after the war, worked himself up until he had the army in his hands, became dictator, then Shah. Correct me if I’m wrong. Einarson is an Icelandic soldier who came in here after the war and has worked himself up until he’s got the army in his hands. If he carries the Shah’s picture and looks at it often enough to have it shabby from handling, does it mean he hopes to follow his example? Or doesn’t it?”
Romaine Frankl got up and roamed around the room, moving a chair two inches here, adjusting an ornament there, shaking out the folds of a window-curtain, pretending a picture wasn’t quite straight on the wall, moving from place to place with the appearance of being carried—a graceful small girl in pink satin.
She stopped in front of a mirror, moved a little to one side so she could see my reflection in it, and fluffed her curls while saying:
“Very well, Einarson wants a revolution. What will your boy do?”
“What I tell him.”
“What will you tell him?”
“Whatever pays best. I want to take him home with all his money.”
She left the mirror and came over to me, rumpled my hair, kissed my mouth, and sat on my knees, holding my face between small warm hands.
“Give me a revolution, nice man!” Her eyes were black with excitement, her voice throaty, her mouth laughing, her body trembling. “I detest Einarson. Use him and break him for me. But give me a revolution!”
I laughed, kissed her, and turned her around on my lap so her head would fit against my shoulder.
“We’ll see,” I promised. “I’m to meet the folks at midnight. Maybe I’ll know then.”