A Sport and a Pastime Read Online Free PDF

it.
    “Listen, I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he says, almost shyly.
    “No, not at all.”
    “I just thought I’d drive down.”
    “Well, I’m glad you did.” After a moment I add, rather foolishly, “Is this your car?”
    Yes, he insists I admire it, a convertible standing low and journey-dark in the dusk. We walk around to the front. There’s an enameled nameplate with letters of blue: Delage.
    “Oh, this is a famous make. I thought they’d gone out of business.”
    “They have,” he says. “This is a 1952.”
    We circle it slowly.
    “I fell in love with it right away,” he says.
    It is a marvelous looking machine. Dean trails behind me, pointing out details. The headlights are like washbasins.
    “I’ve only had it four days.”
    It belongs to a friend of his who isn’t able to drive it enough. Dean is just using it.
    “Do you want to take a ride?” he asks. “Come on. You have to get in the other side.”
    Cool, October evening. The seats are chilled and smell of leather. The doors shut with a heavy, unequivocal sound. He inserts the key and starts it up. All the needles leap.
    “It’s a dream to drive,” he says. “It goes like the wind.”
    “I can imagine.”
    “No, really, it does.”
    “How fast?”
    “I don’t know yet,” he says. “I’m creeping up on it.”
    We drive along the curving, mysterious streets. The shutters are already closed throughout town. People are coming home from work, some on bicycles, most of them walking. I can see the pale of their faces as they turn to look at the car. It has Paris plates. They have no idea whose it is, of course.
    We cross the square and go down the long, open street that runs to the station, bicycles swimming beside us, their faint headlights quivering on the road. The line of dark trees continues the entire length and then, turning, leads to the open space in front of the station, the hotels across the way, the bus terminal to one side with its lighted booth that takes four photos for a franc. There are two taxis waiting. The drivers–one is a fat woman with glasses–are in the hotel bar, wrapped in the congenial odor of tobacco and wine. They have nothing to do until the train arrives.
    We stop for a moment and look back up towards town. Sitting in the car makes it all very privileged. The air is melancholy and dark. People walk by bent on their errands. Behind us the river flows.
    It’s getting cold in the car. As we drive back, I ask if there’s any heat.
    “It doesn’t work,” he says, “but I think I can fix it.”
    We park at the Foy and he lifts the hood.
    “Look at that,” he announces.
    It’s a distillery of ducts and hoses.
    “I used to work on motorcycles,” he says. “Of course, this…”
    “…is a little more challenging.”
    “We must think of it as three motorcycles,” he says. “Everything becomes simple.”
    He touches the hoses, searching for the one which leads to the heater.
    “Can you find it?”
    “Oh, eventually,” he says, rising up.
    We go into the café. There are booths on each side and a row of tables in the middle. A small bar. A small dance floor. Towards the back they’re playing cards. The place is almost empty, though. They all come later and sit in white silence before the television. We take a booth near the front. Dean’s already decided to stay over. I told him there was the whole house.
    “I’m going to drive all around tomorrow,” he says. “I’d like to explore the countryside.”
    Through the doorway I can see people looking at the Delage.
    “Your car’s creating a sensation.”
    “In Paris,” he says, “they figured I was at least a duke. At the hotels, you know, the doormen would open the door. Salute. Bonjour , monsieur . I’d give them a little nod.”
    “You didn’t speak.”
    “A few words of Spanish,” he says modestly. “Can you eat here?”
    “Are you hungry?”
    “A little. I can wait.”
    “We’ll have dinner at the hotel.”
    After a