Free A Choice of Enemies by Mordecai Richler Page B

comfortable bedroom and, most of all, her bath. Missing these conveniences made her feel even more wretched. For when friends of the family had returned after a summer in Europe only to complainabout the filth and the inefficiency she had summarily dismissed them as “middle-class,” a word which until recently had epitomized everything she abhorred.
    One evening Sally set out to fish for sexual experiences in the espresso bars of Hampstead. Her first bite came from an elderly roué who was unhooked like a catfish. The next few nibbles were hardly worth the bait. A non-objective painter with the necessarily rotten teeth, a Dane who translated Chinese poems from the English of Arthur Waley, and an assistant television producer who wore a black turtleneck sweater and corduroy trousers. Denis Patmore was the last boy’s name, and he took her to a bottle party at a friend’s studio the next evening.
    “I just don’t dig Freud on people,” a girl said, “that’s all.”
    The floor was heaped with unwashed girls in blue jeans and sweaters. Bleached ones, black ones; plump and unplundered ones. A long loony-eyed one with a fistful of teeth and another one with pillowy breasts. But the men, after you allowed for a few exceptions, were a much drier lot. They seemed afraid that they would be devoured like pretzels after the next round of drinks. One of the exceptions was an obese art critic with stinging red eyes: “Higgins is a clod. The silly fool can’t get his roger up unless Inga wears handcuffs.” An emaciated man, who described himself as a writer of “progressive space-fiction,” sold Sally two tickets to a meeting of the Anglo-Rumanian Friendship Society. A Negro novelist wiped his wine-stained hands on her skirt. “The world,” he said, “is so completely,” before he staggered off.
    That’s when Sally was introduced to a tall, silent, dusty-haired boy. “I am a student,” he said stiffly. “My name is Ernst.…”
    “Are you a German?”
    “Austrian.”
    A few days later, nearly a month before Sally was to begin work, she ran into Ernst again. They met in the back room of Collett’s bookshop on Haverstock Hill. Ernst was there first. When Sallyentered he moved swiftly away from a shelf, then, recognizing her, he smiled ambiguously.
    “Do you read very much?”
    She could have kicked herself for saying that.
    “Adventure stories,” Ernst said guardedly, “and books about medicine. I am very interested in medicine.”
    “Is that what you’re studying?” Sally asked.
    “Studying …?”
    “You told me you were a student.”
    “I am studying … law.”
    They both recognized the lie at once. Then Sally recognized something else – there was a bulge under Ernst’s jacket. “Let’s go,” she said, taking his arm. “We’ll have tea together.”
    “I have no money.”
    “Come,” she said impatiently, “don’t be an ass.”
    Her heart pounded wildly as they passed the bookshop manager. But they made it safely outside.
    “Halfers,” Sally said.
    “What?”
    “We split the books.”
    Ernst frowned.
    “You’re not going to pretend,” Sally said, “are you?”
    “No.”
    He brought out the books. A copy of
Kon Tiki
and a travel book on Africa and an English-German dictionary.
    “I’ll settle for the book on Africa, O.K.?” Sally’s smile faded. “You’re not a student.”
    “No,” Ernst said. “I’m not a student.”
    “I’m not a student either,” she said, as they turned down Belsize Avenue. “I’m Moll Flanders; shop-lifter extraordinary.” She explained who Moll Flanders was. “I’m being silly,” she said, “forgive me.”
    “Where are we going?”
    “To my place,” she said, “for tea and bickies.”
    At last her meaning was clear to him. He wasn’t shocked either. Usually they were older, less attractive.
    “O.K.,” he said.
    The room was in a chaotic state. Records and books were scattered all over the floor. The one hard-backed chair was