The Temple of Gold (12 page)

All this and more I knew about her at the time. I walked into what happened with my eyes open, so I haven’t got anyone to blame. No matter how hard I try to twist the facts, the fault always comes back and points straight at me.

My first contact with her, if you can call it that, was one afternoon in the Open Shelf room of the library. That was where we always studied, Harriet and me, it being a big place with two round tables, all the bestsellers, and usually some townspeople. I arrived on schedule to meet Harriet, who was to come later, being in rehearsal. It was our usual procedure, her arriving a little after me, then quizzing me on the work I was supposed to have done in her absence.

I clumped in and sprawled at the first table, dropping my books with a crash, also a procedure, for it rattled Miss Blaul, the librarian in charge. She glanced over, gave me the usual dirty look and I smiled right back at her, showing all my teeth. In her own way she was O.K., Miss Blaul, wacky of course, but all librarians get like that after a while. She’d known me for years, since the days when I wailed outside her window at night to scare her, and also my family, especially my mother, who devoured bestsellers as fast as they became one. I looked around the room and, seeing no one of interest, I opened a book, cracked the binding, and began to read.

Right then Annabelle came in.

Wearing a black cashmere sweater, open at the throat, a strand of pearls around her neck. She walked very stiff and fast, carrying a book in one hand, sitting down erect in a chair at the other table. I watched her as she walked, and when she sat down I watched her too, just stared at her, trying to think of some way to make an introduction.

It was after a few minutes, with me getting nowhere, that she stood up and left the room. Once she was gone, I quick dashed over, grabbed her book, checked the title and ran to Miss Blaul.

“Gimme
Remembrances of Things Past
, by Proust,” I said.

At which Miss Blaul started laughing.

“Please,” I said, half whispering. “I’m in a hurry.”

“You won’t like it, Raymond,” she told me, giggling away. “But why don’t you try this?” She pulled out a book. “It’s called
Murder on the Mesa
and I just know—”

“Miss Blaul,” I interrupted. “Get me that book.” Still laughing, she walked to one corner of the room, searched around a second, picked it out, came back and handed it to me.

“Let me know how you like it,” she said. “I can hardly wait.”

“Very funny,” I muttered, filling out the card, sailing it back at her. I took the book and sat down at the table where Annabelle had been. I opened it, cracked the binding, put my head about six inches from the print, and waited.

She returned, walking very fast, with quick, sharp movements, sat in the chair again, starting to read, never once looking in my direction. I fiddled around some and then, when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I cleared my throat.

“Pardon me,” I said, “but is that Proust you’re reading?”

Startled, she stared in my direction. But not at me. Over my shoulder. She nodded. Once. That was all.

“It’s a coincidence is why I ask,” I went on. “Because I’m reading Proust too.” I held up the book. “You know, I bet we’re the only people in the whole state of Illinois that are reading Proust right now.” This time she didn’t even look up. I should have stopped then, since it was pretty obvious she wasn’t being swept off her feet. But I kept on. “Do you like Proust?” I asked her.

She shrugged and went on reading.

“Do you like Athens?” I said, game to the core. “You’re new this semester, aren’t you? Do you like it much? Some do. Some don’t. I don’t. It’s probably the worst college I’ve ever been to. Of course”—and I forced a laugh—“it’s the only college I’ve ever been to, which puts me in a position to talk. I mean, if the whole place floated away one morning, I wouldn’t shed a tear.” I stopped to catch my breath and looked at her. On her face was one of those “Well, it’s time I got out of here” expressions.

“Matter of fact,” I hurried, “I don’t care much for Proust either. Matter of fact, I don’t like him at all. Not this book, anyway. I don’t like
Remembrances of Things Past
one bit.” She began sitting up. “Of course, some of his other books. Those are fine. I like some of them a lot.”

“He never wrote any other books,” Annabelle said, talking for the first time. And with that, she grabbed old Proust and whizzed on out of the Open Shelf room, leaving me there, shaking my head.

“Hooray for our sex,” I heard somebody say, and turning, I saw Harriet sitting at the other table, laughing.

“What are you doing here?” I asked her.

