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«Hello,» Remo said. «I'm doing a magazine article.» It was a hell of an introduction to a woman he would have to convince to take him home to daddy.
«What are you doing here?» Her voice was a composite of adolescent squeak and matron rasp.
«I'm writing an article.»
«Oh.»
She pushed her chair over so she could see Remo. What she saw was a big, handsome man silhouetted in the doorway. He saw another of the generation of moral crusaders: a girl with a blue skirt and a brown sweater, wearing white te
«I'm interviewing students.»
«Uh-uh.»
«I'd like to interview you.»
«Yes.»
Remo fidgeted. His feet somehow needed shuffling. He attempted to concentrate on her essence, to project his manhood as Chiun had taught, but somehow his mind was up against something not quite a woman. She had breasts, hips, eyes, mouth, ears, nose, but the essence of woman, womanliness, had somehow been bled out of her.
«May I interview you?»
«Certainly. Sit down on the bed.» Coming from any other woman, this might have had the overtones of invitation. Coming from the girl before him, it was a logical suggestion to sit down on the bed because there was only one chair in the room and she was in it.
«What's your name?» Remo asked, displaying the pad.
«Cynthia Felton.»
«Age?»
«Twenty.»
«Home?»
«East Hudson, New Jersey. A gritty town, but Daddy likes it. Sit down.»
«Oh, yes,» Remo said, lowering himself to a bluish blanket. «And let's see, what do you think is the woman's relation to the cosmos?»
«Metaphysically?»
«Of course.»
«Essentially woman is the child bearer in an anthropoidal society, bounded on one hand by the society per se, that is empirically correct, rather to say… are you taking all this down?»
«Of course, of course,» Remo said increasing the pace of his scribbling to keep up with the incomprehensible academic imbecilities of his subject. At the end of the interview, he conceded he did not understand all that he had been told, but would like a further explanation of some of the finer points.
Cynthia was sorry, but she had a full day the next day.
The writer pleaded that only she could help unravel this metaphysical knot.
«No,» was the answer, «definitely not.»
Perhaps then, asked the writer, she would have breakfast with him.
No, was the answer again, she had a full schedule.
Then, perhaps, asked the writer, she would give him a picture of her blue, blue eyes.
Why, was the question, did he want a picture of her blue, blue eyes?
Because, was the answer, they were the bluest, blue eyes the writer had ever seen.
«Nonsense,» was the retort.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Cynthia was to have been at the restaurant at 9:15. With any other woman tardiness wouldn't have been unusual. But with these social purpose types, they lived almost like men. Punctual, efficient.
If MacCleary couldn't penetrate, the penthouse must have traps. What the hell would he be getting into?
Remo fingered the glass of water before him. Somehow Vietnam was different. You could always return to your own outfit. At night, you knew someone else was on guard if you weren't. There was protection.
Remo sipped the water that tasted too much of chemicals. There was no protection in this racket. No retreat. No group. For the rest of his life he would always be attacking or retreating. He put down the glass and stared at the door. He could walk out now, just leave the restaurant, and get lost forever.
Remo forced his eyes away from the door. I will read the paper, he told himself. I will read the paper from the first page to the last and when I am done I will leave this restaurant, drive to New Jersey, find Mr. Felton and see what Maxwell's man can do.
Remo read words that meant nothing. He kept losing his place, forgetting which paragraph he had read. Before he finished the lead story, someone snatched the paper from his hands.
«How long does it take you to read a paper?» It was Cynthia, in a blouse, a skirt and a big clean smile, wrinkling the paper as she stood by the table. She dropped the bundled paper on a passing tray, startling the waiter who never got a chance to give her a dirty look because she didn't bother to glance at him for a reaction.
She sat down and plopped two thick volumes on the table.
«I'm famished,» she a
«Eat,» Remo said.
Cynthia tilted her head in mock wonder. «I've never seen anyone so glad to see me. You've got a grin on your face as if I'd just promised you a hundred years of healthy living.»
Remo nodded and leaned back in the seat. He flipped her a menu.
The dainty little Briarcliff junior, whose mind was created only for aesthetic pleasures, downed an orange juice, steak and waffles, chocolate sundae, two glasses of milk, and a cup of coffee with two ci
Remo ordered fried rice.
«How quaint,» Cynthia exclaimed. «Are you into Zen?»
«No. Just a light eater.»
«How fascinating.» At the last ci
«Why?»
«Because sex is vital. Sex is real. It's honest.»
«Oh,» Remo said.
«It's what life's about.» She leaned forward waving the ci
«Who are 'they'?»
«The structure. The power structure. All this nonsense about love and sex. Love has nothing to do with sex. Sex has nothing to do with love. Marriage is farce perpetrated on the masses by the power structure.»
«Them?»
«Right. They.»
She bit viciously into the bun. «They've even gone so far as to say that sex is for reproduction. That, thank God, is dying out now. Sex is sex,» she said, spraying crumbs. «It's nothing else.» She wiped her mouth. «It's the most fundamental experience a human can participate in, right?»
Remo nodded. This was going to be too easy. «And in marriage, it gets most fundamental of all,» he said.
«Crap.»
«What?»
«Crap,» Cynthia said casually. «Marriage is crap.»
«Don't you want to get married?»
«What for?»
«For fundamental experience.»
«It only clouds the issue.»
«But your father. Don't you want to make your father happy?»
«Why didn't you mention my mother?» Cynthia asked, her voice suddenly becoming cold.
Whatever you say, say it fast. Throw her off. Make it wild. Remo shot the words out: «Because I don't believe she exists. If she did, she'd have to be a woman. And there's only one woman in the world. You. I love you.» Remo grabbed her hands before she could release nervous energy with them.
It was a risky ploy, but it worked. A flush seized her face, she stared down at the table. «It's rather sudden, isn't it?» She looked around the room as though the world had agents monitoring her love life. «I don't know what to say.»
«Say 'Let's go for a walk'!»
Her voice was barely audible. «Let's go for a walk.»
Remo released her hands. The walk proved profitable. Cynthia talked. She couldn't stop talking and always the conversation returned to her father, his occupation and his apartment.
«I don't know what he does with the stocks but he certainly makes a lot of money,» she said as they passed a jewelry shop on Walnut Street. «You don't care about money, Remo. That's what I like about you.»
«But your father's the one who deserves praise. It must be an awful temptation when you've got a lot of money to play playboy.»