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Nailles was not afraid of Nellie but he bothered her no more. Frustrated, angry and indignant he went into the guest room and slept there.
If you met Nailles on a train or a plane or a bus or a boat and asked him what he did he would describe himself as a chemist. If you questioned him further he would say that he worked for the Saffron Chemical Corporation but that was all you would get out of him. He had majored in chemistry at college but he had not taken a graduate degree and his chemistry was dated. He worked for Monsanto in Delaware for five years and then he worked for three years analyzing chemical fertilizers for the Food and Agricultural Offices of the United Nations in Rome. Saffron hired him when he returned to the United States. Saffron operated a small laboratory in Westfield but it was basically a manufacturing firm that produced a patent floor mop called Moppet, a line of furniture polish called Tudor, and Spang, a mouthwash. Nailles was principally occupied with the merchandising of Spang and he was definitely restive about this. It seemed to reflect on his dignity. He had argued with himself frequently on this score. Would he be more dignified if he had manufactured mattresses, depilatories, stained-glass windows or toilet seats? No. In the TV commercials for Spang, boxers in the ring objected to one another's bad breath. Bad breath came between young lovers, friends, husbands and wives. In a sense this was all true, he told himself. Bad breath was a human infirmity like obeseness and melancholy and it was his simple task to cure it. Sexual compatibility was the keystone to any robust marriage and bad breath could lead to divorce, alimony and custody suits. Bad breath could sap a man's self-esteem, posture and appearance. Suspecting himself to be a sufferer, the victim would mumble into his shirt, hoping to divert the fumes downward. Bad breath recognized no class. Nailles had read in the paper that bad breath came between Lord Russell and his love. Bad breath could come between the priest and his flock, Nailles had observed when Father Ransome breathed on him as he reached for the chalice. In Nailles's mythology the nymphs complained among themselves about the bad breath of Priapus. Bad breath drove children away from home. The wise statesman in his councils was not heeded because his breath was noxious. Bad breath was a cause of war.
Saffron was a paternal organization. A kindly old man named Marshman was president and majority stock owner and in the last year his son Michael had graduated from college and joined the firm. He was energetic, full of ideas and detestable. He had the products appraised by a firm of motivational psychologists. They concluded that the formula for Spang was too bland. Cleanliness was associated- so they claimed-with bitterness, and the sales of Spang would increase if its taste was more unpleasant. The laboratory had been asked to work up a new formula and on the day after the Ridleys' di
There was nothing to recommend the place from the outside. It was shabby but when he stepped into the dark room he found himself in one of those quiet bars where the customers sit in a palpable atmosphere of sanctuary. The bartender wore a rented yellow jacket. Four men at the bar were drinking whiskey. One of them was feeding potato chips to a mongrel dog. "I never get any further than Southwark," one of them said. "Southwark is the only place I ever get to any more." There seemed to be some metric regulation to the pace of the talk. It was emotional, intimate, evocative and as random as poetry. They had come from other places and would go to other places but sitting against the light at four in the afternoon they seemed as permanent as the beer pulls. "Ill buy a free drink for anyone that can tell me what kind of dog my dog is," said the man with the potato chips. There were no takers and so he answered the question himself. "My dog is half beagle," he said, "and half Irish setter."
Nailles ordered a martini, which marked him as a traveler and a stranger.
"I had this girl who used to say hello," one of the men said. "You ever know a girl like that?" There was no answer and he went on. "She used to say hello all the time. I used to go over there on Thursday nights after supper. Her husband bowled on Thursdays. She was usually in a bathrobe or something like that and she'd give me a big kiss and start saying hello. So then when I was getting undressed she'd kiss my ears and everything and keep saying hello, hello, hello. She'd keep saying hello all through the preliminaries and then when we came to the main feature she'd keep on saying hello only louder and louder and finally she'd sort of yell hello, hello. Then afterwards she'd light me a cigarette and get me a drink of whiskey-she always did that-and she'd keep kissing me and saying hello. Then when I got dressed and kissed her good night she'd keep on saying hello. I suppose she must have said something else but I honestly can't remember her saying anything but hello."
"The things my wife used to say," the fourth man said, "I wouldn't want to repeat. She was very gentle-spoken and everything but when she got into bed she'd say anything. Worse than a whore. I used to wonder who taught her to speak like that. I mean it wasn't me. It used to make me jealous and I have a very jealous nature. She was a beautiful woman and she loved to put it out and if she wanted to two-time me she had every chance. I mean I was away from seven in the morning until half past six and when she wouldn't put it out I figured she must be getting it somewheres else. I suffered awfully from jealousy. I wouldn't hire a detective or follow her around or anything like that but I just wanted to be sure, if you know what I mean. So then I hit on this idea. The Thing. Has she got the Thing on. If she's got the Thing on she's pla