Heaven Has No Favorites A Novel by Erich Maria Remarque

Author:Erich Maria Remarque [Remarque, Erich Maria]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Random House Trade Paperbacks
Published: 2014-03-31T21:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

A CANARY WAS SINGING. Clerfayt heard it in his sleep. He woke up and looked around. It took a moment before he realized where he was. Sunlight, white clouds, and shimmering water were playing on the ceiling of the room, which seemed to be turned upside down. The blanket was bound with green satin ribbon. The bathroom door and the window were open, and Clerfayt could see the bird cage with its canary hanging in the window of a room across the courtyard. A woman with massive bosom and yellow hair sat at a table just within the window. She was eating, and, as far as he could make out, it was not breakfast but lunch; a half-bottle of Burgundy stood on the table.

He looked at his watch. He was not mistaken; it was noon. Not for months had he slept so long, and he became aware that he was very hungry. Opening the door, he peered out. There lay the package of things he had ordered the night before. The porter had remembered everything. He ran water in the tub, bathed, and dressed.

The canary was still singing. Its stout mistress was now having apple cake and coffee. Clerfayt went over to the other window, which looked out on the quay. The traffic was roaring by at full volume. The booksellers’ stalls stood open, and a bright-colored tug moved by on the river, a barking spitz on its deck. Clerfayt leaned out, and in the adjoining window saw Lillian’s profile. She, too, was leaning out, with an attentive, collected air, unaware that he was observing her, slowly letting down a shallow basket on a string. Down on the sidewalk, an oyster vendor had just set up his boxes. He seemed familiar with the procedure. The basket reached him; he lined it with damp seaweed and looked up. “Marennes? Belons? The belons are better today.”

“Six belons,” Lillian replied.

“Twelve,” Clerfayt said.

She turned and laughed. “Don’t you want any breakfast?”

“The belons will do fine for breakfast. And a light Pouilly instead of orange juice.”

“Twelve?” the oysterman asked.

“Eighteen,” Lillian amended. She turned to Clerfayt again. “Come over. And will you bring the wine.”

Clerfayt went down to the restaurant for wineglasses and a bottle of Pouilly. He also brought bread, butter, and a piece of ripe Pont l’Evêque. “Do you do this often?” he asked.

“Almost every day.” Lillian pointed to a letter on the table. “Day after tomorrow is the dinner at Uncle Gaston’s. Would you like an invitation?”

“Not especially.”

“Good. It would sabotage the purpose of the dinner, which is to find me a rich husband. Or are you rich?”

“Never for more than a few weeks. Will you get married if a rich-enough man turns up?”

“Give me some of your wine,” she replied. “And don’t be silly.”

“I’d believe anything of you.”

“Since when?”

“I’ve been thinking about you.”

“When have you had time to think about me?”

“While sleeping. You’re unpredictable. You function by other laws than the ones I know.”

“Good,” Lillian said. “That can never do any harm.

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