water-colours I guessed were hers.
Against the wall was a massive radiogram, and by it a cabinet full of records.
“Is this place yours?” I asked, looking round.
“Oh, yes, but I don’t come here often. I don’t get the chance. When I’m not here I rent it to
a girl friend who writes novels. She’s in New York right now, but she’ll be back in a couple
of weeks.”
“And where will you be?”
“Anywhere. I might be in China, for all I know.”
That was a disturbing thought.
“But you’re here for a couple of weeks?”
“Possibly three.”
She loaded the record holder, putting on Beethoven’s Ninth and the Eroica.
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She sat on the settee away from the radiogram and I sat in an armchair near the open
casement windows where I could see the beach.
She was right about the choral in the Ninth. It did make my hair stand on end. When the
Eroica came to an end she loaded the record holder with a symphony by Mendelssohn and
another by Schubert, saying she wanted me to hear the differences in their technique.
It was getting on for seven o’clock by the time we were through playing records, and that
still gave me five more hours before midnight.
“You wouldn’t care to go some place for dinner?” I asked. “Nowhere very grand. I don’t
want to go back and change. But maybe you’ve a date, or something.”
I waited for her to turn me down, but she didn’t.
“Have you been to Raul’s yet?”
“No. Where’s that?”
“Oh, it’s part of your education to go to Raul’s. It’s on the waterfront. Let’s go. It’s fun.”
We went to Raul’s in her Lincoln convertible. It was a small Greek restaurant full of lighted
fish tanks set in the walls, plush seats and gilt-framed mirrors.
Raul himself, a fat, cheerful Greek, waited on us. He said he knew just what we’d like. He
didn’t consult us, and started us with bean soup, then turtle steaks and young asparagus
shoots and baked guava duff to follow.
While we ate, we talked. Don’t ask me what we talked about. All I can remember was she
was the easiest person in the world to talk to, and there wasn’t one moment’s silence during
the whole meal.
We went on the verandah, overlooking the waterfront, and had coffee and brandy, and
talked some more. By the time we had finished the coffee I was calling her Ginny and she
was calling me Johnny. It seemed like we had known each other for years.
Later we walked along the waterfront and watched the fishing-boats going out for a night’s
fishing. She told me she had gone out in one of them the last time she was in Lincoln Beach.
“You must go, Johnny,” she said. “Out beyond the bar the water is phosphorous. It’s like
sailing through a sea of fire. And the fish are phosphorous, too, and when they pull in the
nets, it’s marvellous. Let’s go, Johnny, one night. It’ll be fun, and you’ll love it.”
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“Why, sure,” I said. “We will. Maybe you can …” I broke off as a street clock not far away
started to chime, and I stood still, counting the chimes, and each stroke was like a bang under
the heart with a mail-clad fist.
Ten … eleven … twelve.
“What’s the matter, Johnny?” she asked, looking at me.
“Nothing. I’ve got to get back. I’ve just remembered a very important date …” That was as
far as I could get. It came to me like a punch in the face that for the past eight hours I’d been
