“Maybe she didn’t see anything,” Sandy said.
“She saw,” David said.
“No question about it.”
“Then why didn’t she tell the salesman?”
“Maybe she didn’t want to get involved.”
“That’s the trouble with the world today,” Sandy said. “Nobody wants to get involved.”
“She reminded me of Rhoda,” I said.
“Everybody reminds him of Rhoda,” David said. “My aunt from Milwaukee, who’s six-feet four-inches tall and a basketball center, reminded him of Rhoda.”
“I have never had the pleasure of meeting your aunt from Milwaukee,” I said.
“Aunt Marian?”
“Never.”
“She’s seventy-two years old. The minute you set eyes on her, you said she reminded you of Rhoda.”
“He has a Rhoda complex,” Sandy said.
“Well, this girl very definitely looked like Rhoda.”
“She had red hair,” David said. “Rhoda’s hair was black.”
“Anyway, Rhoda’s in Europe,” Sandy said.
“How do you know?” I asked, surprised.
“I met her.”
“Where?” David said.
“In Doubleday’s on Fifty-seventh.”
“When was this?” I said.
“Oh, I don’t know, a few months ago. She was leaving for Europe.”
“How’d she look?”
“About the same.”
“Did she say anything?”
“Yes, she said she was leaving for Europe.”
“Where in Europe?”
“Paris, I think. Or Rome. Or London. I really didn’t pay too much attention. Rhoda always bored the hell out of me.”
“Did she say anything about... you know.”
“About what?”
“That summer.”
“No.”
“Did she seem embarrassed?”
“Why should she?”
“I don’t know,” I said, and shrugged.
“She seemed fine,” Sandy said. “She was looking for a French-English dictionary. Paris, it must’ve been.”
“Why was she going to Paris?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Weren’t you curious?”
“Nope.”
“I can just see Rhoda in Paris,” David said.
“Did she ask about us? About David? And me?”
“Nope.”
“Well, what the hell did you talk about?”
“We met in the back of the store, where they’ve got all the paperbacks. She said, ‘Hello, Sandy,’ and I didn’t recognize her at first because she was wearing glasses...”
“Has she still got those braces on her teeth?” David asked.
“No,” Sandy said. “When I realized who it was, I said, ‘Hello, Rhoda, how are you?’ and she said she was fine and that she was looking for a French-English dictionary because she was leaving for Paris at the end of the month. And I said, ‘Paris, how exciting!’ and she said, ‘Yes.’ Then I said, ‘Well, I’ve got to run, it was nice seeing you,’ and she said, ‘Good-by, Sandy,’ and that was the end of the meeting.”
“I wonder why she was going to Paris,” I said.
“Didn’t she want to be a writer?” Sandy asked.
“She wrote for the school newspaper,” I said. “Feelings. That was the name of her column.”
“That girl in the store,” David said. “You don’t think she told the salesman after we left, do you?”
“I doubt it. He’d have come out yelling bloody murder.”
“She sure seemed interested in what was going on.”
“She probably thought it was a movie,” Sandy said.
“What do you mean?”
“Lots of people see something happening, and they think it’s a movie. They eat their popcorn, and go home afterwards, and forget all about it. It wasn’t real, it was just a movie.”
“That’s nonsense,” David said.
“I know what she means,” I said. “I sometimes feel that way myself.”
“About what?”
“Well... life. Things that happen. They don’t seem real.”
“Good thing you’ve got a shrink, man,” David said, and laughed.
“You the people who called for a cab?” the bartender yelled.
“Yes,” Sandy said. “Is it here?”
“Outside now.”
“Thank you.”
We paid for the beer and went out to the waiting taxi. The rain had stopped, and there were snow flurries in the air.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Hans Bittner said into the microphone, “I am pleased to announce that the forecast is for ten inches of fresh powder before morning.”
A cheer went up from the assembled guests. We were sitting in the downstairs lounge, a room furnished in pseudo-Arlberg with cookie-cutter shutters at the windows, orange-and-green curtains printed with little girls in dirndls and peasant blouses, wide-planked oak tables, and a trio of daytime ski instructors doubling as nighttime musicians and wearing lederhosen. The combo sat beaming in suntanned splendor behind Bittner at the microphone pleased as kirsch that snow was falling and would continue to fall till morning. Ski instructors without snow are as worthless as last year’s calendar, but these three respectively (if not respectably) played accordion, violin, and drums, insurance of a sort against washouts or droughts. They never would have made it at the old Fillmore East, or even at the Bitter End, but here in the heart of America’s vast snow country, they were able to get away with their oom-pah-pah gemütlich crap since people will always applaud a trained seal playing “My Country ’Tis of Thee,” not because he’s a horn virtuoso but only because he’s a seal. In any case, Volkmar, Max, and Helmut (for such were the gentlemen’s names) sat grinning on the bandstand behind Bittner, instruments at the ready, as he concluded his announcement, and launched into an introduction.
“You have all seen our lehrers coming down the mountain, and you have no doubt noticed,” Bittner said, “that they are not too bad on their skis, eh?” Bittner paused after this choice bit of litotes, anticipating the modest grins of his instructors and the appreciative nods of his audience. “What some of you may not know, however, is that they are all accomplished musicians...”
“Oh my, yes,” David murmured.
“... who are ready now in celebration of the marvelous snowfall to play for your entertainment and the relaxation of your muscles in dancing so you will be ready for the challenge of the mountain in the morning.”
“Period,” Sandy said.
“New paragraph,” I said.
“So,” Bittner said, “without further encouragement, I am happy to put you now in the talented hands of Volkmar, Max, and Helmut, which you will find as dependable as how they are on the slopes with skis on their feet.”
Bittner grinned, moved the microphone closer to Volkmar and Max, who rose now with accordion and violin while Helmut behind them began beating out the tempo on his bass drum. As if on cue in the ballroom scene of a movie about Old Vienna, with Strauss sitting at the piano and a man in livery and white wig tapping his stick on the floor and announcing, “Their noble presences, the Duke and Duchess of Austerlitz,” Mr. and Mrs. Penn R. Trate appeared at the top of the steps leading down to the lounge, she in long blue-and-white Pucci silk, hair piled on top of her head, he sporting a red velvet smoking jacket, black trousers and black patent-leather Gucci slippers. Descending into the lounge with an air of bewilderment hardly suited to their standing in the court, they passed our table with a brief nod, and allowed one of the waitresses to seat them near the wall. The waitress was a sweet little townie named Alice, with whom I had been conducting a running flirtation since we’d arrived at Semanee. She was wearing dirndl and peasant blouse to match the wee tots on the curtains, but she filled the garments much more realistically. The band was playing something très Austrian. It was going to be a fun night.