scent. A row of perfume bottles, musk for the arm-pits, violet for the breasts. Rose water, pale water of roses, for the secret kiss. And a rare distillate, Cheveux d'Amour, for the lips.
The atmosphere was heavy. Spring in Paris. New York before dawn. For it was very late. And he wasn't certain.
"I'm going to bathe myself," she had said. "You do the same. Wash yourself clean of your sins, my lamb."
A kiss and then, moments afterward, rushing water.
He stripped. Into the bath compartment he stepped. A multiplicity of handles. Hot. Cold. Needle bath. Shampoo. He wove a curtain of water about him and stood steadfast against it. He touched the tap marked Needle Bath. Ice cold water pounded his body. A violent wrenching shock. Cold heat. Heated ice. Vigor. Flood of blood racing back into his brain. Awareness.
Into his brain came memory. He remembered. Long long ago, he had been young. The rippling laughter of youth on his lips, the love of the dance provoking his body into a rollicking naked frolic. At the door, cold eyes of Mr. Lowell …
Water stabbing him. Young. Strong. Fighting his way up to meet Anita. Cold water vividly painting a spectral portrait in the spray … Anita's voice, so compelling … then the foul stench of her.
He stepped out of the bath. Dry heat rose up to drink the parting drops of bath water. A white, fluffy head tossed powder upon his skin. Acting quickly—quick motions, hurry, hurry. He must go to meet her before it is too late. He found the silk robe, white Shantung silk.
He opened the door.
His room. His clothes lay upon a chair.
