The Marriage Plot - Jeffrey Eugenides [112]
I found a really nice little writing desk at an antique store in Vero and am having them put it in the guest bedroom here, so it will be ready for you when you visit. With all the experiences you’ve been having on your trip, you might want to
That was as far as Mitchell got before the person behind him tapped him on the shoulder. It was a woman, older than he was, in her thirties.
“There’s a teller free,” she said.
Mitchell thanked her. Putting Lillian’s letter back into its envelope, he proceeded to the open window. As he was countersigning his traveler’s checks, the next window became free and the woman who’d been in line behind him went up to it. She smiled at Mitchell, and he smiled back. When the teller had counted out his drachmas, Mitchell returned to look for Larry.
Not seeing him, he sat down in a lobby chair and pulled out Madeleine’s letter again. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to read it. For the past week, ever since the night in Venice, when he’d got so incredibly drunk, Mitchell had been recovering his emotional equilibrium. That was to say, he now thought about Madeleine two or three times a day rather than ten or fifteen. Time and distance were doing their work. The letter, however, threatened to undo this in a few moments. In a world of IBM Selectrics and sleek Olivettis, Madeleine had insisted on typing her papers on a vintage machine, so that her typescripts came out looking like something in an archive. That Madeleine was in love with old-fashioned things like her typewriter had given Mitchell hope that she might love him. Coupled with Madeleine’s fidelity to the old machine was her ineptitude with all things mechanical, which explained why she hadn’t changed the ribbon, leaving the a and s inkless (because those keys were worn down from overuse). Obviously, for all his scientific brilliance, Bankhead wasn’t up to the job of replacing Madeleine’s typewriter ribbon. Obviously, Bankhead was too self-involved, or lazy, or possibly even opposed to her using a manual typewriter. Madeleine’s letter made it clear that Bankhead was wrong for her and that Mitchell was right, and he hadn’t even opened it yet.
Mitchell knew what he should do. If he was serious about maintaining his equilibrium, about detaching himself from earthly things, then he should take the letter across the lobby to the trash can and pitch it in. That was what he should do.
Instead, he put the letter in his knapsack, way down in the inside pocket, where he wouldn’t have to think about it.
When he looked up again he saw the woman from the line approaching. She had long, lank blond hair, high cheekbones, and narrow eyes. She wore no makeup and her clothes were odd. Under a baggy T-shirt she wore a long skirt that came down to her ankles. She was wearing running shoes.
“First time in Greece?” she asked, smiling excessively, like a salesperson.
“Yes.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Just three days.”
“I’ve been here three months. Most people come here to see the Acropolis. And that’s beautiful. It is. The antiquities are really something. But what gets me is all the history. I don’t mean the ancient history. I mean the Christian history. So much happened here! Where do you think the Thessalonians were? Or the Corinthians? The apostle John wrote Revelation on the island of Patmos. It just goes on and on. The gospel was revealed in the Holy Land, but Greece is where evangelism began. What brings you here?”
“I’m Greek,” Mitchell said. “This is where I began.”
The woman laughed. “Are you saving that seat for someone?”
“I’m waiting for my friend,” Mitchell said.
“I’ll just sit a minute,” the woman said. “If your friend comes, I’ll go.”
“That’s O.K.,” Mitchell said. “We’re leaving in a minute.”
He thought that had ended it. The woman sat down and began going through her shoulder bag, looking