THE
MAGIC BARREL
599
ing, or enjoying a cup of tea, his eyes fell on the manila envelope,
but he never opened it.
The days went by and no social life to speak of developed with
a member of the opposite sex-it was difficult, given the circum–
stances of his situation. One morning Leo toiled up the stairs to
his
room and stared out the window at the city. Although the day was
bright his view of it was dark. For some time he watched the people
in the street below hurrying along and then turned with a heavy
heart to his little room. On the table was the packet. With a sudden
relentless gesture he tore it open. For a half-hour he stood there, in
a state of excitement, examining the photographs of the ladies Salz–
man had included. Finally, with a deep sigh he put them down.
There were six, of varying degrees of attractiveness, but look at them
long enough and they all became Lily Hirschorn: all past their prime,
all starved behind bright smiles, not a true personality in the lot.
Life, despite their anguished struggles and frantic yoohooings, had
passed them by; they were photographs in a briefcase that stank of
fish. After a while, however, as Leo attempted to return the pictures
into the envelope, he found another in it, a small snapshot of the
type taken by a machine for a quarter. He gazed at it a moment
and let out a cry.
Her face deeply moved him. Why, he could at first not say. It
gave him the impression of youth-all spring flowers, yet age-a
sense of having been used to the bone, wasted; this all came from
the eyes, which were hauntingly familiar, yet absolutely strange. He
had a strong impression that he had met her before, but try as he
might he could not place her, although he could almost recall her
name, as
if
he had read it written in her own handwriting. No, this
couldn't be; he would have remembered her. It was not, he affirmed,
that she had an extraordinary beauty-no, although her face was at–
tractive enough; it was that
something
about her moved him. Feature
for feature, even some of the ladies of the photographs could do
better; but she leaped forth to the heart-had lived, or wanted to–
more than just wanted, perhaps regretted it-had somehow deeply
suffered: it could be seen in the depths of those reluctant eyes, and
from the way the light enclosed and shone from her, and within
her, opening whole realms of possibility: this was her own. Her he
desired. His head ached and eyes narrowed with the intensity of his
