Revolution Number 9 Read Online Free PDF

butCharlie got involved in it and forgot about Rebecca, about the drab and the stifling, about everything except the keys at his fingers and the reed at his mouth, didn’t notice the fading light outside or hear the knock at the door. At first. Then he did hear something, and stopped playing abruptly. The music died on a vulgar note. Charlie listened, heard the knock.
    He was halfway to the door when he had a thought, probably inspired by memories of Rebecca, was suddenly afraid of who might be waiting outside. He made himself answer the door.
    It was Emily. She had the
New York Times Magazine
in her hand. “Was that you playing?”
    “If you want to call it playing.”
    “Oh, it was great,” she said. She looked up at him. “I thought you might know ‘Marilyn Monroe’s screwdriver.’ Twelve letters. I didn’t mean to—”
    “No, no,” Charlie said. “That’s all right. Come in.”
    Emily stepped over the threshold. “You call this messy?” she said; a little loudly, as though to mask some embarrassment.
    There was a silence. “ ‘Marilyn Monroe’s screwdriver,’ ” Charlie said, to break it. The answer didn’t come to mind. “Can I get you something while we think?”
    Emily took off her jacket. She was wearing an oversized sweatshirt with a purple
W
on it, and the black tights. There wasn’t much space in the hall, and as Charlie reached for the jacket, he accidently touched her breast. She reddened.
    “Coffee, maybe?” he said.
    “No thanks,” she replied. “I’d never sleep tonight.”
    The last phrase took different shapes in Charlie’s mind. “There’s Scotch,” he said. “And red wine.”
    “Wine sounds nice.”
    Charlie went into the kitchen, returned with two glasses of wine. They sat on the old corduroy couch in Charlie’s sitting room.
    “Marilyn Monroe.”
    “Her screwdriver.”
    “Do you think it has something to do with Joe DiMaggio?”
    “Joltin’ Joe?”
    Silence. They thought. Charlie remembered the picture of Marilyn Monroe standing over the subway grate, dress blown high. He said: “Do you like jazz?”
    “I don’t know much about it. But I like music.”
    “Such as?”
    “Barry Manilow.” Silence. “Especially early Manilow,” Emily added.
    “Right,” said Charlie. “Before he went experimental.” She laughed, and he walked over to the record player. “Maybe you’ll like this.” That’s when he put on Ben Webster. The huge sound, dark and potent, filled the house.
    “God,” Emily said after a cut or two, “it’s so … intimate.”
    The word hung in the air, hung there with other words like
screwdriver
and
tonight
, floated on the gorgeous sound. It was a small couch. Charlie could easily reach out and put his hand on Emily’s shoulder. He did. Then they were in each other’s arms.
    And later they were upstairs in Charlie’s bed. Once begun, Charlie had to struggle to hold himself back. It had been so long, and Emily’s warmth and heat were almost too much for him. He rose into a little tunnel-shaped world where the climate was tropical and there was only her and him and the air smelled like red wine and moaned in their ears. Then came a tremor that passed from her to him, and slowly Charlie slipped back down to the big world.
    “You’re so strong,” Emily said. “I’ve never been with such a … not that I—”
    “It’s just steroids,” Charlie said, rescuing her.
    The second time was slower, more connecting, more … intimate, like Ben Webster. Downstairs, where the automatic repeat button had been accidently pressed, the dead man kept playing, prodding them to fall in love, or at least keep jazzing, in the true meaning of the word.
    · · ·
    Charlie awoke, not at first light as he always did, like an alert creature on the savannah, but somewhat later. Emily lay sleeping on her side, face slack, mouth a little open, unglamorous,beautiful. He could smell her breath: red wine and sex. He sniffed it in deeply.
    Charlie got