But it was too hot to go back to the hotel, so they went to an air-cooled movie instead, where the crisp refrigerated air reminded him of the Hill. The newsreel was still filled with clips of German atrocities and now the long lines of DPs shuffling sadly past the bomb sites. The feature, something called Pillow to Post, with Ida Lupino, was bright and shiny, oblivious to what had come before, and halfway through Connolly forgot what it was supposed to be about. Emma took his hand in the movie, holding it lightly, as if they were on a date.
The streets were as crowded as before, people pouring out of the theaters and flirting and eating ice cream cones. The lights were dazzling. Knickerbocker beer. A giant Pepsi in perpetual effervescence. Here, anyway, the war was over, but everything familiar seemed to him suspended. They had all come out to pass the time while they waited for the next thing, the feature after the newsreel. What could it be except brighter, worth the wait?
He steered away from the theaters and they walked back on quieter streets, still holding hands, easy with each other, listening to the sound of her heels on the pavement. He’d thought of a drink in the Astor Bar, or now the Biltmore, but all that seemed curiously part of the past too, nothing to do with them. Now they were a couple, eager to get home. When she smeared her face with cold cream back in the room, it seemed to him more intimate than lovemaking, a new familiarity.
He sat at the window while she drifted off to sleep, restless, and it occurred to him then, looking at her, that the trip wasn’t about tomorrow anymore. Tomorrow would take care of itself. But while he waited, his life had changed. This was what it meant to be married. Her help, so casually asked for, now bound him in some deep obligation. If they stopped now they could be as they were, idly suspended like the crowd, hidden away in this cocoon of humid air. Instead, he would compromise her, as determined and heedless as Oppenheimer to see his project through. But they weren’t going to stop-it was sleep talking, the nighttime jitters. This was the next thing. She had understood before he did, accepted it. She turned over in bed, no longer fitful, breathing deeply. He had always loved her fearlessness. Now she was offering it to him, a secret marriage. They could have something more than peace. He thought of her leaping up the trail at Chaco, eager, lending him a hand.
When he woke the next morning she was already up, sitting by the window in her slip, putting on red nail polish. A coffeepot and cups sat on the table.
“At last,” she said. “Come and have your coffee. They do have room service, you see. You just have to ask.”
He put on a robe. “What are you doing?”
“You want me to look the part, don’t you?” She spread her nails in front of her. “A girl has to look her best for this sort of thing.”
“It’s pretty red,” he said, pouring the coffee.
“Meaning too red. Darling, a lot you know. On Johanna Weber it’s too red. On me, it’ll be smart. There, see? Now we’ll just wait for it to dry. Let’s hope to God this fan doesn’t give out-it’s been going all night.”
He drank the coffee, shaking his head to wake up. “You always do that undressed?”
“Of course. Until it dries. If it streaks, it’s hell to get out. How many women have you actually been with?” she said, smiling. “Or don’t you usually spend the night?”
He lit a cigarette with the Zippo, then looked at her through the smoke. “Are you always this cheerful, or are you nervous?”
She gave a half-laugh. “Don’t be so knowing. A little of both, I guess. Maybe a lot. I’ll be all right.”
“Do you want to run through it again?”
“No. I know what to say. At least roughly. It’s not exactly a script, is it? I mean, a lot depends on what he says.”
“Okay. Let’s call him.”
“No. Finish your coffee and go take a shower. Then I’ll call. I really don’t think I can do this with an audience.”
He looked at her, surprised. She came over and took his cigarette in one of the nooks of her outstretched fingers, taking a drag, then holding it out for him to take back. “What’s the matter, don’t you think I can?”
“I’ll be at the restaurant.”
“I know. I can’t think why.”
“Just to be around. In case you need me.”
“Hovering, I suppose. All right. But not now, please. I mean it. Hurry up and clear out.”
Connolly looked at his watch. “You think he’s already at work?”
“You don’t know the comrades. Up with the sun, they are.”
“Better watch the jokes. He may not like it.”
She glanced up at him. “You know, I hate to point this out, but he is my husband. I already know what he likes.”
Connolly looked away and put out the cigarette. “Right. I keep forgetting.”
“I don’t mean what you think I mean. Oh, never mind. Come on, move. I’ve got a hair appointment.”
“Does he like that?”
“I like it. I don’t want to go looking like a ranch hand.”
He looked at her, interested. “You want to impress him, don’t you?”
She nodded. “A little. Is that so naughty of me? I suppose it is.”
