The Weeping Woman by Michael Kilian

Author:Michael Kilian
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road

The restaurant was in the village of St.-Paul-de-Vence, occupying the larger part of a clifftop some two hundred feet above a verdant valley. There were tables set out on the terrace, which had a nighttime view of twinkling lights leading to the sea. There was a moon, shimmering the water at the far distance. Two tables had been pushed together for them, both near the terrace railing and stone steps that led down the steepness to the valley floor.

A light breeze was blowing, and the moonlight limned the mountain ridges above them. The menu looked interesting. Once again, the Murphys had chosen well—chosen perfectly.

Murphy arranged their places, Bedford finding himself between Sara Murphy and Hadley Hemingway. Across from him was Zelda, smoking furiously.

Sara and Hadley talked about children, but at length Mrs. Murphy turned her attention to Bedford.

“Have you bought any interesting paintings since you’ve come to France, Mr. Green?”

“Not yet.”

“You seem to be taking quite an interest in Pablo’s work.”

“I can’t afford Señor Picasso’s work, but I’d like to see some of it.”

No one was attending to Zelda. She was blowing streams of smoke in all directions, drinking wine thirstily, and drumming her fingers on the table between sips. She shot a dark look at Bedford, as though her problem, whatever it might be, was his fault.

“That is up to Pablo,” said Sara.

“Of course.”

Hadley started to speak, then thought better of it, turning to the view.

Sara continued doing her duty to the conversation.

“Have you a favorite painter, Mr. Green?”

He thought upon it. “The closest to that would be George Bellows.”

“Do I know him? Is he here in France?”

“He prefers New York—or did.”

“Did?”

“I believe he just died. It’s very sad.”

“It’s always sad. I truly hate death.”

A large woman at a nearby table attracted Bedford’s attention with her hearty laugh. She wore a long billowy dress and was barefoot. There were three effeminate-looking men at the table with her, who seemed to be vying to see who could amuse her most. When she looked Bedford’s way, he realized who she was.

“There’s Isadora Duncan,” he said.

Sara and Hadley looked to the dancer, and then Zelda did, too. Scott leaned across the table at the other end. “Who’d you say that is, old sport?”

Bedford raised his voice, but only slightly. “Isadora Duncan.”

Fitzgerald stared, then slowly, with uncertain step, got up and went over to the woman’s table. He introduced himself, bowing ornately, and seated himself on the floor. He apparently intended a long stay, for he crossed his legs Indian-fashion, gazing up at her raptly.

“I think Scott had a similar interview with Edith Wharton,” Sara said.

Hadley giggled. Zelda took a long drag on her cigarette, then rose and walked around the table. Bedford thought she might be wanting to say something to him. When she did not, he turned around just in time to see her put both hands on the top of the marble railing and fling herself over the side.

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