My friend listens breathlessly as I describe with cruel precision the way she came along, sashaying and hip-wiggling, how she affected incredibly phony theatrical nonchalance as she called out “Hi!” in the guttural tone of her sophomore Americanese, with the jaw-dropping cheerleader smile that revealed all her immaculate glowing toothpaste-commercial teeth back to the molars. The way she didn’t even bother holding out her cheek for a kiss (after all, I am her date tonight, am I not?) as she zoomed past, wantonly purposeful as a bumblebee in flight, and headed toward the handsome Pole’s desk and instantly got on the telephone. The way I waited for her, holding my bridal bouquet of roses stiff in my lap, clumsy as a provincial beau at his first gallant rendezvous. The way I was forced to listen to her talking on the phone with somebody I didn’t know, of whose existence I had had no inkling whatsoever until that moment. The way she said with desperate woe, “No, no! You can’t leave me like that! You know I love you!” And the way I felt nothing, absolutely nothing, not the feeblest sting of jealousy, not even curiosity about whom she was saying it to (for at last it was not tormenting conjecture but certainty, reality). . .

The way she then finally came to me, wordlessly taking the roses and following me out to the car—all this with the robotic motion and lifeless visage of a hypnotized woman. (I couldn’t see her eyes behind the monstrous glasses under the brim of that blasted stump, but I knew every feature of hers so well that I could read the sorrow in the tip of her nose, beneath which incidentally was her mouth, now the mouth of a tired child made up for carnival: the festival had not been the expected happy delirium but, rather, wild and noisy and chaotic, full of crudeness, gloating malevolence; now, it’s over, the dream is dreamed out.)

She did not reply when I asked whether I should take her to dinner, to the movies, or elsewhere. To a dance café perhaps? Home? Where was that? In our—in her apartment in the rue Jacob? Whom was I talking to? Whom was I thinking of? Did she want to go to bed perhaps? A tasteful idea . . . Finally, since I knew she enjoyed riding in an open car, I drove her to the Bois de Boulogne.

Ah, splendid! A starry sky over the rustling backdrop of black foliage, silhouettes that looked cut out of tin. In the daytime, it’s probably bright and green during this season. Nature. Calms the nerves. Relax, my love.

Naturally the cars coming our way flashed their headlights at us. One even did a U-turn behind us, caught up, and cut us off, so that I had to slam on the brakes. Two guys got out, leaving their girls inside. But I knew what they wanted, so I waved them off and drove around them and on until we were off the main road. (One of the men, incidentally, had let out an appreciative whistle when he saw what was visible of Dawn under the black mushroom.)