Free Forgetfulness by Ward Just

hear cabaret music, Piaf, Mabel Mercer, Billie Holiday. He wanted the room filled with music, music turned low, city music, barroom music that conjured dimly lit memories. Then he could sit like de Kooning and watch paint dry. But first he had to get his friends out of the house. Thomas said, I want to thank you both for staying on. Changing your plans. Helping out. It means a lot to me.
    Bernhard drew back. You know how much we cared for Florette.
    I couldn't have managed without you two.
    We don't like leaving now, Russ said.
    I'll be all right. I'll call in a few days.
    Stay in touch, Russ said.
    I will. Count on it.
    Bernhard cleared his throat and said, You're going to be lonely here. Florette, of course. Florette most of all and indispensably. But Granger, too. Your dinners together, billiards, conversation with someone who'd led the sort of life you understand. Where you don't have to explain the references—
    Granger didn't talk much, Thomas said.
    â€”and winter's coming on.
    But we were good friends, Thomas said.
    Hard to make friends at our age, Russ said.
    Impossible, Bernhard said. You can't get through the preliminaries, too much has already gone by. Where you come from. Who you know, who you don't. What you do for a living and how long you've done it.
    LaBarre, Russ said, raising his glass.
    Our case, Bernhard said, the government.
    Yes, Russ said. That, too.
    So you invent stories, Bernhard said with a smile.
    Granger never did, Thomas said. Someone asked him where he came from, he said he couldn't remember. Someone asked him what he did, he said a little of this and a little of that, and if they pressed him, he said he managed his investments. And then he changed the subject.
    So, Russ said after a moment. I suppose you'll go back to work.
    Right away, Thomas said.
    You'll need more than work, Bernhard said.
    No, Thomas said.
You
need more than work. I'm content.
    I don't think content is the word you mean, Thomas.
    I'll think of a better one when I get around to it.
    We're wondering how you'll get on day to day, Bernhard said. This place is pretty remote. You're way off the beaten track. Are you sure you belong here? Is this really your place, without Florette and without Granger? Only your work to keep you company? Sounds lonely to me.
    Oh, it's my place all right.
    You know you're welcome at my flat in London. Come when you want, stay as long as you like.
    Thomas nodded but did not reply.
    Bernhard peeked out the window. Where's the damn cab?
    Russ said, Do you think we should call?
    He'll be here, Thomas said.
    Anyway, will you think about it?
    I will, Thomas said. I surely will.
    Bernhard's flat was in South Kensington, around the corner from Harrods, four small, ill-lit, badly heated rooms so situated that sunlight never touched the interior. The neighborhood was crowded
with shoppers. Four young Englishmen involved in the Portuguese wine trade lived raucously in the flat above and when the noise became insupportable Bernhard went up and joined them, usually returning with one of the young women who were always about. Bernhard kept his fridge well stocked with champagne and Iranian caviar, or it had been the last time Thomas visited. The telephone rang day and night, friends, or friends of friends, or someone from he government asking for a favor. When he wasn't on the telephone, Bernhard was hunched over his computer, reading his e-mail and hacking into various private accounts, "keeping abreast of things." Bernhard's apartment was always busy with ringing telephones and messengers arriving with mysterious packages. The atmosphere combined the towel-slap of the locker room with the feral anticipation of the casino.
    I've gotten used to the country, Thomas said after a moment. I like the hours, the weather, the pace of things, the silence. Florette—but he could not remember what it was he wanted to say about Florette. It was something she had said about the pleasures of living in a valley