“I don’t think we ought to put this off any longer.” ATMAN was already nudging him toward the door. “Whatever will she think we’re doing out here?”
The room was spacious. ATMAN had divided it, using a plush double curtain, into a dark anteroom-cum-waiting-room and a studio, which doubled as his bedroom. Melkior stepped into the dark and put out his arms like a blind man. ATMAN was still guiding him by the arm — or rather holding him captive.
“Would you believe he’s afraid of you?” he called through the curtain to her over there in the well-lit part of the room. She shrieked a little laugh, which meant nothing, or merely, “How amusing.”
The palmist pushed the curtain aside and ushered Melkior into the room. She had clearly taken up a pose for the encounter: she was sitting crossways on the sofa, her legs out in front of her, a thick volume on her knees. Melkior recognized it as a book of his — a translation of Alfred Adler’s Individual Psychology; ATMAN used its size to impress his customers.
“Here he is,” the palmist said as he set Melkior before her like a wooden dummy. “Introduce yourselves.”
In reply to his Tresić she mumbled out some name or other and immediately said with genuine modesty:
“I should be afraid of you — you’re a critic.”
“You have nothing to be afraid of,” Melkior replied with conviction.
“That’s right, is it not? Nothing!” ATMAN jumped with delight. “And let me tell you he’s not just being flattering!”
The corners of her lips curled upward with pleasure. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful … the words were dripping sweetly inside Melkior like honey being poured out golden-transparent, slowly, long, lazily. She had spread her skirt peacocklike about herself on the sofa so that her waist in the high-necked tight pullover showed itself slim, narrow, and the breasts, large, round, jutted out proudly, self-confident. The hair light brown, slick, drawn into a chignon, two thin laughter lines — that’s what makes her look older. But the eyes, the mouth, the chin … no, I’ll never be kissing them, concluded Melkior and this gave him a sense of inner peace, a resigned satisfaction.
“This is your book, isn’t it?” She raised her pretty, bright eyes toward him. “And you’ve read all of it?”
“Yes,” said Melkior with a shade of embarrassment.
“What about you, MacAdam? Have you read all of it, too?” she asked scornfully of ATMAN.
“Of course I have. That is, I haven’t finished it yet. But I am in the middle of reading it …”
“But what do you need it for? Those old hags of yours? Mr. Trešèec is a teacher … You are a teacher, aren’t you?”
“Bachelor’s degree in philosophy,” answered Melkior, aware that his ears had gone red, and added for good measure, “And my name is Tresić.”
“Yes, well, Professor Tresić. I heard it the first time. Sorry.” She blushed slightly, which Melkior took as small change for his fiery ears and felt good.
“I don’t understand a word of this. I tried to read it. What’s com-pen-sa-tion?”
“There you are—exemplar. What did I tell you?” ATMAN gave a happy jump and snapped his fingers with satisfaction.
“You shut up, I wasn’t asking you!” she snapped. The palmist hung his head in shame, ingratiatingly, like a child who has intruded on a grownup conversation. But he was smiling with a corner of his eye, slyly.
What kind of relationship did they have then? Melkior was saddened by her authoritative intimacy with the palmist. Why was she free to use such a tone? But he noticed immediately, with doubled sadness, the way ATMAN took pride in showing Melkior her behavior. As if it was his right not to be offended by it, to take it as something familiar, domestic. He even grinned at Melkior—“This is the kind of terms we’re on, get it?”
He felt dreadfully lonely in their company. He thought it best to leave while he still stood a minimal chance of having got it all wrong. But he found it hard to relinquish her presence. Better to risk a horrible revelation than interrupt this happy moment … Rubbish! they’re acting out a charade for my benefit. This is a trap! He realized it in a flash. ATMAN had set up this ambush: they had been lying in wait with that book on her knees. With com-pen-sa-tion.
“Do sit down, please, Mr. Melkior,” the palmist got suddenly fussy and flashed him a servile grin. “You’ve frightened him, kitten. Won’t you sit down here, on the sofa? You won’t mind him sitting next to you, will you? But why do you hesitate, Mr. Melkior? Don’t be afraid, she’s only arrogant with me. Am I right, kitten — he’s not to be afraid of you? There, the kettle’s boiling.”
“You’re talking nonsense, Mac. You’re making me look the monster,” she said flirtatiously. “Please sit down, Mr. Tresić, I should be truly glad to learn something from you. All these characters ever do is talk nonsense.”
“These characters are mostly me,” explained the palmist with a pride of sorts. “You are so kind, kitten, thank you very much. But at least I know what compensation is — which Freddie for one does not, I’ll stake my life on that.”
“Freddie’s a dolt,” she said in irritation. “And so are you. You only differ from him as much as a melon differs from a pumpkin.”
“Well, at least that makes me the melon. Admit it — I’m the melon, right?”
“No, you are not!” She showed her beautiful teeth, spitefully. “Melons are sweet.”
“There you are, I’m not even a melon. Did you hear her, Mr. Melkior — not even a melon.”
ATMAN placed a small coffee table near the sofa, laughing brightly. Melkior noticed the table had already been set with three teacups. So everything had been planned ahead, premeditated. This actually alarmed him: what are they up to with me?
“So Freddie’s the sweet one, then,” prattled the palmist brightly, laughing, fetching butter, liver paste, sliced sausage, cheese, bread, doing it all with hostlike, familiar alacrity, with measured, feminine motions. “Whereas I’m the pumpkin, ha-ha. A squash.” He poured out the fine fragrant dark amber tea, smiling at some unspoken thought of his. “Shall I spread some páté for you, kitten? It’s genuine liver paste, fat-free. Do help yourself, Mr. Melkior. I recommend the sausage, it’s very good indeed. A bit on the spicy side, just the thing for us men.”
Melkior’s beast gave a start and trembled with hunger. It fell to voraciously gobbling the food with its eyes. But Reason gave the beast a bash on the maddened snout and calmly proclaimed:
“No, thank you very much, Mr. Adam, I’m straight from lunch … Just a cup of tea will be fine. Thank you.”
“Straight from lunch? You’ve given up then? A wise thing, if you ask me. I mean, what’s the use? I keep asking myself if it really made sense. That treatment you’re in for, as it were. Women go through it for their figure, which is also …” he gave a hopeless gesture and a benevolent smile.
“Yes, I heard that, too, about you undergoing a treatment. But I don’t think you should really, you’re far too thin.” Her teeth sank into a thick layer of páté. She bit off a mouthful and fell to chewing daintily.
“Who told you that?” Melkior asked fearfully. “Ugo? He’s made up some sort of cock-and-bull story about me and is peddling it about in the Cafés. He’s mad.”
“Ugo? Ugo who?”
The one you slept with last night, you bitch! She read some such thought in Melkior’s look and her eyes flashed with malice for an instant, but she drove it all away with a very surprised smile.
“Mac, do I know this Ugo character?”
“By my method of reckoning time you’ve known him since last night,” mumbled ATMAN through a mouthful of food, vengefully. “The wounded guy last night at the Give’nTake, the one you ministered to.”