3
We met at the Spokane railroad station and Iris drove me through the wide, clear, characterless streets to a country road which wound east into the hills, in the direction of a town with the lovely name of Coeur d’Alene.
She was relaxed. Her ordinarily pale face was faintly burned from the sun while her hair, which I recalled as darkly waving, was now streaked with light and worn loosely bound at the nape of her neck. She wore no cosmetics and her dress was simple cotton beneath the sweater she wore against the autumn’s chill. She looked young, younger than either of us actually was.
At first we talked of Spokane. She identified mountains and indicated hidden villages with an emphasis on places which sharply recalled Cave. Not until we had turned off the main highway into a country road, dark with fir and spruce, did she ask me about Paul.
“He’s very busy getting the New Year’s debut ready. He’s also got a set of offices for the company in Los Angeles and he’s engaged me to write an introduction to Cave ... but I suppose you knew that when he wired you I was coming.”
“It was my idea.”
“My coming? or the introduction?”
“Both. I talked to him about it just before we came up here.”
“And I thought he picked it out of the air while listening to me majestically place Cave among the philosophers.”
Iris smiled. “Paul’s not obvious. He enjoys laying traps and, as long as they’re for one’s own good, he’s very useful.”