He did not notice the old used steel of his eyes nor the small, long extending laugh wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, nor that his broken nose was like a gladiator’s in the oldest statues. Nor did he notice his basically kind mouth which could be truly ruthless.
The hell with you, he said to the mirror. You beat-up, miserable. Should we rejoin the ladies?
He went out from the bathroom into the room, and he was as young as at his first attack. Every worthless thing had been left in the bathroom. As always, he thought. That’s the place for it.
Où sont les neiges d’antan? Où sont les neiges d’autre-fois? Dans le pissoir toute la chose comme ça.
The girl whose first name was Renata, had the doors of the tall armoire open. They were all mirrored inside and she was combing her hair.
She was not combing it for vanity, nor to do to the Colonel what she knew it could and would do. She was combing it with difficulty and without respect, and, since it was very heavy hair and as alive as the hair of peasants, or the hair of the beauties of the great nobility, it was resistant to the comb.
“The wind made it very tangled,” she said. “Do you love me still?”
“Yes,” the Colonel said. “May I help you?”
“No, I’ve done it all my life.”
“You could stand sidewise.”
“No. All contours are for our five sons and for your head to rest on.”
“I was only thinking of the face,” the Colonel said. “But thank you for calling my attention. My attention has been faulty again.”
“I am over bold.”
“No,” the Colonel said. “In America, they make such things of wire and of sponge-rubber, such as you use in the seats of tanks. You never know there, whether there is any truth in the matter, unless you are a bad boy as I am.”
“Here it is not that way,” she said, and, with the comb, swung her now parted hair forward so that it came below the line of her cheek, and slanting back, hung over her shoulders.
“Do you like it neat?”
“It’s not too neat but it is damn lovely.”
“I could put it up and all that sort of thing if you value neatness. But I cannot manage hairpins and it seems so silly.” Her voice was so lovely and it always reminded him of Pablo Casals playing the cello that it made him feel as a wound does that you think you cannot bear. But you can bear anything, he thought.
“I love you very much the way you are,” the Colonel said. “And you are the most beautiful woman I have ever known, or seen, even in paintings by good painters.”
“I wonder why the portrait has not come.”
“The portrait is lovely to have,” the Colonel said, and now he was a General again without thinking of it. “But it is like skinning a dead horse.”
“Please don’t be rough,” the girl said. “I don’t feel at all like being rough tonight.”
“I slipped into the jargon of my sale métier.”
“No,” she said. “Please put your arms around me. Gently and well. Please. It is not a dirty trade. It is the oldest and the best, although most people who practice it are unworthy.”
He held her as tight as he could without hurting and she said, “I would not have you be a lawyer nor a priest. Nor sell things. Nor be a great success. I love you to be in your trade and I love you. Please whisper to me if you wish.”
The Colonel whispered; holding her tight, and with his heart broken, honestly and fairly, in his whisper that was as barely audible as a silent dog whistle heard close to the ear, “I love you, devil. And you’re my Daughter, too. And I don’t care about our losses because the moon is our mother and our father. And now let’s go down to dinner.”
He whispered this last so low that it was inaudible to anyone who did not love you.
“Yes,” the girl said. “Yes. But kiss me once more first.”