The Theoretical Foot. M. F. K. Fisher

      It was almost an hour later that Joe Kelly stood slapping water hard against his hastily shaven chin, then snapped off the light above the washbasin. Drying his face, he turned to look blinkingly at Susan.

      She lay, light and fragile as a Tanagra figurine, upon the tousled bed. Her face was flushed and her sleeping mouth smiled voluptuously. The little bow had slipped from her knot of hair. Joe picked it off the sheet and tucked it gently into her shell-like navel. Then he bent and kissed her.

      “Sue! My Susan, you must wake. Come on, wake up. Hurry. Get into your clothes and find your way to the casino. We’re late, damn you, woman, and it is all your fault, you do realize?”

      He laughed at her sleepy, black-browed scowl, then ran out of the room and down the dark stairs and out of the ratty hotel.

      The station square in the hot morning sunlight was just as hard looking and as unattractive. He stood for a moment blinking in the doorway, then hurried down the public stairway to the lower street. There seemed to be a new system of parking since he was last here, and a fancily uniformed policeman—with unaccustomed lordliness—waved white gloves at the bewildered motorists.

      Veytaux’s getting ideas, he thought. Silly business to take away all the charm this damn place ever had. No amount of boxes of geraniums on the lampposts can cut down the glare of that bobby’s white helmet. What does he think he is, a bloody copper? And Sara will be sore at me—and with reason. Christ! It’s already after eleven! “Monsieur, wo ist, I mean, ou est le casino? Bitte? S’il vous plait, I mean.”

      He pegged rapidly along the hot crooked streets, following as well as he could the politely proffered directions. How could he have forgotten his French so quickly? Well, give Joe time and he’d have it back better than ever. Maybe after Sue left, he thought. Then he began to worry about when this might happen.

      He stopped suddenly and peered at the box of swollen mushrooms and a sheet of flour-dusted ravioli that lay coolly on a white marble slab in a store window. Would she leave? He’d pray if he could, would pray for twenty years, if she’d just now just please gather the guts to leave him. Then he could spend the last three weeks of his vacation in Paris or maybe go down to Beaune. But would she? Did he want her to go? How was he going to live without her? Joe was caught. He needed to talk to Sara Porter about it. Sara wasn’t much of a one for confidences but this was different.

      Almost directly above his head, a bell struck two quarters. “Damn it!” he swore aloud. Half past eleven! Then he hurried down the street to the marketplace and now, almost running, crossed by moving swiftly toward the looming bleak bulk of the casino, then on into its gardens where it was cool and green.

      Joe paused, wiped his wet forehead and his upper lip with the back of his hand—he never knew whether to kiss Sara or not, but he did believe he needed to be prepared for it—and went up onto the terrace.

      He’d hoped she’d be late herself but there Sara was, sitting in her cool and impersonal way, half in shade, half in sunlight, with amber burning in the glass of beer before her. Would she be furious with him?

      She looked up, smiled at him, so that was all right, then. At least she was glad to see him.

      “Hello, Sara!” he said. “God, I’m glad to see you!” His voice almost trembled in relief. “And God, I hope you can forgive me! I’ll never forgive myself for being so late, your having to wait . . .?”

      Sara smiled again, then put her cool lips against his cheek for an instant before she drew away.

      “Oh no, don’t kiss me!” she said quickly. “You’re hot, you’re damp. Sit down, Joe, and get your breath. You want a beer, don’t you? I can’t drink alone. Jean!” she said to the waiter who was flicking white linen tablecloths over the checked ones on the terrace tables. “Please bring another beer, no, two. You need more than one to begin with, Joe, and I’ll take some of it too.”

      “But . . .?” and here Sara stopped talking and looked completely puzzled for a few seconds before her face changed expressions and she demanded quickly, “But Susan? I almost forgot—this is the first time you’ve turned up with anyone else, you know? Where’s Susan? Didn’t you tell me last night on the telephone that she’s with you? Is she not well?”

      “She’ll be right along,” Joe said. “She said to tell you she’s terribly sorry to be late. But Sara, about Sue . . .?” And he’d begun then to ask her about what had been on his mind, then immediately thought better. “Well, you’re looking absolutely swell, you know?” Her dark hair, with its smooth precision, was twisted into a low knot at the back of her head, light streaks striping back from either temple. He stared at her thin peaked brows, her red mouth, so small and sensual.

      Sara smiled vaguely under his affectionate scrutiny.

      “Terribly busy lately,” she said, “but work agrees with me. But what was it you were just thinking, Joe?”

      “Oh,” he said, “only that Sue’s afraid of you.”

      “Is that what’s made her more than an hour late?” Sara asked. “No, really, Joe, I got rather cross, not with Susan but with you, and not for the first time either.”

      Joe groaned audibly. “I know. God, I know. I’m terrible and you and Tim, too, are always so damned nice about it. But there was first one thing, then another, then we got sort of balled up and . . .?”

      He stopped, grinning faintly at his private joke. Or was it private? He glanced furtively at Sara; he never knew with her. Her face remained polite and aloof.

      “But she’ll be along in a minute,” he finished lamely, feeling crude and collegiate.

      “That’s good. It’s really nice to see you here again. Tim will be so glad to see you too. Now drink up, Joe.”

      Joe paused, the glass on its way to his open and thirsty mouth to say, “How is Tim?”

      “Oh, fine as ever . . . a little pooped now and then. He gets upset, little things that he doesn’t like to talk about. It’s been a funny summer, what with this and that. But he’ll be really, really glad when you get there.”

      Joe felt once more the uncertainty he so often had with Sara Porter. Was she really cold, really pushing all the world from her in a thousand subtle ways, or was she the warm hospitable woman he believed he knew? He shook his head slightly. Why worry? Most of the time, except when he remembered how long he had known her, yet how little he knew her, he felt all right about her and that it might not really matter.

      They clinked glasses, and then sat for a minute without talking, watched the green light flicker over their table, listened to children playing lazily on the quay by the boat landing. Joe finished his glass and then poured half a second one solemnly into Sara’s before he drank from it.

      “God, that’s good,” he said, wiping the foam from his full wide lips, then smiling. “You know the beer in Munich isn’t as good as it used to be, Sara. It tastes thin, somehow.”

      “What?”

      “I said the Munich beer tastes thin, different from the old days.”

      “You know you speak more softly all the time, Joe. Whenever you blow into town I always go through a few hours of wondering if I’m becoming deaf.”

      “Blow in is right! Hell! And I promised you, last time, that I’d let you know in advance of my coming, didn’t I?”

      “Oh, don’t brood. But yes, it is more convenient to know at least a few hours before, but I suppose you got all balled up again or something.”

      Joe peered at her suspiciously, but her eyes were as bland as the rest of her face and betrayed nothing.

      “What I’m afraid,” she went right on, “is that this time we can’t put you up.” She then stopped speaking to laugh at his pained and horror-struck face.

      “Oh