The Dud Avocado - Elaine Dundy [106]
“What’s on your mind, Gorce?”
“Well, I don’t know how to say it exactly. It’s so embarrassing. It’s just.… What I mean is, well … why didn’t you make love to me that night?”
He might have been able to control his stiffening, but he couldn’t control his relief. His hand went limp in mine.
“Did it mean a lot to you?” he asked softly.
“More than anything in the world.”
“I’m sorry, darling. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to, you know that. I must have had a million things on my mind. We can change all that if you like.”
“I would,” I said, “I would very much.” Was he dumber than I thought or what?
“What are your plans for the rest of the summer?” he was asking me.
“I’ll go back to Paris, I guess.”
“Don’t go. Stay with me. We’ve got the house for the rest of the season and the Citroen doesn’t have to be sold till the end of summer.”
“Golly, that sounds wonderful!” I said. “Let me think about it. Let’s go swimming.” I had to get away from him quickly before he read my mind.
The rest of the day was anguish. I still don’t know how I lived through it—one minute emptying my mind to the point of blankness, and the next finding it reeling crazily about as old pieces of evidence fell freshly into place. Did he know I knew? How much did he know I knew? What did he know I knew? The worst of it was that part of me was still in love with him. Part of me refused to die; still hoped there was some simple, uncomplicated explanation that would clear up everything, like in movies.…
I had to get away, that was all. But how? First I thought I’d confront him and then pack my bags. Then I thought no, better the other way around. Then I thought, forget the whole thing and just slip off. When? How? He never let me out of his sight. He was wooing me. We went to some terribly famous restaurant for dinner, the Auberge de Something-or-other, and I might just as well have been chewing on a mess of wet sponges.
He drove back to the villa with his arm around me. I had some crazy idea of expiating my blockheadedness once and for all by “going through with it.” It would teach me the lesson of my lifetime. And then I found I just couldn’t.
“I’m so sleepy,” I said, when we got into the living room. “I’m so tired, I could drop.”
He put his arm around me and helped me upstairs. He led me to my bedroom door. His lips brushed my forehead and at their warm soft touch I almost flung myself in his arms. He held me by the shoulders. “I’m tired too,” he said. “We’ll start out fresh in the morning.” His green eyes looked into mine for the last time.
Later on, from my balcony window, as in a nightmare premonition, I stood and watched the grisly tableaux unfold: Lila in the moonlight, a breadknife gleaming in her hand; Larry quietly, systematically beating her up. When she was quite unconscious, he picked up her body and carried her off. I heard the engine of the Citroen start up.
I put on my dress and walked to the station. It took me three hours, but the man said I was in time for the morning train. Before I got on it I telephoned the villa.
“Where are you?” said Larry. “I’ve been going crazy with worry.”
“I’m just getting on the train,” I said. “I wanted to tell you that I know you stole my passport in my hotel room on Opening Night. I’m going to report it when I get back to Paris.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” the voice replied. “It’ll only get you in trouble, because I’ll say you sold it to me.”
TWO
I ARRIVED IN PARIS late that night and went directly to my old hotel in Montparnasse and washed. Then I went over to the Select. Most of the Hard Core were away for the summer. There were only a few stragglers left over at the table. I knew them hardly at all, but I joined them anyway. We had a few drinks and started off on the rounds when I realized I just couldn’t go on. It was a ride you could take only once. The streets and I looked at each other. “You again!” we jeered. They were too full of memories. Larry was right. What was