“But if you do that you’ll stay a sailor all your life.”
“What does it matter? When you are rich and married I’ll come and visit you.”
They were walking down Sixth Avenue. An L train roared above their heads leaving a humming rattle to fade among the girders after it had passed.
“Why dont you get another job and stay on a while?”
Congo produced two bent cigarettes out of the breast pocket of his coat, handed one to Emile, struck a match on the seat of his trousers, and let the smoke out slowly through his nose. “I’m fed up with it here I tell you....” He brought his flat hand up across his Adam’s apple, “up to here.... Maybe I’ll go home an visit the little girls of Bordeaux.... At least they are not all made of whalebone.... I’ll engage myself as a volunteer in the navy and wear a red pompom.... The girls like that. That’s the only life.... Get drunk and raise cain payday and see the extreme orient.”
“And die of the syph in a hospital at thirty....”
“What’s it matter?... Your body renews itself every seven years.”
The steps of their rooming house smelled of cabbage and stale beer. They stumbled up yawning.
“Waiting’s a rotton tiring job.... Makes the soles of your feet ache.... Look it’s going to be a fine day; I can see the sun on the watertank opposite.”
Congo pulled off his shoes and socks and trousers and curled up in bed like a cat.