Conrad Aiken - The Collected Short Stories of Conrad Aiken

Miss Houston was a disapointment, as far as mystery was concerned; she was a nice enough girl of twenty-four or -five, dark, with level gray eyes, somewhat awkward and mannerless. Faulkner gathered that she had only recently been “taken up” by Mrs. Ulrich, and that they didn’t know each other particularly well. It came out that she was a teacher of singing in Albany. It was evident that Mrs. Ulrich had romanticized her. Still, she was a pleasant enough creature, and knew Bach from Beethoven; and within a few minutes of the introduction she and Faulkner had formed a sort of alliance against the Ulrichs. Faulkner felt that if they should want to they could make the Ulrichs very uncomfortable.

“You studied music in Paris?” he said.

“No, in London. I was there for two years.”

“Lucky woman! I had two months there, in a college vacation once, and I think it was the most exciting two months of my life. I had a room in Gray’s Inn.”

“In Gray’s Inn! How simply delicious!… I lived in Lamb’s Conduit Street—don’t you love the names they give their streets?—and I often used to walk through the Inn.”

Mrs. Ulrich, smiling a little constrainedly, turned to see if the cocktails were coming. The waiter was just arriving, with a double round, as ordered. Faulkner felt that she was glad of the interruption.

“Well, here’s looking at us,” said Ulrich.

The cocktails were as good as Ulrich had said; they drank two apiece, and then ordered a third, and after that came the beer and the fish. A phonograph squealed “The Cat’s Whiskers” at the far end of the room, and two girls went down the gangway to a canoe by the float, fussed over some cushions, and paddled off on the lake. The water was like glass—pale pink with the reflected light of a waning sunset. One of the girls trailed her bare arm in the water.

Mrs. Ulrich was flushed and excited, and determined to make conversation with Faulkner; she was aggressive about it, challenging, and Faulkner began to be annoyed.

“My husband says you come from New York,” she said. “Don’t you find it dull here in the country after living in New York?”

“Oh, it might be worse,” said Faulkner.

“I’m sure you don’t really mean that.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

Mrs. Ulrich straightened her mouth to a thin line.

“How can you?… After all the luxuries and excitements you’ve been used to in New York! Goodness—there are times when I think I shall go mad.”

“Oh. You come from New York too?”

“Well, no, but I’ve been there a good deal; and I’m very fond of it. I’ve always tried to make a point of going down at least twice a year. I have a great many friends there, you see.”

Mrs. Ulrich seemed a little confused as she said this, and looked uneasily at her husband and then quickly away again. Something in her behavior suggested to Faulkner that she was lying. But why should she take the trouble to lie about so trifling a thing?

“You probably know the city a good deal better than I do, then,” he said. “It’s always the occasional visitor who takes the cream off it, you know.”

“Some people have all the luck,” sighed Miss Houston. “I’ve been to New York just twice in my life—when I sailed to Europe and when I came back.”

“Don’t you think Fifth Avenue is simply wonderful?…” Mrs. Ulrich disregarded Miss Houston’s interpolation, and addressed herself again to Faulkner. “And Broadway at night, with all those wonderful lights, and the crowds, and always the chance that you’ll see a gang murder, or a girl being enticed by the White Slavers! It’s so romantic, don’t you think? I never can get enough of it.”

Ulrich looked at his wife, cleared his throat somewhat loudly, and then dropped his eyes. He seemed embarrassed.

“And the shops! My goodness! I always want to buy everything. And the theaters!… Well, the truth is I really regard myself as a New Yorker, nowadays, I’ve been there so much, and know it all so well.”

Faulkner was polite.

“Where do you usually stay?” he said.

“Oh, I’ve tried a good many of the hotels”—her tone was a little vague—“but I guess I’ve been more to the Belmont than to any of the others. Or is it the Biltmore? I never can keep those names straight, they’re so much alike, you know. I guess it’s the Belmont. Yes, it’s the Belmont.”

“Let’s see; the Belmont.” Faulkner frowned a little, reflecting. “I’m afraid I don’t just remember where that is. It’s pretty far downtown, isn’t it? Near the Square?”

“Well, it’s not easy to describe, but I think so, yes. Quite near the Square. But of course it’s very centrally situated, and very comfortable. Expensive, you know—but very good.”

“Washington Square?”

“Yes, Washington Square. That was it, of course.”

Miss Houston looked perplexed.

“Oh, but I thought—” she began to say.

Mrs. Ulrich interrupted her rapidly. She dropped her hand on Miss Houston’s and gave it an affectionate squeeze.

“My dear, you really ought to cultivate the habit of going down there for your shopping! There’s nothing else like it. I don’t believe London is in it with New York.… Do you think so, Mr. Faulkner? The buildings are so wonderful!”

Miss Houston glanced anxiously at Faulkner.

“Architecturally,” he said, “some of them are very fine. I’ve always particularly liked Gimbels’, with that tower of pink stone and the golden turret—especially at night. And its position is so commanding, too, there by Central Park. Don’t you think so?”

“Beautiful,” sighed Mrs. Ulrich. “Simply beautiful.”

“Though just why they should have put the Museum right bang beside it, so overshadowed by it, I can’t imagine. Don’t you think it was a mistake?”

Mrs. Ulrich nodded rapidly.

“ Great mistake,” she said. “Not that I was ever one to care much about museums!… Me for the bright lights, and Coney Island! I’m afraid I’m rather a flibbertygibbet. Ralph always says so, don’t you, Ralph?”

Ulrich smiled obediently.

“Did you ever take the tunnel over to Staten Island?” asked Faulkner.

“Let me see …” Mrs. Ulrich deliberated, tilting her head to one side. “Yes, I think I did—in fact, several times.” She nodded rapidly again, remembering. “Oh, yes. In fact, I think I can say that I know my way about the city as well as anybody.”

“What about another round of cocktails?” suggested Ulrich. “Any bidders? We might as well get tight.”

There was a pause in the conversation while the cocktails were brought; and Faulkner began to feel a little drunk, just drunk enough to be reckless. He stretched out his legs under the table, and smiled.

“You know,” he said, looking genially at Mrs. Ulrich, “I suspect you’ve never been to New York in your life.”

Mrs. Ulrich turned scarlet.

“Why, what do you mean!… I guess you’re kidding me!” She gave a little laugh. “Haven’t I been telling you all this time that I’m a regular New Yorker?”

There was a silence. Faulkner half turned toward the lake and looked through the screen at the darkening water. He saw a canoe a little way off with a rosy Japanese lantern in it.

“Your details are singularly inaccurate,” he said.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Faulkner, but I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.… Ralph, don’t you think it’s time we were starting back?…”

Ulrich looked at his watch.

“What’s the rush?” he said.

“That Staten Island tunnel”—said Faulkner—“doesn’t exist, for example.”

Mrs. Ulrich glared at him, flushing again; she tried to look him firmly in the eyes.