performance, then nothing need be lost. Nothing! He looked up suddenly.
Molly was peering at him across an empty basket where the biscuits had been. An empty teacup was there, an empty pot of honey, and a little plate half full of butter.
She took a napkin from the chair next to her and wiped her hands very deliberately.
*Shall we start?
Mr. Gibbons nodded.
THE DOOR OPENED BEFORE WILLIAM AND WHO DO YOU SUPPOSE WAS THERE?
A young woman, in a nightgown. The straps were falling down, but it did not seem to concern her. And from farther in, a voice came.
—Who is it?
—It’s a man, maybe thirty, thirty-five? Thin. In an old coat, hasn’t shaved. Widow’s peak.
—That’s Drysdale.
—Is that him, really?
—Yeah, tell him to come in.
—Tell him yourself.
The young woman turned and walked away from the door. Gerard came down from the floor above. He appeared relieved. One could tell this because he removed a handkerchief from his right pocket, folded it, and returned it again.
—William, he said. You came.
—Did you think I wouldn’t?
—Well, you know. At first we thought you and Molly were taken along with Louisa, but then someone said they saw you at the park in the lake district. That’s where you live?
—That’s where we live.
—Well, come in. Come in.
In the next room, perhaps twenty people were sitting around, drinking what looked like wine out of wineglasses. They were the sort of people William & Louisa used to be in the habit of knowing, a crowd of elegant furniture, like the legs of a herd of gazelle taken together, and equally useless, when all things are considered.
—Is that wine? asked William.
—We have our small pleasures, and we have gotten away with it so far. A glass?
—I haven’t had wine in so long. I, well, yes, thank you.
William accepted the glass. The man closest to him turned and stuck out his hand.
—James Goldman. You’re William Drysdale, I heard Gerard say so a moment ago.
—That’s right.
—A pity about the music. I was a violinist, too, actually, amateur, nothing like you, but I, well, I was a musician, too, and I suppose it’s the same isn’t it, for us both, not playing?
—I try not to think of it.
William’s expression was pained.
—Of course, the man continued, it’s not the same. I don’t mean it that way, I guess, I, I just mean, it’s hard to not play, damned hard.
—It is that, said William. It is that.
THE WAILING OF A SIREN, THEN
between the houses and along the streets. It brought a harsh electricity into William’s stiffness. Was no one else worried?
He leaned towards the man next to him.
—Do you often go out past the curfew?
The man laughed.
—Of course not. I actually have never done it.
Another man, very young, was refilling people’s glasses with a newly uncorked bottle of wine. He had a very thin moustache and wispy hair.
—We stay the night, always, always. There are positively rooms full of beds, wouldn’t you know.
He went off through the room, extending his bottle and giggling.
—Out after curfew indeed. You’d be a madman!
—That’s Salien, he’s a tremendous talent in vaudeville. In secret, of course. But really …
The man touched William’s sleeve.
—… I hope you’re not intending to try to make it home. They’ve been doubling and redoubling. Far too dangerous. Go home in the morning. You’re not a fool.
The woman next to James Goldman spoke up.
—Did you see the fire on the way?
There was a peculiar mood in the room—an enforced jollity. Everything must be tinged with a disdainful humor and accompanied by slight laughter. William disliked the whole thing.
—A fire? said a bald man standing by the window. Did you set it?
—Me, don’t be ridiculous, Sean.
—Well, you’re introducing the subject. There must be a reason for it.
—They’re always fighting, James explained.
—I saw the fire, said William. I think the building burned to the ground.
—A victory, said
Molly was peering at him across an empty basket where the biscuits had been. An empty teacup was there, an empty pot of honey, and a little plate half full of butter.
She took a napkin from the chair next to her and wiped her hands very deliberately.
*Shall we start?
Mr. Gibbons nodded.
THE DOOR OPENED BEFORE WILLIAM AND WHO DO YOU SUPPOSE WAS THERE?
A young woman, in a nightgown. The straps were falling down, but it did not seem to concern her. And from farther in, a voice came.
—Who is it?
—It’s a man, maybe thirty, thirty-five? Thin. In an old coat, hasn’t shaved. Widow’s peak.
—That’s Drysdale.
—Is that him, really?
—Yeah, tell him to come in.
—Tell him yourself.
The young woman turned and walked away from the door. Gerard came down from the floor above. He appeared relieved. One could tell this because he removed a handkerchief from his right pocket, folded it, and returned it again.
—William, he said. You came.
—Did you think I wouldn’t?
—Well, you know. At first we thought you and Molly were taken along with Louisa, but then someone said they saw you at the park in the lake district. That’s where you live?
—That’s where we live.
—Well, come in. Come in.
In the next room, perhaps twenty people were sitting around, drinking what looked like wine out of wineglasses. They were the sort of people William & Louisa used to be in the habit of knowing, a crowd of elegant furniture, like the legs of a herd of gazelle taken together, and equally useless, when all things are considered.
—Is that wine? asked William.
—We have our small pleasures, and we have gotten away with it so far. A glass?
—I haven’t had wine in so long. I, well, yes, thank you.
William accepted the glass. The man closest to him turned and stuck out his hand.
—James Goldman. You’re William Drysdale, I heard Gerard say so a moment ago.
—That’s right.
—A pity about the music. I was a violinist, too, actually, amateur, nothing like you, but I, well, I was a musician, too, and I suppose it’s the same isn’t it, for us both, not playing?
—I try not to think of it.
William’s expression was pained.
—Of course, the man continued, it’s not the same. I don’t mean it that way, I guess, I, I just mean, it’s hard to not play, damned hard.
—It is that, said William. It is that.
THE WAILING OF A SIREN, THEN
between the houses and along the streets. It brought a harsh electricity into William’s stiffness. Was no one else worried?
He leaned towards the man next to him.
—Do you often go out past the curfew?
The man laughed.
—Of course not. I actually have never done it.
Another man, very young, was refilling people’s glasses with a newly uncorked bottle of wine. He had a very thin moustache and wispy hair.
—We stay the night, always, always. There are positively rooms full of beds, wouldn’t you know.
He went off through the room, extending his bottle and giggling.
—Out after curfew indeed. You’d be a madman!
—That’s Salien, he’s a tremendous talent in vaudeville. In secret, of course. But really …
The man touched William’s sleeve.
—… I hope you’re not intending to try to make it home. They’ve been doubling and redoubling. Far too dangerous. Go home in the morning. You’re not a fool.
The woman next to James Goldman spoke up.
—Did you see the fire on the way?
There was a peculiar mood in the room—an enforced jollity. Everything must be tinged with a disdainful humor and accompanied by slight laughter. William disliked the whole thing.
—A fire? said a bald man standing by the window. Did you set it?
—Me, don’t be ridiculous, Sean.
—Well, you’re introducing the subject. There must be a reason for it.
—They’re always fighting, James explained.
—I saw the fire, said William. I think the building burned to the ground.
—A victory, said
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