Highsmith, Patricia Read Online Free PDF
Author: The Price of Salt
with more than once or twice. And the two people she had gone out with before Richard—Angelo and Harry—had certainly dropped her when they discovered she didn’t care for an affair with them. She had tried to have an affair with Richard three or four times in the year she had known him, though with negative results; Richard said he preferred to wait. He meant wait until she cared more for him. Richard wanted to marry her, and she was the first girl he had ever proposed to, he said. She knew he would ask her again before they left for Europe, but she didn’t love him enough to marry him. And yet she would be accepting most of the money for the trip from him, she thought with a familiar sense of guilt. Then the image of Mrs. Semco, Richard’s mother, came before her, smiling approval on them, on their marrying, and Therese involuntarily shook her head.
“What’s the matter?” Dannie asked.
“Nothing.”
“Are you cold?”
“No. Not at all.”
But he tucked her arm closer anyway. She was cold, and felt rather miserable in general. It was the half dangling, half cemented relationship with Richard, she knew. They saw more and more of each other, without actually growing closer. She still wasn’t in love with him, not after ten months, and maybe she never could be, though the fact remained that she liked him better than any one person she had ever known, certainly any man. Sometimes she thought she was in love with him, waking up in the morning and looking blankly at the ceiling, remembering suddenly that she knew him, remembering suddenly his face shining with affection for her because of some gesture of affection on her part, before her sleepy emptiness had time to fill up with the realization of what time it was, what day, what she had to do, the soldier substance that made up one’s life. But the feeling bore no resemblance to what she had read about love. Love was supposed to be a kind of blissful insanity.
Richard didn’t act blissfully insane either, in fact.
“Oh, everything’s called St. Germain-des-Pres!” Phil shouted with a wave of his hand. “I’ll give you some addresses before you go. How long do you think you’ll be there?”
A truck with rattling, slapping chains turned in front of them, and Therese couldn’t hear Richard’s answer. Phil went into the Riker’s shop on the corner of Fifty-third Street.
“We don’t have to eat here. Phil just wants to stop a minute.” Richard squeezed her shoulder as they went in the door. “It’s a great day, isn’t it, Terry? Don’t you feel it?- It’s your first real job!”
Richard was convinced, and Therese tried hard to realize it might be a great moment. But she couldn’t recapture even the certainty she remembered when she had looked at the orange washcloth in the basin after Richard’s telephone call. She leaned against the stool next to Phil’s, and Richard stood beside her, still talking to him. The glaring white light on the white tile walls and the floor seemed brighter than sunlight, for here there were no shadows. She could see every shiny black hair in Phil’s eyebrows, and the rough and smooth spots on the pipe Dannie held in his hand, unlighted. She could see the details of Richard’s hand that hung limply out of his overcoat sleeve, and she was conscious again of their incongruity with his limber, long-boned body.
They were thick, even plump looking hands, and they moved in the same inarticulate, blind way if they picked up a salt shaker or the handle of a suitcase. Or stroked her hair, she thought. The insides of his hands were extremely soft, like a girl’s, and a little moist. Worst of all, he generally forgot to clean his nails, even when he took the trouble to dress up. Therese had said something about it a couple of times to him, but she felt now that she couldn’t say anything more without irritating him.
Dannie was watching her. She was held by his thoughtful eyes for a moment, then she looked down.
“What’s the matter?” Dannie asked.
“Nothing.”
“Are you cold?”
“No. Not at all.”
But he tucked her arm closer anyway. She was cold, and felt rather miserable in general. It was the half dangling, half cemented relationship with Richard, she knew. They saw more and more of each other, without actually growing closer. She still wasn’t in love with him, not after ten months, and maybe she never could be, though the fact remained that she liked him better than any one person she had ever known, certainly any man. Sometimes she thought she was in love with him, waking up in the morning and looking blankly at the ceiling, remembering suddenly that she knew him, remembering suddenly his face shining with affection for her because of some gesture of affection on her part, before her sleepy emptiness had time to fill up with the realization of what time it was, what day, what she had to do, the soldier substance that made up one’s life. But the feeling bore no resemblance to what she had read about love. Love was supposed to be a kind of blissful insanity.
Richard didn’t act blissfully insane either, in fact.
“Oh, everything’s called St. Germain-des-Pres!” Phil shouted with a wave of his hand. “I’ll give you some addresses before you go. How long do you think you’ll be there?”
A truck with rattling, slapping chains turned in front of them, and Therese couldn’t hear Richard’s answer. Phil went into the Riker’s shop on the corner of Fifty-third Street.
“We don’t have to eat here. Phil just wants to stop a minute.” Richard squeezed her shoulder as they went in the door. “It’s a great day, isn’t it, Terry? Don’t you feel it?- It’s your first real job!”
Richard was convinced, and Therese tried hard to realize it might be a great moment. But she couldn’t recapture even the certainty she remembered when she had looked at the orange washcloth in the basin after Richard’s telephone call. She leaned against the stool next to Phil’s, and Richard stood beside her, still talking to him. The glaring white light on the white tile walls and the floor seemed brighter than sunlight, for here there were no shadows. She could see every shiny black hair in Phil’s eyebrows, and the rough and smooth spots on the pipe Dannie held in his hand, unlighted. She could see the details of Richard’s hand that hung limply out of his overcoat sleeve, and she was conscious again of their incongruity with his limber, long-boned body.
They were thick, even plump looking hands, and they moved in the same inarticulate, blind way if they picked up a salt shaker or the handle of a suitcase. Or stroked her hair, she thought. The insides of his hands were extremely soft, like a girl’s, and a little moist. Worst of all, he generally forgot to clean his nails, even when he took the trouble to dress up. Therese had said something about it a couple of times to him, but she felt now that she couldn’t say anything more without irritating him.
Dannie was watching her. She was held by his thoughtful eyes for a moment, then she looked down.