Howard's apartment reflected the man. It was in perfect taste; autographed letters from celebrities hung on the living room walls, beside several Daumiers, Zorns, a Whistler. A grand piano was shiningly black. A balcony stood high over the city.
"I'm finding myself now. I thought I was gone, two years ago down in Tia Juana."
"Oh, tell me," begged Howard.
"I'd rather forget it." Ken puffed on the cigarette. "Do you know, I never open up this way?"
"That's because you're lonely," Howard said. "Not a realist. You need Europe, a touch of true ripening—not forced. We Americans age our cheeses by a process; in Europe everything, including cheese, is permitted to get rotten as it pleases. Have you ever been to the opera?"
"No—never dreamed of going."
"Opera is a European scheme to dull the senses with musical opiates. We Americans drink raw gin or rape our sisters for the same reason—Nepenthe—sweet forgetfulness."
Ken laughed.
"I have too much money. I spend in order to have less. You have none. You struggle in order to have more. Both of our efforts are futile. We strive only so as not to think."
"I like you," Ken said. "We are sort of pals—I feel I've known you for a long time."
"You have. And will forever. We're brothers, really. I enjoy talking this way. No women. Don't need them. They are all Cheshire cats with a streak of sadism.
"Occasionally, as tonight, I meet a kindred soul. Then I'm happy. I can talk. Once my friend was a veteran of the Franco-Prussian war, an ancient concierge in Paris.
