Found in the Street by Patricia Highsmith Page B

the people in and see what they think.—Or don’t you like that?” Joel’s plump face beamed as if it were publication day.
    Jack hesitated, not liking the idea. “But this is my private room, Joel!” he said with a laugh.
    Joel’s face fell like a disappointed child’s. “I love the old grampa—looking like Jehovah or something. And his son—groveling.” Joel pointed, smiling again, at the diminutive figure of the middle-aged husband Caspar, crawling on the floor toward his somnolent but dominant father-figure. “And the sex scenes—well—” Joel seemed at a loss for words of praise.
    Jack jerked his head. “Let’s go back.”
    As soon as he entered the big living-room where more people were standing than sitting, Jack’s eye fell on Louis’ tall figure in his dark blue summer suit, white shirt, the terribly chic blue bowtie, as Louis handed a small object in white tissue paper to Natalia. She opened it. They were both standing by a front window. Jack saw Natalia’s lips part in pleased surprise, and she held up what looked like a silver chain of some heaviness with a red pendant stone.
    â€œJack, where’s your drink?” asked Isabel Katz, looking at him with eyes whose upper lids were of a more intense pale blue than some in Jack’s drawings. “Mine’s fresh. I was going to toast Natalia’s health. Just us.”
    Isabel’s made-up face was in contrast to Natalia’s, because Natalia had been doing something till the last minute, making the guacamole dip or simply shifting on her feet in feigned panic at the thought of “a party”, and hadn’t put even lipstick on before the first ring at the door. Isabel was smallish, slender, with dark hair done in a bun in back. She was at least forty-five, and needed some make-up, but underneath, as they said, she was not the made-up type. Isabel Katz was all art, not even business art or the kind that made money, just art. Isabel painted too, but was modest about her work. And what did she think of his stuff, his talent, Jack wondered, if she bothered to think about it? “I’m on white wine,” Jack said. “I’ll get some.” He did, and lifted his glass.
    Isabel raised her scotch and water. “To Natalia.”
    â€œTo her,” Jack said, and drank.
    â€œCanapés,” said a small figure suddenly beside and below them. Amelia held a plate of little hot sausages, each stuck with a toothpick. Amelia was diligent at parties, passing things around slowly and steadily, non-stop. “Ple-ease, Daddy.”
    Isabel didn’t want any, and Jack took one to please his daughter. Amelia moved off to the sofa crowd.
    â€œYou look pale,” Isabel said.
    â€œPale?” Jack was surprised.
    â€œIn the last seconds.—You feel all right, Jack?”
    â€œSure I do.”
    â€œNatalia’s looking well, don’t you think so? She looks happier—this last year.”
    Jack was pleased by this comment. “You should know. I hope so.’’ Natalia was now working five or six hours a day, five days a week, at Isabel’s gallery.
    â€œWho’s the girl with the long dark hair?” Isabel asked.
    â€œOh. Sylvia—Kinnock. Old friend of Natalia’s. School friend, I think. Don’t you remember, a couple of years ago, Natalia went away—well, to Europe—with Sylvia for a few months. I thought you knew her.’’
    â€œN-no. I remember when Natalia was away in Europe.—The girl’s got a wild face. Interesting,” Isabel said with a smile.
    Jack looked at Sylvia with new eyes. There was something gypsy-like about her face or her manner, though Jack remembered Natalia saying her family was Catholic and rather strict. Sylvia was Natalia’s age, unmarried, and had a job that made her travel a lot, some kind of public relations. Odd that Isabel hadn’t met Sylvia