him they had meant nothing. He read the letter from
the publisher with the same detachment. The book had sold well and they thought
that it might continue selling on into the fall although nobody could ever tell
about such things. Certainly, so far, it had received an extraordinarily fine
critical reception and the way would be open for his next book. It was a great
advantage that this was his second and not his first novel. It was tragic how
often first novels were the only good novels American writers had in them. But
this, his publisher went on, his second, validated all the promise his first had
shown. It was an unusual summer in New York, cold and wet. Oh Christ, David
thought, the hell with how it was in New York and the hell with that
thin-lipped bastard Coolidge fishing for trout in a high stiff collar in a fish
hatchery in the Black Hills we stole from the Sioux and the Cheyenne and bathtub-ginned-up
writers wondering if their baby does the Charleston. And the hell with the
promise he had validated. What promise to whom? To The Dial, to The Bookman, to
The New Republic? No, he had shown it. Let me show you my promise that I'm
going to validate it. What shit.
"Hello,
young man," said a voice. "What are you looking so indignant
about?"
"Hello,
Colonel," David said and felt suddenly happy. "What the hell are you
doing here?"
The
Colonel, who had deep blue eyes, sandy hair and a tanned face that looked as
though it had been carved out of flint by a tired sculptor who had broken his
chisel on it, picked up David's glass and tasted the marismeño.
"Bring
me a bottle of whatever this young man is drinking to that table," he said
to the bartender. "Bring a cold bottle. You don't need to ice it. Bring it
immediately."
"Yes
sir," said the bartender. "Very good sir."
"Come
along," the Colonel said to David, leading him to the table in the corner
of the room. "You're looking very well."
"So
are you."
Colonel
John Boyle was wearing a dark blue suit of a cloth that looked stiff but cool
and a blue shirt and black tie. "I'm always well," he said. "Do
you want a job?"
"No,"
said David.
"Just
like that. Don't even ask what it is," His voice sounded as though he had
hawked it up out of a dusty throat.
The
wine came and the waiter filled two glasses and put down saucers of the garlic
olives and of hazelnuts.
"No
anchovies?" the Colonel asked. "What sort of a fonda is this?"
The
bartender smiled and went for the anchovies.
"Excellent
wine," the Colonel said. "First rate. I always hoped your taste would
improve. Now why don't you want a job? You've just finished a book."
"I'm
on my honeymoon." "Silly expression," the Colonel said. "I
never liked it. It sounds sticky. Why didn't you say you've just been married?
It makes no difference. You'd be worthless in any event." 'What was the
job?" "No use talking about it now. Who did you marry? Anyone I
know?" "Catherine Hill." "Knew her father. Very odd type.
Killed himself in a car. His wife too."
"I
never knew them." "You never knew him?" "No."
"Strange. But perfectly understandable. He's no loss to you as a
father-in-law. The mother was very lonely they say. Stupid way for grown up
people to be killed. Where did you meet this girl?" "In Paris."
"She has a silly uncle who lives there. He's really worthless. Do you know
him?" "I've seen him at the races." "At Longchamps and
Auteuil. How could you help it?" "I didn't marry her family."
"Of course not. But you always do. Dead or alive." "Not the
uncles and aunts." "Well anyway, have fun. You know, I liked the
book. Has it done well?" "It's done pretty well." "It moved
me very deeply," the Colonel said. "You're a deceptive son of a
bitch."
"So
are you, John." "I hope so," the Colonel said. David saw
Catherine at the door and stood up. She came over to them and David said,
"This is Colonel Boyle." "How do you do, my dear?"
Catherine
looked at him and smiled and
the publisher with the same detachment. The book had sold well and they thought
that it might continue selling on into the fall although nobody could ever tell
about such things. Certainly, so far, it had received an extraordinarily fine
critical reception and the way would be open for his next book. It was a great
advantage that this was his second and not his first novel. It was tragic how
often first novels were the only good novels American writers had in them. But
this, his publisher went on, his second, validated all the promise his first had
shown. It was an unusual summer in New York, cold and wet. Oh Christ, David
thought, the hell with how it was in New York and the hell with that
thin-lipped bastard Coolidge fishing for trout in a high stiff collar in a fish
hatchery in the Black Hills we stole from the Sioux and the Cheyenne and bathtub-ginned-up
writers wondering if their baby does the Charleston. And the hell with the
promise he had validated. What promise to whom? To The Dial, to The Bookman, to
The New Republic? No, he had shown it. Let me show you my promise that I'm
going to validate it. What shit.
"Hello,
young man," said a voice. "What are you looking so indignant
about?"
"Hello,
Colonel," David said and felt suddenly happy. "What the hell are you
doing here?"
The
Colonel, who had deep blue eyes, sandy hair and a tanned face that looked as
though it had been carved out of flint by a tired sculptor who had broken his
chisel on it, picked up David's glass and tasted the marismeño.
"Bring
me a bottle of whatever this young man is drinking to that table," he said
to the bartender. "Bring a cold bottle. You don't need to ice it. Bring it
immediately."
"Yes
sir," said the bartender. "Very good sir."
"Come
along," the Colonel said to David, leading him to the table in the corner
of the room. "You're looking very well."
"So
are you."
Colonel
John Boyle was wearing a dark blue suit of a cloth that looked stiff but cool
and a blue shirt and black tie. "I'm always well," he said. "Do
you want a job?"
"No,"
said David.
"Just
like that. Don't even ask what it is," His voice sounded as though he had
hawked it up out of a dusty throat.
The
wine came and the waiter filled two glasses and put down saucers of the garlic
olives and of hazelnuts.
"No
anchovies?" the Colonel asked. "What sort of a fonda is this?"
The
bartender smiled and went for the anchovies.
"Excellent
wine," the Colonel said. "First rate. I always hoped your taste would
improve. Now why don't you want a job? You've just finished a book."
"I'm
on my honeymoon." "Silly expression," the Colonel said. "I
never liked it. It sounds sticky. Why didn't you say you've just been married?
It makes no difference. You'd be worthless in any event." 'What was the
job?" "No use talking about it now. Who did you marry? Anyone I
know?" "Catherine Hill." "Knew her father. Very odd type.
Killed himself in a car. His wife too."
"I
never knew them." "You never knew him?" "No."
"Strange. But perfectly understandable. He's no loss to you as a
father-in-law. The mother was very lonely they say. Stupid way for grown up
people to be killed. Where did you meet this girl?" "In Paris."
"She has a silly uncle who lives there. He's really worthless. Do you know
him?" "I've seen him at the races." "At Longchamps and
Auteuil. How could you help it?" "I didn't marry her family."
"Of course not. But you always do. Dead or alive." "Not the
uncles and aunts." "Well anyway, have fun. You know, I liked the
book. Has it done well?" "It's done pretty well." "It moved
me very deeply," the Colonel said. "You're a deceptive son of a
bitch."
"So
are you, John." "I hope so," the Colonel said. David saw
Catherine at the door and stood up. She came over to them and David said,
"This is Colonel Boyle." "How do you do, my dear?"
Catherine
looked at him and smiled and
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