And late one afternoon at Thirty Three Golf Street when the cigar shop man was bringing in the statue of his redskin chained outside his store, and the lights were flicking off high up, and Smith with a warm feeling like the sad taste of goodbye, looked up as Miss Tomson was leaving his office.
"Miss Tomson."
"Yesh."
"Miss Tomson, don't mind my asking you a question."
"No."
"It's about you."
"Sure, what about me."
"Why were you out looking for a job when you came to me."
"I got jilted."
"I don't want to pry into anything as personal as that."
"Sure pry if you want."
'Well, if I might perhaps ask were you terribly hurt by this."
"Let's say I was amazed by it."
"O."
"I was the cheapest thrill he was ever likely to get in his life."
"Please don't feel you have to tell me more. I'm surprised you were jilted."
"Well I wasn't really. Some guy started writing me poems and I thought they were kind a cute. So the guy I'm giving the cheapest thrill he was ever likely to get which was costing him a fortune I admit, hears of this and said get rid of this poetic curiosity and I said no. And then he asked for the gold key back."
"I take it, Miss Tomson, this gold key was to a nest somewhere."
"Nice way to put it Mr. Smith but it didn't have a cosy quality."
"Pardon me for using your jiltor's reference, but what happened to the poetic curiosity."
"He left. I used to feed him and drive him around in the car the jiltor gave me as a present. When I gave the jiltor the car back, the poetic curiosity took off south where he said it was warmer."
"Although I don't want to suggest this if you think otherwise, the poetic curiosity was really the jiltor."
"Yesh, put it that way. But he used to give me laughs."
"I see."
"Do crazy things like taking an orange and tying it to the cat's tail. He was full of deals too to make lots of money until he said he didn't have time to think if I wasn't able to support him. He was like you in some ways, had no taste at all/'
And hatless George Smith would go home. Out of the dark shadows of Golf Street to die lighted highway streaming with cars. A little pedestrian bridge to stand over watching them zoom by underneath.
3
AT four this Friday George Smith walked along Golf Street and west across town on the cold evening pavements. The tall buildings alight, long dangling jewels. Threading through the hurrying shopping throng and river of cars. Under the dingy trellis of the elevated train, down a street of dusty book shops. And out upon a splashing fountain and the great dark oasis of winter trees in the park.
The marble lobby of The Game Club was full of hearty handshakes and members' backslaps. Lights twinkling with Christmas, the gift counter piled with white teddy bears and boxes of beribboned candies. Miss Tom-son said she loved to hug soft things and taste the sweet. And as I left number Thirty Three I said see you my apartment at seven.
Smith after a few quick sparring rounds with the instructor followed by a beginner's lesson in wrestling, retired to the smoke room where he quaffed a tall beer overlooking the darkened park. Flagging a taxi back to Merry Mansions. The doorman with a brisk salute. Handing across an envelope.
"For you sir."
"Thank you, Hugo."
Safely inside Merry Mansions. Don't like the look of this envelope. Relax. Miss Tomson will be here soon. Have another little rosner.
"Matilda."
"Good evening Mr. Smith."
"Get me a whisky. And two omelettes. Miss Tomson will be here shortly to eat with me."
"Leave the garlic out, Mr. Smith."
"Leave it in."
"If that's the way you want it."
"Just get me the drink, please."
Soon as Miss Tomson is mentioned Matilda's good natured fat frizzles. When she first saw Miss Tomson there was a half hour's heavy breathing coming from the kitchen, as I attempted to be an attentive host. Lifting the fur from Miss Tomson's shoulder. Tying up Goliath to a leg of the marble table in the hall. Then a crash from the kitchen. Matilda trampling the delfinrage. Miss Tomson looking all about saying, not bad, not bad, not bad at all, strictly not what I expected Mr. Smith. And at this cosy interval the hall table crashed with my Tang pot. Miss Tomson put her hand to her mouth. I was up and