“Just watching a seduction,” was her answer. “Shall I tell you about it? It seems there was this boy...”

“How long you been here?” I interrupted.

“And he said to this girl: ‘Pardon me, but is that Proust you’re reading?’ ”

“The whole thing, Harriet. You saw the whole thing.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

I got up and walked over to Miss Blaul. “Here,” I told her, handing her the book. “It stinks.”

“I knew you’d like it,” she said.

I went back to Harriet. “Come on,” I told her. “I’ll buy you some coffee.”

“You know,” she whispered, making her low voice even lower, “we’re probably the only people in the whole state of Illinois that are going for coffee right now.” She started laughing again. “Honestly. I wouldn’t have missed that for the world. ‘Pardon me, but is that Proust you’re reading?’ ”

“Not too good?”

“Awful, Euripides. Just terrible.” She sighed. “But I’ll give you credit for one thing. She is beautiful.”

“Maybe so,” I said. “But you should have seen Sadie Griffin.” Then we left the library and headed downtown for coffee, Harriet giggling every step of the way.

Two afternoons later we were in Harold’s when Annabelle came in and sat down by herself.

“There’s your pen pal,” Harriet said.

“Who?” I asked, all innocence. “Where?”

“How would you like to waltz right over and apologize to her?”

“For what?”

Harriet began counting the reasons off on her fingers. “For making a fool of yourself. For probably frightening her half to death. For driving her out of the library. Enough?” She started shoving me.

“Ridiculous,” I told her. “I won’t do it.”

“I suspect otherwise,” Harriet answered, giving me one final push. I stood up. “Go on,” she whispered. “Before you lose your courage.”

Annabelle was staring down into her coffee cup when I got there, her head resting in her hands. She didn’t look up.

“I’m sorry for bothering you in the library,” I broke in. “I apologize.” I walked away.

“You didn’t bother me,” she called. I turned and faced her. She tried to smile, but smiling was never one of Annabelle’s strong points, so she didn’t quite bring it off.

“Anyway,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” she answered, sitting erect, staring past me. She always did that, stared past people. Never at them. As though there was some third person around and it was him she was looking in the eye and not you.

“That makes everything even,” I said.

“I don’t like Athens much either,” Annabelle said. And then, softer: “Can you sit down?”

“Sure,” I said, and I did. I sat there for about ten minutes while she finished her coffee, talking about not much of anything. I could see Harriet across the way, watching me, applauding and laughing, but every time I made the move to go, Annabelle started off on something else. So there wasn’t a thing I could do but wait until finally she got up and left, trying that smile again, nodding good-by. I walked back to Harriet.

“Her name is Annabelle,” I said, sitting down. “And she doesn’t like Athens. She wants to major in philosophy and the coffee here is weak.”

“And she lives in Connecticut,” Harriet said, taking up where I left off. “Her family is very rich. This is her third college. She’s five foot eight, has insomnia, and never wears a girdle.” She giggled. “Want more? I have spies.”

“No,” I said.

“And I’m proud of you,” Harriet finished, patting me on the head. “For being so polite.”

Which I may have been, but Annabelle sure wasn’t. Because the next day, when we passed her in Patriot’s Square, she didn’t even nod to me.

“Well, goddamn,” I said, turning to watch as she hurried away.

“She’s trapping you,” Harriet explained.

“Yeah,” I answered. “Well, she better watch it. It looks like I’m getting away.”

“Nonsense,” Harriet said. “Admit it. Your curiosity is aroused.”

“Not mine,” I told her, and we walked on.

But it was. And I made it a point to find her, which I did, the next afternoon, while Harriet was rehearsing. She was hurrying back from town through Patriot’s Square, going very fast, as was usual. I called out to her. She didn’t stop so I took off, cutting through the square, finally catching up.

“Why didn’t you talk to me yesterday?” I said right off.

“When?”

“You know damn well when. Yesterday.”

“I didn’t see you,” she answered, staring off at her third man.

“Why don’t you look at me?” I said.

She turned then, began walking away. I grabbed her by the arm. She shook free. The March wind was blowing strong through the square and she shivered with the cold. We were both quiet for a while.

“I’m sorry,” I said finally.

