Free The Hothouse by the East River by Muriel Spark Page B

forth from her
reflection in the water to her shadow beside her, smiling at them both. She has
lost weight and her shadow is thinner than it was last summer, even allowing
for the bulk of her heavy coat and the bulge of the fur collar spreading
obliquely behind her, while before her the same shape ripples. ‘You would have
to know a lot about atmospheric physics,’ she thinks, while a large fat youth
tramps methodically past her on his way to work, turning his head towards her
with a note-taking interest neither more nor less than that of a humble
adding-machine.
    Now,
later in the morning, she is walking once more along the Bahnhofstrasse and
glances at her shape in the reflections of the clean shop-windows. At the end
she crosses the street, walks back a little way, turns off at a corner and into
the hotel where she is staying. It is not quite twelve-thirty.
    Her
friend from the shoe shop is waiting by the door.
    ‘Goodness!’
she says, ‘you really do remind me of that man Kiel I used to know. Just
standing there, you looked for a moment so like him.’
    ‘Well I
wish it was so, in a way, Elsa,’ he says, ‘now that you have said what you have
said of your youth.’
    ‘Let’s
go to the bar and have a drink,’ she says, ‘while we decide where to eat.’
     
    Fractional
Manhattan is closed for Sunday but Paul Hazlett has set aside the afternoon, as
he frequently does, to work over that anthology, his collection of personal
problems old and new.
    The
apartment on the East River is empty and hot. Paul tries to turn the handles of
the radiators in the drawing-room, but they are all swivelled as far to the
right as they will go; when they are in this position the heat should be turned
off, but, as usual, the old-fashioned radiators burn like kindled stoves to the
touch.
    The
telephone rings and Paul stands up, first looking at it anxiously and then
dashing across the floor not to miss it. A voice, when he answers, says, ‘Call
for you from Zurich.’
    ‘Paul,
it’s me,’ says Elsa’s voice.
    ‘What
are you doing in Zurich?’ he says.
    ‘Getting
into bed,’ she says.
    ‘What’s
wrong with you?’ says Paul. ‘Nothing. It’s bedtime over here.’
    ‘But
what are you doing in Zürich?’
    ‘Sleeping
with Mr Mueller.’
    ‘You’re
what?’
    ‘Having
an affair with Mr Mueller.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Mueller
from the shoe shop. The one you call Kiel. He’s on vacation here with me.’
    ‘Be
serious, Elsa.’
    ‘I’m
sleeping with him to check if he’s really Kiel. It’s the only way to identify
him,’ she says.
    ‘Then
you did sleep with him during the war?’ he yells.
    ‘Be
careful on the phone, Paul. I slept with him last night. I don’t think he’s
Kiel. He’s having a shower at the moment. Maybe I’ll call you tomorrow and let
you know my final reactions.’
    ‘I can
have him fired from his job. I can have him arrested as a spy.’
    ‘I own
the shop,’ she says. ‘How can you have him fired? I acquired the shop.’
    ‘Did
you acquire the State Department, too? He’s a spy.’
    ‘I was
saying, Paul, I don’t think he’s Helmut Kiel. This one’s much too eager. Helmut
as a lover was not all that lecherous. His basic approach was different, you had
to coax. But this one—’
    ‘What’s
your hotel, Elsa?’
    ‘The
Ritz,’ she says.
    ‘There
isn’t a Ritz in Zürich. I’m coming over. I’ll make a declaration to the police
and I’ll bring Garven.’
    ‘I
think I’ll be home day after tomorrow,’ Elsa says. ‘As soon as I’m sure of my
facts, anyway.’
     
    ‘You
believe her?’ he says to Katerina on the telephone.
    ‘Well,
Pa, it depends if she’s given him a nice present or something. He’s got plenty
of girls.’
    ‘I bet
he’s right here in New York.’
    ‘No,
they said at the shop he was out of town. On business.’
    ‘That’s
Kiel the spy, all right. Your mother’s age.’
    ‘I
wouldn’t say so, not one bit. His name’s supposed to be