Nothing That Meets the Eye by Patricia Highsmith Page B

her image between the casements was the end of a vigil that had begun really when he had stood here the night before, watching her disappear, having nothing but the promise that she would return. He slipped off the stool and walked across the soft rug toward her.
    She held her head higher than she had last evening. A green and brown dress brightened her, and made her less tall and thin, though she was almost as tall as he.
    â€œI’ve a table over here,” he said, in his intensity forgetting to greet her.
    He led her to the table he had elected during his wait at the bar, where two glasses of brandy, ordered long before as a kind of bet with himself that she would come, stood ready for them. As he seated her carefully, Hildebrandt felt that the miracle of this second meeting made the air quake and shimmer, as though a gloriole were painted about their table. He felt he would babble nonsense unless he was cautious. It might have been for this moment the Pandora Room had been created.
    â€œI have so much to tell you,” he began in a burst, for though he had forgot in detail what she looked like, he felt their acquaintance had progressed and only conversation lagged. He had felt for the first time, since last night, that his life had a focus, which was she. He looked at her, his eyes misty with happiness, and suddenly, though she seemed ready to listen, he was afraid to tell her all he felt. He was afraid of exposing himself. It occurred to him she had encountered such men as him before, had evaluated and was already bored by their futile, hardly varying stories. She had suddenly seemed disturbingly intelligent, and though intelligence was what he had wanted, he could not speak.
    â€œYou might begin.”
    â€œOh, can’t you tell me something about yourself first? You might at least tell me what your name is now. Where you live. Or even just what you are thinking about.” He felt more like himself now, and he slipped his cuffs out to the garnet links.
    â€œI don’t live here. My home’s in San Francisco.”
    â€œSan Francisco!” Hildebrandt exclaimed, seizing the fact like a nail to fix her to some background, yet almost at the same time he realized he did not want to know about San Francisco. “How long are you staying here?”
    â€œJust a short while. As short as possible.”
    â€œThen what luck you happened to wander in here!”
    â€œIs it?”
    She was looking down at the tablecloth, running her thumbnail in it as though thinking of something else. It struck Hildebrandt that she regretted having met him here tonight, and the thought kept him silent as he watched her taste her brandy.
    She turned to him and set down the half-empty glass. “I’m sorry. You like to linger over your brandies, don’t you?”
    â€œOh, not at all!” Hildebrandt smiled.
    â€œLike a gentleman—the gentleman-at-the-bar.”
    Hildebrandt’s drooping lids quivered a little. He had needed to tell her nothing. She knew. He saw himself perhaps a month from now, perhaps tomorrow evening, slumped on one of the high stools. No, not this bar, however. Some other, at least. But he lifted his head and smiled. “Shouldn’t you like dinner?”
    In a voice so gentle it hardly seemed an interruption, rather the quiet entrance of an idea, she asked, smiling, “Tell me, aren’t you married?”
    Hildebrandt leaned back with a feint of surprise. “What prompts you to ask that?”
    â€œDon’t you have a wife? Or didn’t you?”
    He put out his cigarette and slowly lighted another. “Yes, I was married once. Years ago. It’s funny you should ask that out of the blue. I’ve been divorced—going on eleven years.”
    â€œBut it lingers. Doesn’t it?”
    â€œYou seem to think so. Though my marriage didn’t.” There began stirring in him the desire to tell the story of his life, a desire so strong it