We'll Always Have Paris Read Online Free PDF Page A

stomach. There was a long
    slash scar over his heart, and a little one on his neck. And on his back, as if a dragonhad pulled its talons across in a furious raveling, a series of
    terrible furrows.
    Mr Bentley stood with his tongue between his lips, his hands open.
    ‘Come in,’ said Mr Hill.
    Bentley did not move.
    ‘You’re up late.’
    ‘Just looking at myself. Vanity, vanity.’
    ‘Those scars, all those scars.’
    ‘There are a few, aren’t there?’
    ‘So many. My God, I’ve never seen scars like that. How did you get them?’
    Hill went on preening and feeling and caressing himself, stripped to the
    waist. ‘Well, now maybe you can guess.’ He winked and smiled friendlily.
    ‘How did you get them?!’
    ‘You’ll wake your wife.’
    ‘Tell me!’
    ‘Use your imagination, man.’
    He exhaled and inhaled and exhaled again.
    ‘What can I do for you, Mr Bentley?’
    ‘I’ve come—’
    ‘Speak up.’
    ‘I want you to move out.’
    ‘Oh now, Bentley.’
    ‘We need this room.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘My wife’s mother is coming to visit.’
    ‘That’s a lie.’
    Bentley nodded. ‘Yes. I’m lying.’
    ‘Why don’t you say it? You want me to leave, period.’
    ‘Right.’
    ‘Because you’re afraid of me.’
    ‘No, I’m not afraid.’
    ‘Well, what if I told you I wouldn’t leave?’
    ‘No, you couldn’t do that.’
    ‘Well, I could, and I am.’
    ‘No, no.’
    ‘What are we having for breakfast, ham and eggs again?’ He craned his neck to
    examine that little scar there.
    ‘Please say you’ll go,’ asked Mr Bentley.
    ‘No,’ said Mr Hill.
    ‘Please.’
    ‘There’s no use begging. You make yourself look silly.’
    ‘Well, then, if you stay here, let’s call off the bet.’
    ‘Why call it off?’
    ‘Because.’
    ‘Afraid of yourself?’
    ‘No, I’m not!’
    ‘Shh.’ He pointed to the wall. ‘Your wife.’
    ‘Let’s call off the bet. Here. Here’s my money. You win!’ He groped
    frantically into his pocket and drew forth the two dimes. He threw them on the dresser,
    crashing. ‘Take them! You win! I could commit murder, I could, I admit it.’
    Mr Hill waited a moment, and without looking at thecoins, put his fingers down on the dresser, groped, found them, picked them up,
    clinked them, held them out. ‘Here.’
    ‘I don’t want them back!’ Bentley retreated to the doorway.
    ‘Take them.’
    ‘You win!’
    ‘A bet is a bet. This proves nothing.’
    He turned and came to Bentley and dropped them in Bentley’s shirt pocket and
    patted them. Bentley took two steps back into the hall. ‘I do not make bets idly,’ Hill
    said.
    Bentley stared at those terrible scars. ‘How many other people have you made
    this bet with!’ he cried. ‘How many?!’
    Hill laughed. ‘Ham and eggs, eh?’
    ‘How many?! How many?!’
    ‘See you at breakfast,’ said Mr Hill.
    He shut the door. Mr Bentley stood looking at it. He could see the scars
    through the door, as if by some translucency of the eye and mind. The razor scars. The knife
    scars. They hung in the paneling, like knots in old wood.
    The light went out behind the door.
    He stood over the body and he heard the house waking up, rushing, the feet
    down the stairs, the shouts, the half screams and stirrings. In a moment, people would be
    flooding around him. In a moment, there’d be a sirenand a
    flashing red light, the car doors slamming, the snap of manacles to the fleshy wrists, the
    questions, the peering into his white, bewildered face. But now he only stood over the body,
    fumbling. The gun had fallen into the deep, good-smelling night grass. The air was still
    charged with electricity but the storm was passing, and he was beginning to notice things
    again. And there was his right hand, all by itself, fumbling about like a blind mole, digging,
    digging senselessly at his shirt pocket until it found what it wanted. And he felt his gross
    weight bend, stoop, almost fall, as he almost rushed down over the body.