the table, he was sitting there staring forward. He did not greet her, or rise to help her with her chair. As if any of that mattered. He started talking.
"I still don't understand any of it. Truly I don't. She didn't seem mad at all, really."
This was excruciating, but she forced herself to listen.
"I mean, there was something sombre and sad about her," he said." I only know that I loved her. And that she loved me." He turned to Julie." Do you believe what I'm saying?"
"Yes, I do," she said.
"You know, she said the strangest things. She said that she hadn't planned to love me! But it had happened, and you know, I told her I knew just what she meant. I 'd never thought I... I mean, it was altogether different. As if all your life You've thought that pink roses were red roses!"
"Yes, I know."
"And that tepid water was hot."
"Yes."
"Did you get a good look at her? Did you see how beautiful she was?"
"It's not going to help to dwell on it. You can't make her come back."
"I knew I would lose her. I knew from the start. I don't know why. I simply knew it. She wasn't of this world, do you understand? And yet she was the world more truly than anything I 'd ever..."
"I know."
He stared forward; he appeared to be looking at the other diners; the black-jacketed waiters moving about; maybe listening to the hushed civilized voices. Almost entirely a British ship. There seemed something utterly revolting about that.
"It's possible to forget!" she said suddenly." It is possible, I know that it is."
"Yes, forget it," he said, and he smiled coldly, though not at her in particular." Forget it," he repeated." That's what we'll do. You'll forget Ramsey, as clearly something's happened to separate you. And I'll forget her. And we will go through the motions of living as if we had never loved like that, either of us. You and Ramsey and I with her."
Julie found herself looking at him in mild shock. She narrowed her eyes.
"The motions of living!" she whispered." What a horrible thing to say."
He hadn't even heard her. He had picked up the fork and started eating, or rather picking at the food. Going through the motions of eating it.
She sat there trembling, looking down at the plate.
It was dark outside now. A blue light shone through the slatted blinds. Walter had come again to ask him if he wanted supper. He had said no. Only to be alone.
He sat in his robe and slippers, looking at the flask on the table. It shimmered in the darkness. The note lay where he had left it, beside the flask.
Finally he got up to dress. It took him several minutes, because each part of it made some special demand on his patience, but finally it was finished. He had on his grey wool, a bit too heavy for the days here, yet perfect for the night.
And then he went to the table, leaning on his cane with his left hand, and lifted the flask with his right. He put the flask in his inside pocket, where it just barely fit, making a weight against his chest.
Then he went out. The pain in his leg grew worse after he had walked a short distance from Shepheard's. But he continued, now and then shifting the cane to the other side to see if that made it any better. He stopped when he had to; then when he'd caught his breath he moved on.
In about an hour, he'd reached old Cairo. He made his way through the alleyways, aimlessly. He did not search for Malenka's house. He merely walked. And walked. By midnight, his left foot was numb again. But it didn't matter.
Everywhere that he walked, he looked at things. He looked at walls, and doors, and people's faces; he stopped in front of cabarets and listened to the dissonant music. Now and then he glimpsed a belly dancer going through her seductive little performance. Once he paused to listen to a man playing a flute.
He didn't linger very long anywhere, except when he was very tired; then he sat, and sometimes even dozed. The night was quiet; peaceful. It seemed to harbor none of the dangers of London.
As two o'clock came he was still walking. He had covered the medieval city, and he was moving back to the newer districts again.