Evening in Byzantium Read Online Free PDF

nostalgic voyage to a place where he can be reminded at every turn of his earlier vigor? Or is it the sallying forth of a man who has regrouped his forces and is intent once more on conquest?
    “Does Jesse Craig, in his hundred-dollar-a-day suite overlooking the Mediterranean know the answers himself?”
    The typing stopped in the middle of the page. He put the pages face down on the bookcase, sipped once more from his drink. Christ, he thought, twenty-two years old.
    He went out on the balcony. The sun had come out, although the wind was as strong as ever. Nobody was swimming. The fat lady had disappeared. Having her hair done or drifted out to sea. Down below, on the terrace, there was already a sprinkling of customers around the tables. He saw the careless brown hair of Gail McKinnon, the oversized sweat shirt, the blue jeans. She was reading a newspaper, a bottle of Coca-Cola in front of her.
    While he was watching, a man came up to her table and sat down across from her. She put away her newspaper. Craig was too high up to hear what she was saying.
    “I saw him,” she was saying to the man. “He’ll bite. I’ve got the old bastard.”

H E took a seat. The auditorium was filling rapidly. It was a young crowd, long-haired bearded boys with Indian bands around their heads and their accompanying barefooted girls dressed in fringed leather blouses and long multicolored skirts. They would have been at home in Constance’s office. The movie that morning was going to be Woodstock, the American documentary about a rock festival, and the devotees, appropriately clad for revolt, had taken over the town. Craig wondered how they all would dress when they were his age. When he was their age, he had been happy just to shed his uniform and get into a gray suit.
    He put on his glasses and spread his copy of Nice-Matin. He had awakened late, and since the movie was three and a half hours long, it had been scheduled to start at nine in the morning, and he hadn’t had time for breakfast or the paper in the hotel.
    In the warm, dull pinkish light he glanced at the front page of the newspaper. Four students had been shot and killed by the National Guard in Kent, Ohio. Murder continued, as usual, along the Suez Canal. The situation in Cambodia was confused. A French naval missile had gotten out of control and turned inland and burst near Lavandou, some miles along the coast, destroying several villas. The mayors of the adjacent towns were protesting, pointing out, reasonably enough, that this military waywardness was detrimental to le tourisme. A French movie director explained, in an interview, why he would never submit a film of his to the Festival.
    Somebody said, “ Pardon ,” and Craig stood up, still trying to read his newspaper. There was a rustle of a long skirt as somebody slid past him and sank into the seat beside him. He was conscious of a light scent of soap that was somehow childish.
    “Welcome to the morning,” the girl said.
    He recognized the dark glasses masking most of the face. The girl’s head was wrapped in a figured silk scarf. He was sorry that he hadn’t taken the time to shave.
    “Isn’t it wonderful,” the girl said, “how we are constantly thrown together?”
    “Wonderful,” he said. The voice, as well as the costume, was different today. Softer, without pressure.
    “I was there last night, too,” she said.
    “I didn’t see you.”
    “That’s what they all say.” The girl looked down at her program. “Were you ever tempted to do a documentary?”
    “Like everybody else.”
    “People say this one is wild. ”
    “Which people?”
    “Just people.” She let the program drop to the floor. “Did you cast an eye on the stuff I sent over?”
    “I didn’t even have time to order breakfast,” he said.
    “I like movies at nine in the morning,” she said. “There’s something perverse in it. It’s in a big manila envelope. Further reflections on Jesse Craig. Cast an eye when you have