‘Do you always travel alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you’re married?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘And your wife’s a home bird?’
‘Yes.’
She imagined him in a house in a village, near Midhurst possibly, or Sevenoaks. She imagined his wife, a capable woman, good in the garden and on committees. She saw his wife quite clearly, a little on the heavy side but nice, cutting sweet-peas.
‘You’ve told me nothing about yourself,’ she said.
‘There’s very little to tell. I’m afraid I haven’t a story like yours.’
‘Why are you in Isfahan?’
‘On holiday.’
‘Is it always on your own?’
‘I like being on my own. I like hotels. I like looking at people and walking about.’
‘You’re like me. You like travel.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘I imagine you in a village house, in the Home Counties somewhere.’
‘That’s clever of you.’
‘I can clearly see your wife.’ She described the woman she could clearly see, without mentioning about her being on the heavy side. He nodded. She had second sight, he said with his smile.
‘People have said I’m a little psychic. I’m glad I met you.’
‘It’s been a pleasure meeting you. Stories like yours are rare enough.’
‘It’s all true. Every word.’
‘Oh, I know it is.’
‘Are you an architect?’
‘You’re quite remarkable,’ he said.
He finished his meal and between them they finished the wine. They had coffee and then she asked if he would kindly order more. The Swiss party had left the restaurant, and so had the German couple and their friends. Other diners had been and gone. The Texans were leaving just as Mrs Azann suggested more coffee. No other table was occupied.
‘Of course,’ he said.
He wished she’d go now. They had killed an evening together. Not for a long time would he forget either her ugly voice or her beautiful eyes. Nor would he easily forget the fairy-story that had gone sour on her. But that was that: the evening was over now.
The waiter brought their coffee, seeming greatly fatigued by the chore.
‘D’you think,’ she said, ‘we should have another drink? D’you think they have cigarettes here?’
He had brandy and she more whisky. The waiter brought her American cigarettes.
‘I don’t really want to go back to Bombay,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘I’d like to stay in Isfahan for ever.’
‘You’d be very bored. There’s no club. No social life of any kind for an English person, I should think.’
‘I do like a little social life.’ She smiled at him, broadening her sensuous mouth. ‘My father was a counter- hand,’ she said. ‘In a co-op. You wouldn’t think it, would you?’
‘Not at all,’ he lied.
‘It’s my little secret. If I told the women in the Club that, or my husband’s mother or his aunt, they’d have a fit. I’ve never even told my husband. Only my mother and I share that secret.’
‘I see.’
‘And now you.’
‘Secrets are safe with strangers.’
‘Why do you think I told you that secret?’
‘Because we are ships that pass in the night.’
‘Because you are sympathetic’
The waiter hovered close and then approached them boldly. The bar was open for as long as they wished it to be. There were lots of other drinks in the bar. Cleverly, he removed the coffee-pot and their cups.
‘He’s like a magician,’ she said. ‘Everything in Isfahan is magical.’
