In bed, the lamp out, he saw the fog creeping along the Nonette, he saw a man walking along the river, he saw ... a door banged on the floor below and everything became more illusive, with the radio playing faintly.
Perhaps in the morning ...
Perhaps in the afternoon ...
In the afternoon he called for Jeanette, the gas tank of the old Renault half full; it was a warm, sunny afternoon, more summer than autumn; Bichain had tuned, washed, and polished the car. Agreeing with his suggestions, Orville was to drive a certain route (no Nazi interference). The car buzzed along and then, at the hospital, it refused to budge another inch.
Mme. Ronde, who spent many hours caring for the wounded, appeared on the hospital steps; she said:
"You two walk a while ... be together ... that old car! But you know it's going to rain soon ... when it rains come to the house ... we'll have tea."
And it worked out like that.
She was a true provincial: she had to show Orville that she was more than his aunt, that she was an all-out American:
"Jeannette, you from Visconseen ... I know where 'tis on our maps," she said, in her rough English. With her effusiveness she asked about Wisconsin, the winter sports: was it true the state had so many lakes: was it true that it got fearfully cold there in winter: was the snow deep?
As they drank tea in the living room, Orville sank into himself, the women talking E talk, a silver bowl of dahlias between them: a sense of vacuum haunted him: naked superficiality seemed to surround until scalding tea soaked into his body: the dignity of the old room came to his rescue.