Simon got the hint. His thin lips quirked in a half-smile, but he said nothing as he escorted her toward the back of the shop. Soft, overstuffed chairs slipcovered in faded chintz, reading lamps, an electric teakettle emitting a cloud of steam, and a time-softened Persian rug furnished a cozy alcove walled with books—Simon's sanctum, to which only favored customers were admitted.
Karen let out a sigh as she sank into one of the chairs and allowed Simon to serve her coffee and a plate of flaky pastry. She hadn't realized how tense she was, not only with anticipation over Simon's mysterious find, but with the constant everyday aggravation and bustle. It all seemed to slip away here; muscles relaxed, unfinished tasks became unimportant, worries faded. The friendly, intimate ambience Simon had created was partially responsible, but the books themselves had an almost physical effect upon her. What they represented was little short of a miracle— contact, as direct as any spiritualist medium could claim, with minds long dead.
"Fresh-baked an hour ago," said Simon, proffering the plate. "From that Polish bakery around the corner."
Karen waved the plate away. "I'm trying to lose weight. You're putting me off, Simon. I hate it when you do this! Where is it? What is it?"
"Please." Raising a hand for silence, Simon turned up the volume again. The great basso of Alexander Kipnis filled the room. It was one of Karen's favorite arias too, but she lacked the skill to listen with the intensity that held Simon's face rapt. It was a wonderful face, so thin it had the pure, bare beauty of bone. His hair clung to his skull like a cap of polished steel. He was still a handsome man; he must have been knockdown gorgeous when he was young.
The great music faded into silence, and Simon let out his breath. "The only music that might without blasphemy be put in the mouth of God himself," he quoted.
"Mmm." Karen knew the futility of pushing him, but she needed some outlet for her frustration. Wickedly she said, "The music is sublime, but you must admit the words are pretty corny. And chauvinist. 'Keep it up, my boy, and you'll be a man.' What about poor Pamina? She trudged through the seven hells with her boyfriend; how come she doesn't get to be a Mensch too?"
Simon bit into a pastry with a vehemence that sent flakes showering down his shirtfront. He brushed them away and said forcefully, "You don't understand the meaning of the word. The German for man, male person, is 'Mann.' Mensch means—"
"Superman."
"No! A more accurate translation might be 'superior person.' Superior in the sense of courageous, noble, honorable—"
"Never mind. We've discussed this before. You're just trying to prolong the suspense, Simon. How can you be so mean?"
"No."
"What do you mean, no?"
"If I show it to you now, you will snatch it and run away, and then we will not have our nice little visit."
"Simon!"
"And also, I would have to call the police to follow you and arrest you for stealing a valuable object."
"Valuable? In monetary terms or—"
"In all terms." He leaned back in his chair. The lamplight shaded his face, deepening the lines around his smiling mouth and hiding his eyes in pools of shadow. He looked like an elegant Art Nouveau Mephistopheles. "I have made for lunch my famous goulash. But you do not need to lose weight, you are young and should have a healthy appetite. Have a kalashke."
Resignedly Karen took one of the pastries.
"How is Norman?"
The fact that Karen's mouth was full gave her an excuse to delay answering. She couldn't imagine why Simon was inquiring about her ex-husband. He had been painstakingly polite to Norman on the few occasions when they had met—an unmistakable indication, to anyone who knew Simon, that he didn't care much for the other man. When Simon liked people he teased them and argued with them. Norman hadn't taken to Simon either. Karen's affection for the older man had left him baffled and obscurely uneasy, and he had objected vehemently to her filling the bookcases with "those dirty old books." His were all lined up in neat rows, arranged by size instead of subject, with nice clean dust jackets on them.
She swallowed. "All right, I guess."
"When will the divorce become final?"
"It is final. I got the papers last week."
"You are very calm about it."
"My heart isn't broken, Simon. We were married for less than three years, and I never liked him very much."
"What a cynic you have become!" He appeared to be genuinely shocked.
"A realist," Karen corrected. "I fell in love. When I fell out of love, I discovered there was nothing left—not liking, nor mutual respect, nor even forbearance. Do you know what his pet endearment for me was? Baby."
She knew Simon would never understand why that seemingly frivolous habit of Norman's had enraged her so. His forehead furrowed as he struggled to grasp the idea; then he shrugged it away. "It is none of my business. But a young woman like yourself should not be alone."
"Simon, darling, you are hopelessly old-fashioned." Karen gave him an affectionate smile. "What do you mean by alone—unmarried, or celibate?"
"That is a vulgar question," Simon said severely.
"It is not. I phrased it very genteelly. And you were the one who brought the subject up."
He returned her smile. "Touche. Well, then—I certainly would not want you to marry the first lout who asked you."
"I'm relieved to hear it. Good men are hard to find. As for being celibate—what makes you suppose I am?"
"You are not foolhardy. In these times, only a permanent relationship (how I despise that word!) is completely safe. I would know if you had established one. There are," said Simon delicately, "certain indications."
Karen gave up. She usually backed away
