Barbary Shore by Norman Mailer Page B

says you’re good-looking.” Guinevere laughed. “You know, you ain’t bad, Lovett.” Now, both the child and the mother were looking at me. I was hardly comfortable, and Monina, who had seemed somewhat retarded to me with her baby talk, had created a presence far larger than herself. “When does she take her nap?” I asked.
    “Oh, that kid don’t nap. You never saw anything like her. She keeps the same hours I do. I swear she don’t go to bed half the time till midnight.” Guinevere swigged the root beer, and handed it to Monina who parodied her mother, throwing back her tiny blonde head and tilting the bottle. She did not hold it against her mouth however, and a considerable quantity splashed upon her chin, dribbled down the undershirt, and trickled to the floor. “You slob,” her mother shrieked.
    Monina giggled. “Ditter Luft doodooking,” she said again.
    “Why don’t we go into the other room?” I suggested. “And Monina can play in the bedroom. You want to play in the bedroom, don’t you, Monina?”
    “Nooo.”
    “She follows me everywhere,” Guinevere said. “Moninacan’t be without me.” She yawned. “All right, come on, we’ll all go in the living room.” But “living room” was apparently more than just a word and her manner became haughty again. With a ridiculous gesture, Guinevere pointed to the ashtray, and said, “You can take that with you if you wish, Mr. Lovett,” implying by the action a cornucopia of servants, brandy, and cigars.
    Actually, to my surprise, her living room was not in execrable taste. The furniture was modest, but she had achieved some decent effects. A mattress and spring on legs was covered by a dark green spread and served as a couch. There were several old armchairs with new print materials, and a dull tan rug was set against tomato-colored drapes. There were more mirrors than she needed upon the wall, the lamps were shabby, and needless gewgaws were clustered upon every end table, but altogether one could notice a certain unity. Yet, like people who build a house when at heart they desire a monument, I had the impression that she was seldom here.
    She paced about uneasily before settling in one of the chairs. “This is a nice room,” I told her.
    “Yeah, I like it; I worked hard on it,” Guinevere said dispiritedly. “If I had more money I could do something with these things.” Then she lapsed into silence, unaccountably depressed, her eyes staring at the carpet. “Boy, the work I put into this,” she muttered. Her hand fretted into the money pocket of her shorts and turned it inside out. “But does he appreciate this? No.” She leaned back, her breasts lolling heavily in the halter, her fingers pinching a rope of flesh about her waist.
    She lay there dormant, but her restlessness was conveyed to the child who pranced about the room. I watched Monina. She halted before a mirror and preened her body, kissing her wrist with the absorbed self-admiration she had seen in her mother. “Dashtray,” I heard her whisper. “Dake dashtray.” Her little arms fluttered, her head nodded politely, and she extended aninvitation in pantomime, glowing with satisfied laughter at the portrait of herself in the mirror. She pirouetted away to stand in contemplation before a set of china knickknacks upon a table. Selecting a tiny bowl of cheap porcelain, she stared at the decoration painted about the rim. “Mommie, Monina, Mommie, Monina,” she said aloud. A smile set upon her face, she approached me, and repeated the same formula, holding the bowl before my eyes and pointing to the cupids painted upon it.
    Guinevere stirred heavily in the armchair. “Put it down, Monina,” she shouted at the child. But the command was too ambiguous. What was meaning and what was sound?
    Monina smashed the bowl upon the floor.
    “Oh, you little bitch,” Guinevere shouted. “Go to the bedroom.”
    “No,” Monina screamed.
    “Stand in the corner.”
    “No!”
    Guinevere