Jimmy Herf sat reading on a green couch under a bulb that lit up a corner of a wide bare room. He had come to the death of Olivier in Jean Christophe and read with tightening gullet. In his memory lingered the sound of the Rhine swirling, restlessly gnawing the foot of the garden of the house where Jean Christophe was born. Europe was a green park in his mind full of music and red flags and mobs marching. Occasionally the sound of a steamboat whistle from the river settled breathless snowysoft into the
room. From the street came a rattle of taxis and the whining sound of streetcars.
There was a knock at the door. Jimmy got up, his eyes blurred and hot from reading.
“Hello Stan, where the devil did you come from?”
“Herfy I’m tight as a drum.”
“That’s no novelty.”
“I was just giving you the weather report.”
“Well perhaps you can tell me why in this country nobody ever does anything. Nobody ever writes any music or starts any revolutions or falls in love. All anybody ever does is to get drunk and tell smutty stories. I think it’s disgusting....”
“’Ear, ’ear.... But speak for yourself. I’m going to stop drinking.... No good drinking, liquor just gets monotonous.... Say, got a bathtub?”
“Of course there’s a bathtub. Whose apartment do you think this is, mine?”