He kept on talking about his plans. There was nothing to talk about. He was going to bring his soldiers in town in the early morning and take over the government. That was all the plan that was needed. The rest of it was the lettuce around the dish, but this lettuce part was the only part we could discuss. It was dull.
At eleven o’clock Einarson stopped talking and left us, making this sort of speech:
“Until four o’clock, gentlemen, when Muravia’s history begins.” He put a hand on my shoulder and commanded me: “Guard His Majesty!”
I said, “Uh-huh,” and immediately sent His Majesty to bed. He wasn’t going to sleep, but he was too young to confess it, so he went off willingly enough. I got a taxi and went out to Romaine’s.
She was like a child the night before a picnic. She kissed me and she kissed the servant Marya. She sat on my knees, beside me, on the floor, on all the chairs, changing her location every half-minute. She laughed and talked incessantly, about the revolution, about me, about herself, about anything at all. She nearly strangled herself trying to talk while swallowing wine. She lit her big cigarettes and forgot to smoke them, or forgot to stop smoking them until they scorched her lips. She sang lines from songs in half a dozen languages. She made puns and jokes and goofy rhymes.
I left at three o’clock. She went down to the door with me, pulled my head down to kiss my eyes and mouth.
“If anything goes wrong,” she said, “come to the prison. We’ll hold that until—”
“If it goes wrong enough I’ll be brought there,” I promised.
She wouldn’t joke now.