Goya'S Dog Read Online Free PDF Page A

man.”
    â€œIn the hotel.”
    Bury’s pockmarked cheeks drifted back to his conversation.
    Why didn’t the ballerinas come? Dacres wanted to ask Gorren.
    He was looking at a water tower silhouetted on the roof across the street. He would have liked someone to ask to hear a little story of himself: once in Spain I told a peasant I was a painter, and he told me he thought someone should paint the village water tower, and I agreed that it was a beautiful structure; and it wasn’t until I was in bed that night, sweating and grabbing at flies, that I realized he meant it needed a new coat. Evelyn laughed at that until she couldn’t breathe.
    Rueful, now. Easy.
    They were in the hotel and he crossed the street to follow. The cellar proved a dark and desperate place with ugly wainscoting, and the décor affected their mood. Nelda complained about the hotel towels, Dacres grimaced at the talk of returning home. He noticed Violet listening to everything they said too, all she needed was her little red notebook. Bury had a hip flask: Gorren poured Scotch under the table into their watery beers, one by one.
    Dacres said, “Please, don’t let us talk about the war anymore. I can’t bear to talk about it, I can’t bear to think about it.”
    No one responded, but he expected that now. He’d offended each of them in turn on the liner so that they would leave him to himself. He found them trivial, predictable: Pear lived fat off an annual set of views of Venice, Nelda was all false languor. Better by far to be hated by this lot, he’d told Gorren, who’d agreed, and yet somehow managed always to keep one foot in and one foot out. Diplomat. They were sitting around a table that was much too small, their legs touched, Gorren had to sit quite far back.
    â€œWhen are you going to allow your lovely wife to teach me Italian?” Dacres asked Pear’s scowl. Huffily, Pear told Nelda to excuse him: Gents. Short and purple-faced, he went off in search of the plumbing. He had spent five years apologizing for his wife, Gorren had told Dacres.
    Dacres turned to speak to her.
    â€œTell me: why did you marry him? Masochist?”
    She snorted and looked away.
    â€œOr did he spirit you out of Palermo in a carpet? I would. Name the day.”
    â€œYou’ll have to do something better than that,” she said; but in her mouth English sounded immeasurably foreign. Her voice made him want to eat out of her hand. Everything changed.
    â€œOh-ho,” he said.
    She’d worked as a model in a department store, Gorren had told him lasciviously. If it were a dance, he thought, they could play a waltz, and then we could kiss.
    But the room was too hot, humid and smokey, like a furnace, like a mine. At the next table bearded men were singing a vile Dickensian shanty. Gorren announced that he was going to teach them a Dadaist classic, “Bim Dindrzo Bingle Zop,” lead them in a singalong. He rose and strode over. They were burly men with dust on their trousers: bakers. Plasterers; they belonged in the cavern.
    â€œSo,” said Dacres. “My room: when?”
    â€œNever,” said Nelda’s dark lips. She blew smoke in his face. “Jamais . Nunca . ” Her black hair dropped in front of her eyes. Could she see him?
    â€œMai?”
    â€œMai.”
    He edged closer, draped his hand over her knee. They looked up at Gorren returning, pale and clammy cheeked.
    â€œNot my most receptive audience,” Gorren began.
    â€œYour husband drinks out of the side of his mouth,” Dacres whispered to Nelda, close against her ear. “Why doesn’t he like life? He won’t open his gullet.”
    Nelda watched him with surprised eyes.
    â€œYou’re absolutely wasted on him. He orders steak then tries the mashed potatoes first.”
    â€œWhy are you saying this?”
    He raised his hand to hold her stone chin and draw it closer as if he were studying