The Loo Sanction

'I suppose.'

'Maybe that's why both countries produce so many competent grand prix drivers. They get practice on public roads.'

'But you don't like to drive fast?'

'I don't need it.'

She smiled. 'Good.' The vowel was drawn out and had an Irish curl.

'...Philosophy of life?' he asked, smiling to himself at the idea. 'No, I've never had one. When I was a kid, we were too poor to afford them, and later on they had gone out of fashion.'

'No, now, don't send me up. I know the words sound pompous, but everyone has some kind of philosophy of life—some way of sorting out the good things from the bad... or the potentially dangerous.'

'Perhaps. The closest I've come to that is my rigid adherence to the principle of leave-a-little.'

'Leave a little what?'

'Leave-a-little everything. Leave a party before it becomes dull. Leave a meal before you're cloyed. Leave a city before you feel that you know it.'

'And I suppose that includes human relationships?'

'Most especially human relationships. Get out while they're still on the upswing. Leave before they become predictable or, what is worse, meaningful. Be willing to lose a few events to protect the memory.'

'I think that's a terrible philosophy.'

'I'm sorry. It's the only one I've got'

'It's a coward's philosophy.'

'It's a survivor's philosophy. Shall we have the cheese board?'

He half stood in greeting as she returned to the table. 'A last brandy?' he asked.

'Yes, please.' She was pensive for a second. 'You know, it just now occurred to me that one might make a useful barometer of national traits by studying national toilet tissues.'

'Toilet tissues?'

'Yes. Has that ever occurred to you?'

'Ah... no. Never.'

'Well, for instance. I was just noticing that some English papers are medicated. You'd never find that in Ireland.'

'The English are a careful race.'

'I suppose. But I've heard that American papers are soft and scented and are advertised on telly by being caressed and squeezed—right along with adverts for suppository preparations and foods that are finger-licking good: That says something about decadence and soft living in a nation with affluence beyond its inner resources, doesn't it?'

'What do you make of the waxed paper the French are devoted to?'

'I don't know. More interest in speed and flourish than efficiency?'

'And the crisp Italian papers with the tensile strength of a communion wafer?'

She shrugged. It was obvious that one could make something of that too, but she was tired of the game.

She took his arm as they walked along the wet street to a corner more likely to produce taxis.

'I'll drop you off at Mac's. It's more or less on my way.'

'Where do you live?'

'Right here.' They were indeed passing the entrance to the hotel in which he had a penthouse apartment.

'But you said—'

'I thought I'd give you a way out.'

She walked along in silence for a while, then she squeezed his arm. 'That was a nice gesture. Truly gentle.'

'I'm like that,' he said, and laughed.

'But it is a bit odd that you just happen to live two doors from the restaurant.'

'Now wait a minute, madam. You picked the restaurant.'

She frowned. 'That's true, isn't it. Still, it's a troubling coincidence.'

He stopped and placed his hands on her shoulders, searching her face with mock sincerity. 'Could it be... fate?'

'I think it's more likely a coincidence.'

He agreed and they started off again, but back toward the hotel.

The phone double-buzzed several times before an angry voice answered. 'Yes? Yes?'

'Good evening, sir.'

'Good Lord! Do you know what time it is?'

'Yes, sir. Sorry. I just thought you'd like to know that they just went into his hotel on Baker Street.'

'Is there any trouble? Is everything prepared?'

'No trouble, sir.'

'Then why are you calling?'

'Well, I just thought you would want to be kept in the picture. They entered the hotel at exactly... oh, my. I must get this watch seen to.'

There was a silence on the other end of the line.

Then, 'Good night, Yank.'

'Good night, sir.'

Baker Street

'Lord love us!' she said. 'This is ghastly!'

Jonathan laughed as he passed on ahead, turning on lights as he went. She followed him through two rooms.

'Is there no end to it?' she asked.

'There are eleven rooms. Including six bedrooms, but only one bath.'

'That must cause some awkward traffic problems.'

'No. I live here alone.'

She dropped into the spongy pink velvet upholstery of an oversized chaise longue carved with conchs, serpentine sea dragons, and bosomy mermaids painted in antique white enamel and picked out in metallic gold. 'I'm afraid to touch this rubbish. Afraid I'll catch something.'

'Not an unfounded fear. Nothing is more communicable than bad taste, as Ortega y Gasset has warned us. Look at pop art or the novels of Robbe-Grillet.'

She looked at him quizzically. 'You really are an academic, aren't you?' She scanned the pink marble fireplace, the harlequin wallpaper, the Danish modern furniture, the yellow shag rug, the burgundy-tinted glass sconces, the wrought-iron wall plaques. The saccharine profusion caused her nostrils to dilate and her throat to constrict. 'How can you stand to live here?'

He shrugged. 'It's free. And I have a little flat in Mayfair. I only stay here when I'm in this end of town.'

'Goodness me. Impressive, sir. Two flats in the midst of a housing shortage. And he reads Ortega y... whoever. What more could a beggar girl ask?'

'She could ask for a drink.' He poured from a hammered aluminum decanter in the form of a wading bird. 'The single advantage of this place is that it makes going out into the street a pleasure. And you need something like that in London. Cheers.'

'Cheers. You don't find London attractive?'