Free Carrion Comfort by Dan Simmons Page B

Actually he had not been Nina’s or Willi’s. I had avoided the party so I could make contact later without the young man noticing he was being followed. I did so easily. I remember sitting in an overheated little delicatessen across the street from the apartment building. It was not at all difficult. It was over so quickly that there was almost no sense of Feeding. Then I was aware once again of the sputtering radiators and the smell of salami as people rushed to the door to see what the screaming was about. I remember finishing my tea slowly so that I did not have to leave before the ambulance was gone.
    “Nonsense,” said Nina. She busied herself with her little calculator. “How many points?” She looked at me. I looked at Willi.
    “Six,” he said with a shrug. Nina made a small show of totaling the numbers.
    “Thirty-eight,” she said and sighed theatrically. “You win again, Willi. Or rather, you beat
me
again. We must hear from Melanie. You’ve been so quiet, dear. You must have some surprise for us.”
    “Yes,” said Willi, “it is your turn to win. It has been several years.”
    “None,” I said. I had expected an explosion of questions, but the silence was broken only by the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. Nina was looking away from me, at something hidden by the shadows in the corner.
    “None?” echoed Willi. “There was . . . one,” I said at last. “But it was by accident. I came across them robbing an old man behind . . . it was by accident.”
    Willi was agitated. He stood up, walked to the window, turned a straight-backed old chair around and straddled it, arms folded. “What does this mean?”
    “You’re quitting the Game?” asked Nina as she turned to look at me. I let the question serve as the answer.
    “Why?” snapped Willi. In his excitement it came out with a hard “V.” If I had been raised in an era when young ladies were allowed to shrug, I would have done so then. As it was, I contented myself with running my fingers along an imaginary seam on my skirt. Willi had asked the question, but I stared straight into Nina’s eyes when I finally answered. “I’m tired. It’s been too long. I guess I’m getting old.”
    “You’ll get a lot
older
if you do not Hunt,” said Willi. His body, his voice, the red mask of his face, everything signaled great anger just kept in check. “My God, Melanie, you
already
look older! You look terrible. This is
why
we Hunt, woman. Look at yourself in the mirror! Do you want to die an old woman just because you’re tired of using
them
? Acch!” Willi stood and turned his back on us.
    “Nonsense!” Nina’s voice was strong, confident, in command once more. “Melanie’s
tired
, Willi. Be nice. We all have times like that. I remember how
you
were after the war. Like a whipped puppy. You wouldn’t even go outside your miserable little flat in Baden. Even after we helped you get to New Jersey you just sulked around feeling sorry for yourself. Melanie
made up
the Game to help you feel better. So quiet!
Never
tell a lady who feels tired and depressed that she looks terrible. Honestly, Willi, you’re such a
Schwächsinniger
sometimes. And a crashing boor to boot.”
    I had anticipated many reactions to my announcement, but this was the one I feared the most. It meant that Nina had also tired of the Game. It meant that she was ready to move to another level of play. It had to mean that.
    “Thank you, Nina, darling,” I said. “I knew you would understand.” She reached across and touched my knee reassuringly. Even through my wool skirt I could feel the cold of her white fingers.
    My guests would not stay the night. I implored. I remonstrated. I pointed out that their rooms were ready, that Mr. Thorne had already turned down the quilts.
    “Next time,” said Willi. “Next time, Melanie, my little love. We’ll make a weekend of it as we used to. A week!” Willi was in a much better mood since he had been paid his thousand