“By me,” said the violinist. They were happier. The game was on again.

“Honey? Let’s go with the ashtray.”

So she hadn’t emptied it yet. His fouled and broken cigarettes. I was at the apartment door.

“Asher,” the girl said.

She meant me to wait. I turned at the door.

Michael was looking up at her, the cards fanned open in his hand.

“Empty it, baby,” he said gently.

I watched her go to the table. “I’ll empty it, Michael,” she said. She turned the ashtray upside down and a dust arose. Michael didn’t move.

“There,” she said. “It’s emptied.”

37

“Shall I open the window?”

“Yes.”

“Enough?”

“The snow’s blowing in.”

“Yes.”

“We’ll be buried. Oh, God. The chambermaid will come in in the morning and find us buried in the snow.”

“She’ll just change the linen.”

“I’m freezing, Asher.”

“Shall I close the window?”

“B-r-r. Y-e-s.”

I closed the window. I went back to bed. I left the drapes open so we could see the snow.

“The bed’s cold.”

“It’ll get warm.”

“Your feet are ice.”

“Warm them.”

She did. I watched the snow. The swirls were not as thick.

“He looked so funny.”

“Who?”

“Michael.”

“We agreed not to talk about Michael.”

“But he looked funny. Didn’t he? Ashes. In his hair. Is that a pun?”

“Michael exhausted all the puns there are.”

“I just couldn’t stand him humiliating you.”

“He was humiliating you, too, darling.”

“Oh. That’s different.”

“Yes? Well. I’m more sensitive to it, I guess. It has a tendency, apparently, to wind up for me in some peculiar humiliation.”

“Don’t talk like that, Asher.”

“Oh: it’s my kind of pillow-chat.”

“I don’t like it. I don’t like to think of you thinking of yourself as humiliated.”

“I don’t mind it.”

“You should.”

“Possibly. It’s just that in thinking about myself I’ve gotten willing to accept the idea that my life has consisted of nothing but a succession of humiliations, some more disguised than others. It’s very possible, darling, that I’m ridiculous and don’t know it.”

“You’re not.”

“Oh, there’s nothing so terrible about it.”

“There is. I don’t like it.”

“Because you’re young and you don’t have cold feet. Or cold anything.”

“No.”

“Yes. Growing old is just growing afraid.”

“Afraid?”

“Oh. A pain here: a pain there. Portents. You wait for them.”

“This is nicer than being afraid, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“Being in bed. In a big hotel. And it’s snowing.”

“That’s among the nicest.”

She snuggled closer. She sighed. The bed was all warm. I looked at her.

“What eyes you have, granddaughter.”

“I’m nearsighted.”

“So smooth. Smoother than Noriko.”

“Noriko?”

“A girl. In Japan. At a place called the Cherry Club. I thought of her recently.”

“She was smooth?”

“She shaved. All over.”

“Ugh.”

“Well: it was sort of odd. There should be hair, I suppose. Are you warm?

“Yes.”

“Warm, and beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“Eyes like a what? I never can think of a simile.”

“Eyes like big.”

“Yes. And breasts like marvelous. And legs like wonderful.”