The Loo Sanction by Trevanian Read Free Book Online Page B

Galsworthy.”
    â€œHas it worked out like that?”
    â€œI don’t know. I’ve never met anyone who liked Sterne.”
    â€œMore coffee?”
    â€œPlease.”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 
    â€œ. . . and you took up painting?”
    â€œOh, little by little. Not with much courage at first. Then I took the plunge and decided I would do nothing but paint until my money ran out. The family was dead against it, especially as they had wasted so much money sending me over here to school. I suppose they would have been happier if I had gone into prostitution. At least they would have understood the profit motive. Well, I painted and painted, and nobody at all noticed. Then I ran out of money and sold everything I had of any value. But the first thing I knew, I was stoney broke and didn’t even have rent money.”
    â€œAnd that was that.”
    â€œAnd that was that.” She looked up and smiled. “And here I am.”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 
    â€œI have a confession to make,” he said seriously.
    â€œYou’re a typhoid carrier?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou’re designed to self-destruct in seven minutes?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou’re a boy.”
    â€œNo. You’ll never guess.”
    â€œIn which case, I give up.”
    â€œI have never liked the films of Eisenstein. They bore me to screaming.”
    â€œThat is serious. What do you do for espresso talk?”
    â€œOh, I’m not excusing myself. I recognize it to be a great flaw in my character.”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 
    â€œ. . . oh, I love to drive! Fast, at night, in back lanes, with the lights off. Don’t you?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œMost men do, I think. British men especially. They use fast cars sexually, if you know what I mean.”
    â€œLike Italians.”
    â€œI suppose.”
    â€œMaybe that’s why both countries produce so many competent grand prix drivers. They get practice on public roads.”
    â€œBut you don’t like to drive fast?”
    â€œI don’t need it.”
    She smiled. “Good.” The vowel was drawn out and had an Irish curl.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 
    â€œ. . . philosophy of life?” he asked, smiling to himself at the idea. “No, I’ve never had one. When I was a kid, we were too poor to afford them, and later on they had gone out of fashion.”
    â€œNo, now, don’t send me up. I know the words sound pompous, but everyone has some kind of philosophy of life—some way of sorting out the good things from the bad . . . or the potentially dangerous.”
    â€œPerhaps. The closest I’ve come to that is my rigid adherence to the principle of leave-a-little.”
    â€œLeave a little what?”
    â€œLeave-a-little everything. Leave a party before it becomes dull. Leave a meal before you’re cloyed. Leave a city before you feel that you know it.”
    â€œAnd I suppose that includes human relationships?”
    â€œMost especially human relationships. Get out while they’re still on the upswing. Leave before they become predictable or, what is worse,
meaningful
. Be willing to lose a few events to protect the memory.”
    â€œI think that’s a terrible philosophy.”
    â€œI’m sorry. It’s the only one I’ve got.”
    â€œIt’s a coward’s philosophy.”
    â€œIt’s a survivor’s philosophy. Shall we have the cheese board?”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 
    He half stood in greeting as she returned to the table. “A last brandy?” he asked.
    â€œYes, please.” She was pensive for a second. “You know, it just now occurred to me that one might make a useful barometer of national traits by studying national toilet tissues.”
    â€œToilet tissues?”
    â€œYes. Has that ever occurred to you?”
    â€œAh . . . no. Never.”
    â€œWell, for