She brought the coffee over on a little tray. Right after this I’m going to take a shower, she said. Do you mind?
I laughed. Yes, Chenault, I forbid you to use the shower.
She smiled, and when she finished her coffee she went into the bathroom and I heard the water turn on. I went to the kitchen for another cup of coffee. I felt slightly indecent, wearing nothing but my shorts, and decided to get dressed before she came out of the shower. First I went downstairs to get the paper. As I came back through the door I heard her call from the bathroom: Paul, can you come here a minute?
I went over and opened the door, thinking she would have the curtain pulled. She didn’t, and greeted me with a big smile. I feel human again, she exclaimed. Aren’t I beautiful? She stepped out of the stream of water and faced me, lifting her arms like a model demonstrating some new and unusual soap. There was such a weird, nymphet egotism about her stance that I had to laugh.
Come on in, she said happily. This is wonderful!
I stopped laughing and there was an odd silence. I heard a gong somewhere in the back of my brain, and then a melodramatic voice saying, And this concludes The Adventures of Paul Kemp, the Drunken Journalist. He read the signs and saw it coming, but he was too much of a lecher to step out of the way. Then there was organ music, a sort of feverish dirge, and then I was stepping out of my shorts and into the shower with Chenault. I remember the feel of those soapy little hands washing my back, keeping my eyes tightly shut while my soul fought a hopeless battle with my groin, then giving up like a drowning man and soaking the bed with our bodies.
She was stretched out with a peaceful smile on her face, still wet from the shower, when I finally left for work. All the way into San Juan I drove blindly, muttering and shaking my head like a man who has finally been tracked down.
When I got to the office there were two things on my desk: one was a small book titled 72 Sure-Fire Ways to Have Fun, and the other was a note saying Sanderson wanted me to call him.
I checked with Schwartz to see if there were any assignments. There weren’t, so I went out for some coffee, walking several blocks down the waterfront to avoid any possibility of meeting Sala. I also expected Yeamon to come bounding into the office at any moment. It took me a while to compose myself, but finally I decided that the morning had never happened. Nothing had changed. I would see Yeamon and get her off my hands. If he didn’t come into town, I would drive out there after work.
When I felt myself under control I went back to the office. At two-thirty I had to go to the Caribe to talk to one of the Congressmen who had come down for the anti-communist investigation. I drove over there and talked to the man for two hours. We sat on the terrace and drank rum punch, and when I left he thanked me for the valuable information I had given him.
Okay, Senator, I said. Thanks for the story — it’s a hot one. Back at the office I was hard-pressed to get four paragraphs out of the entire conversation.
Then I called Sanderson. How’re you coming on that brochure? he asked.
Oh Jesus, I muttered.
Damnit, Paul, you promised me a first draft this week. You’re worse than this fellow Yeamon.
All right, I said wearily. I’m going nuts right now, Hal. I’ll get it to you this weekend, maybe Monday.
What’s wrong? he said.
Never mind, I replied. I’ll be rid of it tonight — then I’ll do the brochure, okay?
Just as I hung up Schwartz motioned me over to the desk. Big wreck on Bayamon Road, he said, handing me a page of scribbled notes. Sala’s not around — can you handle a camera?
Sure, I said. I’ll get a few Nikons from the darkroom.