The Hunger by Whitley Strieber Read Free Book Online

cheeks when he realized that his face was covered with heavy stubble. He didn’t even know if there was a razor in the house. In a kind of wonderment his hands traveled over his cheeks, touching the hard little ends of hairs. From the bathroom he heard Miriam humming as she toweled herself dry, her familiar melody.
    He dressed quickly and left, eager to get away from the pressure of the situation. There was a barber at Fifty-seventh Street and Second Avenue. He would walk up there and get himself shaved.
    The shave was actually quite pleasant, the barber cheerful. In the pleasure of the moment he also got his hair trimmed and his shoes buffed.
    He was feeling somewhat better when he left. The sun was shining, the streets were crowded with hurrying people, the air was almost sweet. For the first time in many years John enjoyed watching a woman other than Miriam. It was a relief after the fierce tensions of this morning. She was just one of the crowd, a girl in a cheap skirt and sweater hurrying to the bus stop with a paper cup of coffee from Nedick’s in her hand. Her hair was dusty brown, her face too heavily made up. But there was such sensuality in her movements, in the way her breasts lay beneath her sweater and in the determination of her stride. Suddenly, he looked again at the face. He was horrified.
    It might have been Kaye.
    His heart thundered, he gasped for breath. Her eyes met his. They were deep with the mysterious sorrow of mortals, an expression he had been able to see in others only after it had disappeared from his own face.
    “Was that a Number Two?”
    She was speaking to him.
    “Mister, was that a Number Two bus?”
    She was smiling, her teeth yellow with neglect. Ignoring her, John hurried back to the security of the house.
    As he approached he heard voices through the open window of the living room. At once he felt the hollow despair of jealousy — Alice and Miriam were chatting, no doubt waiting for him to appear so that they could begin practicing the Handel Trio.
    He mounted the stairs, moved softly across the hallway, past the hall table with its spray of roses, and entered the living room. Miriam looked magnificently fresh and beautiful in a bright-blue dress. A blue ribbon was tied prettily about her neck. Alice lay on a settee nearby in her usual jeans and sweat shirt. He felt Miriam watching him as he went across to his place. Until he was settled, Miriam’s body remained tense, as if ready to spring.
    “John,” Alice said, leaning her head back, “I didn’t even hear you come in. You always sneak.” Her thirteen-year-old smile made him catch his breath. She was indeed a marvelous toy, fragile and succulent.
    Miriam crashed out an arpeggio on the harpsichord. “Let’s get going,” she said.
    “I don’t want to do that trio again. It’s boring.” Alice was in a typical sulky mood.
    “How about the Scarlatti we were doing last week?”
    Miriam went through some fingerings. “We could do it if John can keep up.”
    “All the music he knows is boring.”
    Miriam’s fingers flew across the keys. “I know Corelli, Abaco, Bach —” She tossed a thick book of music at Alice. “Pick whatever you want.”
    There was a silence. “I barely know the Handel,” John said. “It’s hard for the cello.”
    Miriam and Alice glanced at each other. “We’ll do the Handel,” Alice said. “It’s either that or finger and bow practice, right, John?” She picked up her violin and tucked it under her chin.
    “I’m one of the few musicians who can do Chopsticks on the cello, dear.”
    “As you always say.”
    Before he had even tuned they were starting. He entered raggedly, rushing after them, overtaking and then struggling to keep his place for the rest of the piece.
    They played for an hour, repeating the trio three times. John eventually began to enjoy the way it became coherent, finally beautiful. He liked the music. It seemed to fit the moment, the rich quality of the sunlight, the