220
DAVID JACKSON
she sat down opposite him-spoken in a low voice, came across
with coolnesses of intelligence and control. Meredith began
falling in love.
Soup: "Only this morning"; veal cutlets: "Oh, I couldn't
possibly eat all this!"; wine: "Then you were typing poems this
afternoon?"; fruit compote:
"If
you think I would understand
it"; a smile.
"What a beautiful room. Like . . .
as if
it were built of
books."
Having opened the windows onto the terrace, lit the fire,
translated the motto, Meredith grinned and took down a little
triplet of books bound together in old calfskin. Opening these
he brought out a schnapps bottle and small gold thimble-sized
glasses hidden inside it. "I think the maids tipple in the after–
noon."
"Those sweet girls? Oh ... you're joking. It tastes a little
like poppyseed. What's its name?
Steinhiiger
..."
She whispered
Steinhiiger
to herself, several times, memorizing it. "Would you
first read the poem aloud to me and then let me read it to my–
self?" Meredith's voice was always deep, with rough bass notes
in it; in reading, on platforms, even in the large auditorium of
the Y.M.H.A., Poetry Center nights, his voice was intimate,
thoughtful, and a trifle shy. His new poem, a love poem, told of
a young husband leading his wife upstairs to the bedroom when
the lights in the house have failed. The husband points the steps
out with his flashlight:
Its white sta're filling her pale eyes
To the blind brim with appetite,
Bleaching her hands that grazed my thighs
And sent us from the table in surprise
To let the dishes soak all night,
(Mary Jane ,asked herself
if
Meredith was blushing at this line,
or was it the fire?) But he read on. In the bedroom before the
husband and wife find their way to the bed, the lights go on:
