Loser Takes Al

“Of course.” He got up promptly to serve me. Leaning over his little bar, with his wide patriarchal back turned to me, he said, “Do not mind talking. We are not on the eighth floor now. Two men on holiday. Friends I hope. Drink. There is no harm, if one is unhappy, in being a little drunk.”

I was a little drunk—more than a little. I couldn’t keep my voice steady when I said, “My wife isn’t coming. She’s left me.”

“A quarrel?”

“Not a real quarrel. Not words you can deny or forget.”

“Is she in love with someone else?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps.”

“Tell me. I can’t help. But one needs a listener.” Using the pronoun ‘one’ he made mine a general condition from which all men were destined to suffer. ‘One’ is born, ‘one’ dies, ‘one’ loses love. I told him everything—except what I had come to the boat to tell him. I told him of our coffee-and-roll lunches, of my winnings, of the hungry student and the Bird’s Nest. I told him of our words over the waiter, I told him of her simple statement, “I don’t like you any more.” I even (it seems incredible to me now) showed him her letter.

He said, “I am very sorry. If I had not been—delayed, this would not have happened. On the other hand you would not have won all this money.”

I said, “Damn the money.”

“That is very easy to say. I have said it so often myself. But here I am—” he waved his hand round the little modest saloon that it took a very rich man to afford. “If I had meant what I said. I wouldn’t be here.”

“I do mean it.”

“Then you have hope.”

“She may be sleeping with him at this moment.”

“That does not destroy hope. So often one has discovered how much one loves by sleeping with another.”

“What shall I do?”

“Have a cigar.”

“I don’t like them.”

“You will not mind—” He lit one himself. “These too cost money. Certainly I do not like money—who could? The coins are badly designed and the paper is unclean. Like newspapers picked up in a public park, but I like cigars, this yacht, hospitality, and I suppose, I am afraid, yes,” he added lowering his cigar-point like a flag, “power.” I had even forgotten that he no longer had it. “One has to put up with this money.”

“Do you know where they will be?” he asked me.

“Celebrating, I imagine—on coffee and rolls.”

“I have had four wives. Are you sure you want her back?”

“Yes.”

“It can be very peaceful without them.”

“I’m not looking for peace—yet.”

“My second wife—I was still young then—she left me, and I made the mistake of winning her back. It took me years to lose her again after that. She was a good woman. It is not easy to lose a good woman. If one must marry it is better to marry a bad woman.”

“I did the first time and it wasn’t much fun.”

“How interesting.” He took a long pull and watched the smoke drift and dissolve. “Still, it didn’t last. A good woman lasts. Blixon is married to a good woman. She sits next to him in the pew on Sundays, thinking about the menu for dinner. She is an excellent housekeeper and has great taste in interior decoration. Her hands are plump—she says proudly that they are good pastry hands—but that is not what a woman’s hands should be for. She is a moral woman and when he leaves her during the week, he feels quite secure. But he has to go back, that is the terrible thing, he has to go back.”

“Cary isn’t that good.” I looked at the last of my whisky. “I wish to hell you could tell me what to do.”

“I am too old and the young would call me cynical. People don’t like reality. They don’t like common sense. Until age forces it on them. I would say—bring your bags, forget the whole matter—my whisky supply is large, for a few days anaesthetize yourself. I have some most agreeable guests coming on board tomorrow at Portofino—you will like Celia Charteris very much. At Naples there are several bordels if you find celibacy difficult. I will telephone to the office extending your leave. Be content with adventure. And don’t try to domesticate adventure.”

I said, “I want Cary. That’s all. Not adventure.”

“My second wife left me because she said I was too ambitious. She didn’t realize that it is only the dying who are free from ambition. And they probably have the ambition to live. Some men disguise their ambition—that’s all. I was in a position to help this young man my wife loved. He soon showed his ambition then. There are different types of ambition—that is all, and my wife found she preferred mine. Because it was limitless. They do not feel the infinite as an unworthy rival, but for a man to prefer the desk of an assistant manager—that is an insult.” He looked mournfully at his long cigar-ash. “All the same one should not meddle.”

“I would do anything…”

“Your wife is romantic. This young man’s poverty appeals to her. I think I see a plan. Help yourself to another drink while I tell it to you…”

PART THREE

ONE