Page 139 - tender-is-the-night

‘Selling papers.’
The contrast between the formidable manner and the
mild profession was absurd—but the man amended it with:
‘Don’t worry; I made plenty money last year—ten or
twenty francs for a Sunny Times that cost six.’
He produced a newspaper clipping from a rusty wallet
and passed it over to one who had become a fellow stroller—
the cartoon showed a stream of Americans pouring from
the gangplank of a liner freighted with gold.
‘Two hundred thousand—spending ten million a sum-
mer.’
‘What you doing out here in Passy?’
His companion looked around cautiously. ‘Movies,’ he
said darkly. ‘They got an American studio over there. And
they need guys can speak English. I’m waiting for a break.’
Dick shook him off quickly and firmly.
It had become apparent that Rosemary either had es-
caped on one of his early circuits of the block or else had
left before he came into the neighborhood; he went into the
bistro on the corner, bought a lead disk and, squeezed in an
alcove between the kitchen and the foul toilet, he called the
Roi George. He recognized Cheyne-Stokes tendencies in his
respiration—but like everything the symptom served only
to turn him in toward his emotion. He gave the number of
the hotel; then stood holding the phone and staring into the
café; after a long while a strange little voice said hello.
‘This is Dick—I had to call you.’
A pause from her—then bravely, and in key with his
emotion: ‘I’m glad you did.’

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