A Wild Sheep Chase Read Online Free PDF Page A

all.”
    I couldn’t figure how to get out of that, so I sat there quietly admiring the ashes in the ashtray.
    She turned on the juice. “Let’s talk business.”
    “As I told you yesterday, the job is finished. No problems. So I have nothing to say.”
    She fished a slender clove cigarette out of her handbag, lit up with the restaurant matches, and gave me a look that said “So?”
    I was about to speak when the maître d’hôtel advanced on our table. He showed me the wine label, all smiles as if showing me a photo of his only son. I nodded. He unscrewed the cork with a pleasant pop, then poured out a small mouthful in my glass. It tasted like the price of the entire dinner.
    The maître d’hôtel withdrew and in his place appeared a waiter who set out the three hors d’oeuvres and a small plate before each of us. When the waiter departed, leaving us alone again, I blurted out, “I had to see your ears.”
    Speaking not a word, she proceeded to help herself to the
pâté
and
foie de baudroie
. She took a sip of wine.
    “Sorry to have imposed,” I hedged.
    She smiled ever so slightly. “Fine French cuisine is no imposition at all.”
    “Does it bother you to have your ears discussed?”
    “Not really. It depends on the angle of discussion.” She shook her head as she lifted her fork to her mouth. “Tell me straight, because that’s my favorite angle.”
    We silently sipped our wine and continued our meal.
    “I turn a corner,” I offered, “just as someone ahead of me turns the next corner. I can’t see what that person looks like. All I can make out is a flash of white coattails. But the whiteness of the coattails is indelibly etched in my consciousness. Ever get that feeling?”
    “I suppose so.”
    “Well, that’s the feeling I get from your ears.”
    Again, we ate in silence. I poured wine for her, then for myself.
    “It’s not the scene that comes into your head,” she asked, “but the feeling, right?”
    “Right.”
    “Ever have that feeling before?”
    I gave it some thought, then shook my head. “No, I guess not.”
    “Which means it’s all on account of my ears.”
    “I couldn’t swear to it. There’s no way I could be that sure. I’ve never heard of the shape of someone’s ears arousing anyone this way.”
    “I know someone who sneezed every time he saw Farrah Fawcett’s nose. There’s a big psychological element to sneezing, you know. Once cause and effect link up, there’s no escape.”
    “I’m no expert on Farrah Fawcett’s nose,” I said, taking a sip of wine. Then I forgot what I was about to say.
    “That’s not quite what you meant, is it?” she said.
    “No, not quite,” I said. “The feeling I get is terribly unfocused, yet very solid.” I demonstrated, holding my hands a yard apart, then compressing the span to two inches. “I’m not explaining this well, I’m afraid.”
    “A concentrated phenomenon based on vague motives.”
    “Exactly,” I said. “You’re seven times smarter than I am.”
    “I take correspondence courses.”
    “Correspondence courses?”
    “That’s right, psychology by mail.”
    We split the last of the
pâté
. Now I was completely lost.
    “You still haven’t gotten it? The relationship between my ears and your feelings?”
    “In a word, no,” said I. “That is, I have no firm grasp on whether your ears appeal to me directly, or whether something else in you appeals to me through your ears.”
    She placed both her hands on the table and shook her head gently. “Is this feeling of yours of the good variety or the bad variety?”
    “Neither. Or both. I can’t tell.”
    She pinioned her wineglass between her palms and looked me straight in the face. “It seems you need more study in the means of expressing emotions.”
    “Can’t say I’m too good at describing them either,” I said.
    At that she smiled. “Never mind. I think I have a good idea of what you mean.”
    “Well then, what should I do?”
    She said