“No. I’m drunk. Men see truth when they are drunk. They see things they dare not look at in their sober times. Your mother, who was a scholar, used to say there is truth in wine. Damnable truth. Never mind, Orosdi, my son. We cannot help ourselves.”
But Orosdi had slipped from the house, and the old man was talking to an empty room. He continued maundering for a long time until, overcome by sleep, he fell heavily on the floor and closed his eyes.
KATYA KONTOROMPA
To
Jack Kahane
MRS. Kontorompa waddled into her large drawing-room at Hortiach one May morning calling “Katya! Katya!” in a voice more shrill than a parrot’s. She progressed rather magnificently in spite of her waddle, for she had both weight and solidity, and it was not without dignity that, having reached the window, she leaned out and surveyed her hot garden blazing with colour. “Katya! Katya!” she shrilled.
“What is it, mamma?” asked a languid voice from the depths of a luxurious chair near the piano a yard or two away.