
    Abruptly, she whipped her arm away. “Oh, hell, I forgot.”
    “What?”
    “You ain’t supposed to tell anybody.”
    “Tell what?”
    “That Monina is three and a half. That’s a secret. You promise you won’t tell.”
    I shrugged. “Yes, I promise.”
    “Well, I guess you got something on me now.” Her painted mouth in its broad sensual curves grinned at me provocatively. “You could hurt my chances if you wanted to.”
    “Monina don’t want doatmeal,” the child said.
    “You shut up and eat it,” Guinevere screeched. “I’ll get the strap if you don’t.”
    But Monina had made her bid for attention and was temporarily content. She sighed like an old woman and applied the back of the spoon to her cheek.
    “You know I’ve missed opportunities with her. When I think of the money I could be making now.” Guinevere shook her head, and sipped her coffee. “You just can’t trust nobody. I’vehad promises galore, and where did it get me?” She extended her hand. “Let’s have a cigarette, Lovett.”
    We smoked in silence for a moment. “Why do you want her in Hollywood?” I asked.
    Guinevere’s bald blue eyes stared at me, and she said in a mysterious voice laden