Bernice received him in a pale-blue smock, her hair twisted up in slovenly fashion at the back of her neck, a black band about her head. The smock looked greasy. Bernie was smoking a cigarette as she admitted him herself.
“It’s Hashi’s night out,” she explained. “We’ll be alone and can talk. Come in!” And she led him into a spacious studio room behind, where the evening before the music had been playing. Nathan was clothed again in his Tuxedo. Bernie surveyed him and smiled quietly, aggravatingly.
She shoved a chair across for him and reclined on a chaise-longue. She did not offer to apologize for not including him among her guests of the prior night, although Nathan soon learned why she had not done so, and not because the woman was ashamed of her guests, either.
“Now,” declared Bernie, “tell me all about that damned hick town of Paris!”
Nathan honestly tried to do so. It was sketchy.
“But when did your wife die?” the woman demanded.
“May I smoke?” the man asked.
“Smoke? Of course you can smoke! Don’t be such a disgusting rube. I’m smoking, am I not?”
He lit a cigar.
“I had some trouble with my wife, Bernie. She was untrue to me while I was away on the road. I came back one night and caught her in another man’s arms. She left Paris next day. You read about the Russellville explosion last week? She was either blown to atoms or burned to death—in it!”