THE ENGLISH GARDENS
In dull domestic radiance
I watch her staring face, still blind,
Start wincing in obedience
To dirty waters, counters, pots and pans,
Waiting below stairs, in her mind.
221
Mary
Jane took the page from
him
and began reading it, moving
her lips with the words. "Oh, it's that myth, about Orpheus and
... What
is
her name? I can never pronounce it." She repeated
"Eurydice." The third time rather urgently. But with her hand
poem again. She raised her face and nodded, "It's sweet, and
very sad." They discussed the way people never tell each other
the things on their minds. They finished the small bottle of
Steinhager. She confessed she was unhappy, he asked was it her
husband? She began to explain, "There was this poet, in Italy
. . ." He interrupted, "Please don't judge
all
poets." They
smiled.
At her door, two or three hours later,
Mary
Jane whispered,
"Everyone is asleep." Kissing her he whispered, several times,
"Eurydice." The third time rather urgently. But with her hand
softly on his cheek for a last moment, she closed the door and
he went back down the haIl and into his bed excited, expectant,
and finally faintly grinning with the feel of her hand against his
mouth.
The next morning, promptly, when the American Express
opened its glass doors, Nicolas appeared and demanded his mail.
He was suspicious of the place because someone along the way
had said, "Get your mail there but don't let them change your
money." This kind of advice appealed to Nicolas and he followed
it so faithfully he was hardly able to be civil to the
girl
behind the
mail desk. He had a suspicion that they held mail back until they
had an opportunity to check it with Authorities (nameless). He
always examined it in front of the clerk, blocking others who were
waiting, smiling in a knowing way as he studied the sealed flaps.
