Miriam drank some rye, lit a cigarette and as Erica glanced at her clock and got up, Miriam said, "I guess I sound pretty hardboiled but compared to Charles, I’m not even coddled".
"He’s only trying to do what he thinks is best for me", said Erica, running a comb through her hair and then taking her bag and gloves from the dressing-table.
"Nobody can really tell what’s ’best’ for anyone else". Looking up at Erica who had paused in the center of the room on her way to the door, she said, "If you don’t clear out, what are you going to do?"
"Nothing. I’m just going to hang on. Charles can’t break this thing up if I don’t let him, and provided I just hang on long enough, he’ll come round sooner or later".
"I hope you’re right", said Miriam.
Marc was waiting for Erica in the main dining-room at Charcot’s, sitting at a table in the back of the room underneath a great golden cock painted on the smooth light wall over his head. He did not notice Erica until she was within a few feet of him; he was looking fixedly at the big menu in front of him. The menu was actually just a trick, a form of protection against his own nerves and the glances of the people around him for he hated waiting alone in a crowd. Usually he bought a paper and took refuge behind the war news, but today he must have forgotten.
"Hello, Marc…".
"Eric!" He got up so quickly that he almost upset the table. When he first caught sight of her, his face always lit up as though he had not seen her for weeks.
"Have you been waiting long?"
"No, only about five minutes".
"I’m sorry", said Erica, smiling at him.
They sat side by side on the white leather banquette facing down the room, Erica in a green and white print dress and Marc in uniform.
"What’s ris de veau à la bonne femme?" Marc wanted to know.
"Haven’t you read Young Man of Caracas?"
"I’ve just started it".
"Well, when you get a little further you’ll find out that it means ’Laugh of the sheep at the good woman’."
"Really", said Marc. "It sounds more like an hors d’oeuvre than an entrée".
"What else is there?" asked Erica, looking at the menu over his shoulder.
"Poulet, filet mignon, escaloppe de veau, filet de sole à la something and something grenouilles. Why do they always have to write these menus in purple ink?" He paused and then asked, "What does that remind me of, Eric?"
"This Above All?"
"Right. Cultured, aren’t we? Well, which do you want?"
"Let’s have poulet".
"Poulet frit, poulet grillé, or poulet rôti?"
"Grillé. They do it well here".
"Poulet grillé, s’il vous plaît", he said to the waiter. "Des hors d’oeuvres-do you want soup?" Erica shook her head. "Moi non plus. Fish?"
"No, thanks".
"Pas de poisson. We’ll choose our dessert later. How about a cocktail?"
"Yes, Manhattan, please".
"Two Manhattans-non, je prendrai un Martini".
"Un Manhattan, un Martini", said the waiter.
"Merci". He turned to Erica and said, "You look beautiful tonight, darling. Don’t ever cut your hair, will you?"
He remembered that it was the combination of fine, almost delicate features and that look of emotional strength which came through from underneath, which had so struck him the first time he had met her. It was not only in her face but in the lines of her slender, almost boneless body, a blending of sensitivity and passion which disturbed him so profoundly whenever he was with her, close to her, that afterwards he forgot what they talked about and almost forgot where they had gone-what remained chiefly in his mind was his own sense of strain at always holding back, sitting on the opposite side of a table or if they were in a restaurant like this with seats along the wall, of keeping a foot of space between them, and when they were driving, staying on his own side of the car.
Erica was something that had never happened to him before. With all the others, an essential part of him had remained detached and isolated from the rest of his consciousness, out of reach of everyone, including himself. He could do nothing about it but try to confine it and fight it off as long as possible. His detachment had set a time limit to all his relationships, and since he was always aware of it, he had never been able to fool himself into believing that any of them would be permanent. Sooner or later and against his will, because he had no liking for short-lived affairs and wanted permanence, the old withdrawal process would begin again, until eventually he would find himself back where he had started, having completed another circle and got nowhere.
Then Erica had come along and for the first time in his life, he had found himself wholly involved. He did not know how or why it had happened, or, more important, since under the circumstances a lot of people were going to take a lot of convincing, how to explain to anyone else that, this time, he knew he was not going to get over it. So far he had only tried explaining it to one person, his brother David, having run into him accidentally at the Rosenbergs’ when both of them had been in Toronto on business the week before, and David had remained quite unconvinced. Apparently the more you talk about being in love, the more you sound like a dime novel. At one point he had even heard himself protesting that this time it was different and that he and Erica belonged together!
They had been sitting in some ghastly Toronto beer parlor, having left the Rosenbergs’ with an hour still to spare before both of them had to catch their trains. He would probably not have mentioned Erica to his brother if he had not been thoroughly depressed, partly by things in general and partly by the Rosenbergs. Betty Rosenberg was not Jewish, and she was a Montrealer with much the same background as Erica. In order to get away from the apparently inevitable family complications, when they had been married two years they had moved to Toronto where Max had had to start all over again. They had two children, there was another due soon, and Marc had been heartsick at the way in which life was obviously wearing them down. He had not known Betty Rosenberg before her marriage, but she was fair-haired, and he supposed that she had once looked like Erica.
"Is that what happens?" he had asked David as they were walking away from the house.
His brother was shorter than Marc, with black hair and dark eyes; he glanced up sideways at Marc and said briefly, "I guess all married couples have their off nights".
He had forgotten what they had talked about after that, until they were sitting at a corner table in the beer parlor and his brother had asked suddenly, "What’s the matter with you?"
"I don’t know", he answered after a pause. "I guess it was just the Rosenberg atmosphere".
"Why? Are you thinking of doing what Max did?" After waiting for a while, David said resignedly, "You might just as well tell me all about it, laddie. You will sooner or later anyhow. What’s her name?"
"Erica Drake".
His brother finished his beer and then asked, "What’s she like?"
He tried to tell David what Erica was like but that came out all wrong too. The more he said, the less it sounded like Erica. Finally his brother cut him short with, "All right, all right… so you think you’re in love with her".
"I don’t just think so".
"It wouldn’t be the first time if you did".
"I know", said Marc impatiently, "but this time it’s different".
"Not really".
"I can’t remember ever having wanted to marry anyone before!"