Wilde West by Walter Satterthwait Page A

isn’t merely a matter of shopkeepers and tradesmen. There is, thank goodness, an entirely separate universe. Of Beauty. Of Truth. Of Compassion and Nobility.”
    â€œYeah, well, first of all, this ain’t Europe. And second, I notice you generally got a pretty good idea, every night, what the receipts are gonna be. Down to the penny. You count the house pretty good for a poet.”
    â€œPoetry,” Oscar announced, “is by no means incompatible with arithmetic. Look at the ancient Greeks.”
    â€œJeez,” said Vail, “that’s all we need, the ancient Greeks again.”
    Oscar stared at him. “And what does that mean?”
    Vail shook his head, waved his hand. “Nothing, nothing.”
    â€œAre we back to young Mr. Ruddick now?”
    â€œI didn’t say a word about the fella.”
    â€œI know your feelings on the subject.”
    â€œLook, all I said was that maybe he was a bit on the lavender side. I didn’t mean nothing personal.”
    â€œMr. Ruddick is an extremely sensitive young man. He shows great promise as a poet.”
    â€œRight. Right. He’s swell. You want him along on the tour, he comes along. I’m flexible, right? I can compromise. So how come you can’t? Oscar boy, for your own good, you got to forget about seeing this chippy tomorrow.”
    â€œPermit me to determine where my own good lies. I was invited. I am going.”
    Sadly, Vail shook his head. “She’s poison, Oscar. I’m telling you.”
    â€œPerhaps, but the fact is, I’m not having her for breakfast.”
    Vail frowned glumly. “Yeah, well. We’ll see about that.”
    And they had sat in silence, the light from the streetlamps ticking slowly over them, until they returned to the hotel.
    Now, sitting in his room, Oscar blew another stream of smoke at the slab of sunlight.
    Poor Vail. Impossible, of course, for him to comprehend how two souls might come together in a companionship that was spiritual, literary, Platonic.
    The poor man would never understand that each soul possessed, as it were, its own distinctive vibration. That when a particular soul—through one of those lovely tricks of frivolous Fate—came upon another which vibrated at the same frequency, it began at once to hum. Like two tuning forks of identical pitch—which need never actually physically touch each other—the two souls beautifully resonated in sympathy.
    So it had happened with himself and Elizabeth McCourt Doe.
    Oh, no question that the woman was attractive. Yes, that lavish titian hair, those uncanny violet eyes, those wide red lips, those firm full breasts, that unsullied skin, that long lithe body so exquisitely and extravagantly sensual …
    No question at all.
    But of course it was not this which fascinated him. Well—he smiled—to be entirely honest, it was not this only.
    No, far more than her undeniable physical beauty, it was the beauty of her soul, incandescent behind those uncanny violet eyes, that drew him irresistibly to her. It was her soul’s obvious compatibility and harmony with his own that drew the two of them irresistibly toward each other.
    Poor Vail. A decent enough chap. Good hearted even if mercantile. But of course the union of two pure souls was something he could never fathom.
    From the closet Henry came carrying the boots, the socks, the black trousers, and a pair of black silk undershorts patterned with grey fleurs-de-lis. He set the boots on the floor and arranged the rest on the bed beside the other clothing. “Anything else, Mistuh Oscar?”
    Oscar blew another cone of smoke. “Could you hire up a carriage and have it waiting outside in, say, forty-five minutes?”
    Henry nodded his white-haired head.
    â€œAnd could you tell Mr. Ruddick that I won’t be joining him this morning for breakfast?”
    â€œMistuh Ruddick,” Henry said, “he already left. He say he goin’