“There’s no need to apologize,” she answered. “There’s no need even to talk to me.”

“Sure there is.”

“What?”

“I’m curious.”

“Be curious with somebody else, then,” she said, starting to walk again.

“Hey,” I called out. She stopped. “What are you doing tonight?”

“What do you care?”

“I told you once. I’m curious.”

“What about the other one?”

“You let me worry about that. What are you doing tonight?”

“Not a thing,” she answered. Then she left me there.

I told Harriet the whole story a little later and whether she was mad or not I never knew, because all she did was smile, congratulate me, and head me toward the coffee shop. We didn’t talk much, mainly because I was nervous, wondering what I was going to say that night to make conversation. I thought about it all through supper, not even listening to my mother and father as they buzzed away. And when I got dressed, I thought about it too. I thought about it so much that by the time I picked Annabelle up to take her to the movies, I was as tense as she was. The way things turned out, though, it was time well wasted.

Because we didn’t say anything.

Hardly a word. I tried, at the start, on the walk downtown, to make chitchat. She never answered, but only nodded, shook her head, or shrugged as the occasion demanded. We walked very fast, and inside of a couple minutes we were at the theater. We sat down, her rigid, me slumped, and gazed at the silver screen while Gregory Peck followed that girl around Rome. Then, after the shorts, the cartoon, and the previews, we left.

Stopping for a minute out on the sidewalk. “Some coffee?” I asked. She shook her head. “Hungry?” Again the shake. “What would you like to do?”

“Go home,” she answered.

“You got it,” I said and we started off, walking even faster than before. We walked through Patriot’s Square, passed the college buildings, right up to her dorm, without a word.

“ ’Night,” I said at the door and walked away.

“Wait,” she called. I stopped, turning. “What day is today?”

“Blue Monday,” I answered.

“I’ll go out with you again next Monday,” she said.

I couldn’t help laughing. “What makes you think I’ll ask you?”

“Oh, you’ll ask me,” she said, and hurried inside.

It being still early, I headed for a bar and stayed there, drinking until it closed. Then I went home and had a few glasses of dry wine. Then, finally, to bed. But sleep was a long time coming, because I kept thinking of Annabelle and seeing her face, her throat, the way her sweater quivered when she breathed. For like Harriet had said, Annabelle was a beautiful girl.

The next day, I gave Harriet a blow-by-blow as we walked down for lunch. “And the hell of it is,” I finished up, “that I’m going to take her out next Monday.”

“It’s understandable,” Harriet said.

“But we can’t even talk to each other.”

“A very old story, Euripides. You’re just being torn between the flesh and the spirit. I,” and she curtsied, “represent the spirit.”

“Who wins?” I asked her.

“The spirit hasn’t got a chance,” she answered, and with that we went in for lunch.

So things went along as usual for the next few weeks. With just one exception. Monday nights I took out Annabelle, and I still don’t know why, exactly, seeing as our evenings together weren’t too hot. As a matter of fact, they were awful, with little talk and much tension. I took her to the movies twice and dancing once, which was really bad, seeing as she wore high heels that night and consequently was taller than I was. But I kept on, losing interest in her I suppose, though you can never be sure.

Then, toward the end of March, something special happened. Harriet had a birthday. That was the beginning. After a lot of talk, we decided not to make a big deal but just to spend a quiet evening, maybe having a decent dinner in one of the restaurants outside of town. I was to pick her up at seven, wearing a necktie, and please, would I shine my shoes. That was all she asked. Everything was set.

At about 6:30 I was getting dressed, alone in the house, when the front doorbell rang. I went to the landing and yelled that it was open and to come in. A second later, Annabelle was standing in the hallway.

“What’s up?” I asked her.

“It’s Monday,” she answered, walking up the stairs, stopping close by me, on the landing.

I fidgeted awhile. “Jesus, Annabelle,” I said finally. “I’m sorry. I’m busy.”

“But it’s Monday night,” she said again.

“I told you I was sorry.”

“Busy how?” she asked.

“Harriet’s birthday. We’re going out.”

“I suppose that takes precedence?”

“It sure does,” I said, starting back to my room. “If you want to wait around a little, I’ll drive you home.”