"And he's not even Italian," Yossarian chided.
"You're not Italian, and I don't mind you. The trouble is I do know him from somewhere."
"Aha, Miss Moore, I think I may have it," said Rabinowitz with a probing smile, when he sauntered in and saw her again. "You remind me of a lovely little lady with good personality I met one time with a builder I was doing business with out in Brooklyn, near Sheepshead Bay. An Italian named Benny Salmeri, I think. You liked to dance."
"Really?" answered Angela, looking at him with eye-shadowed eyelids half lowered. "I used to know a builder named Salmeri. I'm not sure it's the same."
"Did you ever have a roommate who was a nurse?"
"I still do," answered Angela, now more flippant. "The one on duty here before. That's my partner, Melissa."
"That nice-looking thing with that good personality?"
"She takes care of our friend here. That's why he's in. She fucks old men and gives them strokes."
"I wish you wouldn't say that to people," Yossarian reproved her mildly, after Rabinowitz had gone. "You'll destroy her prospects. And it wasn't a stroke. You'll ruin mine too."
"And I wish," said Angela, "you wouldn't tell people my name is Moorecock."
Thty studied each other. "Who've I told?"
"Michael. That doctor Shumacher." Angela Moore hesitated, for intentional effect. "Patrick."
"Patrick?" Surprised, Yossarian sensed the reply before he put the question. "Which Patrick? Patrick Beach?"
"Patrick Beach."
"Oh shit," he said, after his jolt of surprise. "You're seeing Patrick?"
"He's called."
"You'll have to go sailing. You'll probably hate it."
"I've already been. I didn't mind."
"Doesn't he have trouble with his prostate?"
"Not right now. It's why he isn't coming by here anymore. You were close with his wife. Do you think she'll know?"
"Frances Beach knows everything, Angela."
"I'm not the first."
"She knows that already. She'll be able to guess."
"There really is something going on between you and that nurse, isn't there?" guessed Frances Beach. "I can almost smell coitus in this rancid air."
"Am I letting it show?"
"No, darling, she is. She watches over you more protectively than she should. And she's much too correct when others are here. Advise her not to be so tense."
"That will make her more tense."
"And you still have that vulgar compulsion I never could abide. You look down at a woman's bottom whenever she turns around, at all women, and with so much pride at hers. It's that pride of possession. You eye mine too, don't you?"
"I know I always do that. It doesn't make me proud. You still look pretty good."
"You would not think that if you didn't have memories."
"I've got another bad habit you'll find even worse."
"I'll bet I can guess. Because I do it too."
"Then tell me."
"Have you also arrived at that wretched stage when you can't look seriously into a human face without already picturing what it will look like when old?"
"I can't see how you knew."
"We've been too much alike."
"I do it only with women. It helps me lose interest."
"I do it with every face already giving clues. It's evil and morbid. This one will wear well."
"Her name is Melissa."
"Let her know it's safe to trust me. Even though I'm rich and fashionable and used to have some bitchy fame as an actress. I'm glad you're not marrying for money."
"Who's thinking of marriage?"
"By my time with Patrick it was much more than the money. I think I approve. Although I don't like her girlfriend. Patrick has taken to sailing again. I think he may be flying as well. What more can you tell me?"
"I can't tell you a thing."
"And I don't want to know, not this time either. I would feel so guilty if he thought I suspected. I would not want to step on anybody's happiness, especially his. I wish I could have more too, but you know my age. Our friend Olivia may be my exception. She won't visit often but fills the room with this glut of flowers. And she signs each card 'Olivia Maxon,' as though it were a British title and you knew a thousand Olivias. I adore your catering company."
"It's Milo Minderbinder's."
"Two tons of caviar is divine."
"We could have got by with one, but it's safe to have a little more. This wedding in the terminal is just aboul the biggest piece of fun I see in my future."
"It's just about my only fun. Oh, John, Johnny, it's a terrible thing you just did to me," said Frances Beach. "When I learned you were sick, I finally felt old for the first time. You will recover, and I never will. There's somebody here. Please come in. Your name is Melissa?"
"Yes, it is. There's someone else here to see him."
"And my name is Rabinowitz, madam, Lewis Rabinowitz, but friends call me Lew. Here's someone else-Mr. Marvin Winkler, just in from California to pay his respects. Where's our lovely friend Angela? Marvin, this is Mr. Yossarian. He's the man who will set it up for you. Winkler wants to meet with Milo Minderbinder about a terrific new product he's got. I told him we'd arrange it."
"What's the product?"
"Lew, let me talk to him alone."
"Well, Winkler?"
"Look down at my foot." Winkler was a man of middle height with conspicuous girth. "Don't you notice anything?"
"What am I looking at?"
"My shoe."
"What about it?"
"It's state-of-the-art."
Yossarian studied him. "You aren't joking?"
"I don't joke about business," answered Winkler, issuing words with strain as though emitting sighs of affliction. His voice was low and guttural, almost inaudible. "I've been in it too long. I manufactured and sold surplus army film after the war. I was in baked goods too and was known for the best honey-glazed doughnuts in New York, Connecticut, and New Jersey. Everything I did was state-of-the-art. I still make chocolate Easter bunnies."
"Have you ever hit it big?"
"I've had trouble with my timing. I was in the food-service business too once and offered home-delivered breakfasts Sunday mornings so that people could sleep late. My firm was Greenacre Farms in Coney Island, and I was the sole proprietor."
"And I was a customer. You never delivered."
"It was not cost-effective."
"Winkler, I will get you your meeting. I can't resist. But I will want you to tell me about it."
"I won't leave out a word."
"We've been thinking of a shoe," Milo admitted, "to sell to the government."
"Then you certainly want mine. It's state-of-the-art."
"Just what does that mean?"
"There's none better, Mr. Minderbinder, and no good reason for the government to choose any other. Look down at my foot again. I see the flexibility? The shoe looks new when you first start to wear it; when it's older it looks used as soon as you break it in. If it's dull you can polish it, or you can leave it the way it is or wear it scuffed, if that's what you want. You can make it lighter or and even change its color."
"But what does it do?"
"It fits over the foot and keeps the sock dry and clean. It helps protect the skin on the sole of the foot against cuts and scratches and other painful inconveniences of walking on the ground. You can walk in it, run in it, or even just sit and talk in it, as I'm doing with you now."
"And it changes color. How did you say it does that?"
"You just put this magic plastic insert into the slot of the heel and then take them to the shoemaker and tell aim to dye it to whatever color you want."
"It seems like a miracle."
"I would say that it is."
"Can you make them for women too?"