Undertow
Page 17
HE walked down the corridor to his room. Elsa was there, sitting on the bed; upswept hair and silver-varnished nails, trim as a kitten; wearing a dress and jacket of grey-and-white checked wool. “What are you doing here?” said Johnny, mildly surprised.
“Waiting for you. Why, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing. It’s the first time I’ve seen you with all your clothes on, that’s all. You look very elegant.”
“Shipboard life is so Bohemian. But one can’t go everywhere wearing next to nothing.”
“Oh, I approved of that as well.” Johnny lifted the loose collar of her dress, ran his finger round inside the neck. The white scar tissue came into view, shiny and wrinkled; the burns were healing fast. He leant farther downwards to kiss her gently on the mouth. . . You still taste of salt,” she said, “even after three days.”
“Surely not, with all the whisky I’ve been drinking.”
“You taste of that, too. It’s been a long three days.” She put an arm round his neck. “What do I taste of? Hospital?”
“I didn’t notice,” said Johnny. “I’ll try again.”
. . . After a time he felt her move, as though sleepily, in his arms. “Isn’t this a respectable hotel?”
“Not with all these sailors about.”
“And anyway, I thought you said you liked me dressed.”
“Oh, shut up,” said Fedora.
“All right, but that part unbuttons.”
“Damn.”
“That’s right.” Her head fell back on the pillows; her body uncurled slowly beside his. “Are you worried about anything? . . . Don’t be.”
“They’re going to send you to England,” said Fedora.
“It doesn’t matter. Feramontov saw me on the ship. They know what happened. It won’t be very long before they catch up with me. So I have to make the most of what I have left.”
“Scared?”
“No. Not any more.”
“That’s right,” said Fedora. “Don’t be.”