After a long time he began to think of Genevieve Rod. He was having a long conversation with her about his music, and in his imagination she kept telling him that he must finish the “Queen of Sheba,” and that she would show it to Monsieur Gibier, who was a great friend of a certain concert director, who might get it played. How long ago it must be since they had talked about that. A picture floated through his mind of himself and Genevieve standing shoulder to shoulder looking at the Cathedral at Chartres, which stood up nonchalantly, above the tumultuous roofs of the town, with its sober tower and its gaudy towers and the great rose windows between. Inexorably his memory carried him forward, moment by moment, over that day, until he writhed with shame and revolt. Good god! Would he have to go on all his life remembering that? “Teach him how to salute,” the officer had said, and Handsome had stepped up to him and hit him. Would he have to go on all his life remembering that?
“We tied up the uniform with some stones, and threw it overboard,” said Rosaline, jabbing him in the shoulder to draw his attention.
“That was a good idea.”
“Are you going to get up? It's nearly time to eat. How you have slept.”
“But I haven't anything to put on,” said Andrews, laughing, and waved a bare arm above the bedclothes.
“Wait, I'll find something of the old man's. Say, do all Americans have skin so white as that? Look.”
She put her brown hand, with its grimed and broken nails, on Andrews's arm, that was white with a few silky yellow hairs.
“It's because I'm blond,” said Andrews. “There are plenty of blond Frenchmen, aren't there?”
Rosaline ran off giggling, and came back in a moment with a pair of corduroy trousers and a torn flannel shirt that smelt of pipe tobacco.
“That'll do for now,” she said. “It's warm today for April. Tonight we'll buy you some clothes and shoes. Where are you going?”