Part 8
touched. "That's sacrilege," he said. "Absolute sacrilege." He stretched out his legs,
which were unusually heavy at the thighs, almost like human bodies in themselves. He
was dressed, for the most part, in Eastern seaboard regimentals: a turf haircut on top,
run-down brogues on the bottom, with a somewhat mixed uniform in between--buffcolored
woolen socks, charcoal-gray trousers, a button-down-collar shirt, no necktie,
and a herringbone jacket that looked as though it had been properly aged in some of
the more popular postgraduate seminars at Yale, or Harvard, or Princeton. "Oh, God,
what a divine day," he said appreciatively, squinting up at the sun. "I'm an absolute
pawn when it comes to the weather." He crossed his heavy legs, at the ankles. "As a
matter of fact, I've been known to take a perfectly normal rainy day as a personal insult.
So this is absolute manna to me." Though his speaking voice was, in the usual
connotation, well bred, it carried considerably more than adequately, as though he had
some sort of understanding with himself that anything he had to say would sound
pretty much all right--intelligent, literate, even amusing or stimulating--either from
Teddy's vantage point or from that of the people in the row behind, if they were
listening. He looked obliquely down at Teddy, and smiled. "How are you and the
weather?" he asked. His smile was not unpersonable, but it was social, or
conversational, and related back, however indirectly, to his own ego. "The weather ever
bother you out of all sensible proportion?" he asked, smiling.
"I don't take it too personal, if that's what you mean," Teddy said.
The young man laughed, letting his head go back. "Wonderful," he said. "My name,
incidentally, is Bob Nicholson. I don't know if we quite got around to that in the gym. I
know your name, of course."
Teddy shifted his weight over to one hip and stashed his notebook in the side pocket
of his shorts.
"I was watching you write--from way up there," Nicholson said, narratively, pointing.
"Good Lord. You were working away like a little Trojan."
Teddy looked at him. "I was writing something in my notebook."
Nicholson nodded, smiling. "How was Europe?" he asked conversationally. "Did you
enjoy it?"
"Yes, very much, thank you."
"Where all did you go?"
Teddy suddenly reached forward and scratched the calf of his leg. "Well, it would take
me too much time to name all the places, because we took our car and drove fairly great
distances." He sat back. "My mother and I were mostly in Edinburgh, Scotland, and
Oxford, England, though. I think I told you in the gym I had to be interviewed at both
those places. Mostly the University of Edinburgh."
"No, I don't believe you did," Nicholson said. "I was wondering if you'd done anything
like that. How'd it go? They grill you?"
"I beg your pardon?" Teddy said.
"How'd it go? Was it interesting?"
"At times, yes. At times, no," Teddy said. "We stayed a little bit too long. My father
wanted to get back to New York a little sooner than this ship. But some people were
coming over from Stockholm, Sweden, and Innsbruck, Austria, to meet me, and we had
to wait around."
"It's always that way."
Teddy looked at him directly for the first time. "Are you a poet?" he asked.
"A poet?" Nicholson said. "Lord, no. Alas, no. Why do you ask?"
"I don't know. Poets are always taking the weather so personally. They're always
sticking their emotions in things that have no emotions."
Nicholson, smiling, reached into his jacket pocket and took out cigarettes and
matches. "I rather thought that was their stock in trade," he said. "Aren't emotions what
poets are primarily concerned with?"
Teddy apparently didn't hear him, or wasn't listening. He was looking abstractedly
toward, or over, the twin smokestacks up on the Sports Deck.
touched. "That's sacrilege," he said. "Absolute sacrilege." He stretched out his legs,
which were unusually heavy at the thighs, almost like human bodies in themselves. He
was dressed, for the most part, in Eastern seaboard regimentals: a turf haircut on top,
run-down brogues on the bottom, with a somewhat mixed uniform in between--buffcolored
woolen socks, charcoal-gray trousers, a button-down-collar shirt, no necktie,
and a herringbone jacket that looked as though it had been properly aged in some of
the more popular postgraduate seminars at Yale, or Harvard, or Princeton. "Oh, God,
what a divine day," he said appreciatively, squinting up at the sun. "I'm an absolute
pawn when it comes to the weather." He crossed his heavy legs, at the ankles. "As a
matter of fact, I've been known to take a perfectly normal rainy day as a personal insult.
So this is absolute manna to me." Though his speaking voice was, in the usual
connotation, well bred, it carried considerably more than adequately, as though he had
some sort of understanding with himself that anything he had to say would sound
pretty much all right--intelligent, literate, even amusing or stimulating--either from
Teddy's vantage point or from that of the people in the row behind, if they were
listening. He looked obliquely down at Teddy, and smiled. "How are you and the
weather?" he asked. His smile was not unpersonable, but it was social, or
conversational, and related back, however indirectly, to his own ego. "The weather ever
bother you out of all sensible proportion?" he asked, smiling.
"I don't take it too personal, if that's what you mean," Teddy said.
The young man laughed, letting his head go back. "Wonderful," he said. "My name,
incidentally, is Bob Nicholson. I don't know if we quite got around to that in the gym. I
know your name, of course."
Teddy shifted his weight over to one hip and stashed his notebook in the side pocket
of his shorts.
"I was watching you write--from way up there," Nicholson said, narratively, pointing.
"Good Lord. You were working away like a little Trojan."
Teddy looked at him. "I was writing something in my notebook."
Nicholson nodded, smiling. "How was Europe?" he asked conversationally. "Did you
enjoy it?"
"Yes, very much, thank you."
"Where all did you go?"
Teddy suddenly reached forward and scratched the calf of his leg. "Well, it would take
me too much time to name all the places, because we took our car and drove fairly great
distances." He sat back. "My mother and I were mostly in Edinburgh, Scotland, and
Oxford, England, though. I think I told you in the gym I had to be interviewed at both
those places. Mostly the University of Edinburgh."
"No, I don't believe you did," Nicholson said. "I was wondering if you'd done anything
like that. How'd it go? They grill you?"
"I beg your pardon?" Teddy said.
"How'd it go? Was it interesting?"
"At times, yes. At times, no," Teddy said. "We stayed a little bit too long. My father
wanted to get back to New York a little sooner than this ship. But some people were
coming over from Stockholm, Sweden, and Innsbruck, Austria, to meet me, and we had
to wait around."
"It's always that way."
Teddy looked at him directly for the first time. "Are you a poet?" he asked.
"A poet?" Nicholson said. "Lord, no. Alas, no. Why do you ask?"
"I don't know. Poets are always taking the weather so personally. They're always
sticking their emotions in things that have no emotions."
Nicholson, smiling, reached into his jacket pocket and took out cigarettes and
matches. "I rather thought that was their stock in trade," he said. "Aren't emotions what
poets are primarily concerned with?"
Teddy apparently didn't hear him, or wasn't listening. He was looking abstractedly
toward, or over, the twin smokestacks up on the Sports Deck.
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