She said nothing.
‘Sure,’ he talked to himself. ‘Pretty as hell,’ he murmured, under the flow of tap water. He rinsed his mouth. ‘Sure,’ he said.
Nothing from her in the bed.
‘Women are funny,’ he said to himself in the mirror.
She lay in the bed.
‘Sure,’ he said. He gargled with some antiseptic, spat it down the drain. ‘You’ll be all right in the morning,’ he said.
Not a word from her.
‘We’ll get the car fixed.’
She didn’t say anything.
‘Be morning before you know it.’ He was screwing caps on things now, putting freshener on his face. ‘And the car fixed tomorrow, maybe, at the very latest the next day. You won’t mind another night here, will you?’
She didn’t answer.
‘Will you?’ he asked.
No reply.
The light blinked out under the bathroom door.
‘Marie?’
He opened the door.
‘Asleep?’
She lay with eyes wide, breasts moving up and down.
‘Asleep,’ he said. ‘Well, good night, lady.’
He climbed into his bed. ‘Tired,’ he said.
No reply.
‘Tired,’ he said.
The wind tossed the lights outside; the room was oblong and black and he was in his bed dozing already.
She lay, eyes wide, the watch ticking on her wrist, breasts moving up and down.
It was a fine day coming through the Tropic of Cancer. The automobile pushed along the turning road leaving the jungle country behind, heading for the United States, roaring between the green hills, taking every turn, leaving behind a faint vanishing trail of exhaust smoke.
And inside the shiny automobile sat Joseph with his pink, healthy face and his Panama hat, and a little camera cradled on his lap as he drove; a swathe of black silk pinned around the left upper arm of his tan coat.
He watched the country slide by and absent-mindedly made a gesture to the seat beside him, and stopped.
He broke into a little sheepish smile and turned once more to the window of his car, humming a little tuneless tune, his right hand reaching over and touching the seat beside him. . .
Which was empty.
1947
The End
