We'll Always Have Paris by Ray Bradbury Read Free Book Online Page B

tell you no fibs,’ she said, pouring cinnamon out
    of his inkwell onto the piecrust dough.
    ‘Just wait!’ He rammed the door open and ran past his secretary and out into
    the big room. ‘Attention!’ He waved his arms. The typing stopped. The ten stenographers and
    clerks turned away from their shiny black machines. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Is there a radio
    somewhere in this office?’
    Silence.
    ‘You heard what I said,’ he demanded, glaring at them with hot eyes. ‘Is
    there a radio?’
    A trembling silence.
    ‘I’ll give a bonus and a guarantee I won’t fire her, to anyone who tells me
    where the radio is!’ he announced.
    One of the little blond stenographers put up her hand.
    ‘In the ladies’ restroom,’ she whimpered. ‘Cigarette time, we play it
    low.’
    ‘God bless you!’
    In the hall, he pounced on the restroom door. ‘Is anyone in there?’ he
    called. Silence. He opened the door. He entered.
    The radio was on the window ledge. He seized it, jerkingat its wires. He felt as if he were clutching at the live intestines of some
    horrible animal. He opened the window and flung it out. Somewhere there was a scream. The radio
    burst into bomb fragments on the roof below.
    He slammed the window and went back to his office door.
    The office was empty.
    He picked up his inkwell and shook it until it gave forth—
    Ink.
    Driving home, he considered what he had said to the office force. Never
    another radio, he had said. Whoever is responsible for another radio will be fired out of hand.
    Fired, did they understand!
    He walked up the flight of stairs and stopped.
    A party was going on in his apartment. He heard his wife laughing, drinks
    being passed, music playing, voices.
    ‘Oh, Ma, aren’t you the one?’
    ‘Pepper, where are you?’
    ‘Out here, Dad!’
    ‘Fluffy, let’s play spin the bottle!’
    ‘Henry, Henry Aldrich, put down that platter before you break it!’
    ‘John, oh, John, John!’
    ‘Helen, you look lovely—’
    ‘And I said to Dr Trent—’
    ‘I want you to meet Dr. Christian and—’
    ‘Sam, Sam Spade, this is Philip
    Marlowe—’
    ‘Hello, Marlowe.’
    ‘Hello, Spade!’
    Gushing laughter. Rioting. Tinkling glass.
    Voices.
    Joe fell against the wall. Warm perspiration rolled down his face. He put his
    hands to his throat and wanted to scream. Those voices. Familiar. Familiar. All familiar. Where
    had he heard them before? Friends of Annie’s? And yet she had no friends. None. He could
    remember none of her few friends’ voices. And these names, these strange familiar names—?
    He swallowed drily. He put his hand to the door.
    Click.
    The voices vanished. The music was cut off. The tinkling of glass ceased. The
    laughter faded in a great wind.
    When he stepped through the door, it was like coming into a room an instant
    after a hurricane has left by the window. There was a sense of loss, a vacuum, an emptiness, a
    vast silence. The walls ached.
    Annie sat looking at him.
    ‘Where did they go?’ he said.
    ‘Who?’ She tried to look surprised.
    ‘Your friends,’ he said.
    ‘What friends?’ She raised her eyebrows.
    ‘You know what I’m talking about,’ he said.
    ‘No,’ she said firmly.
    ‘What’d you do? Go buy a new radio?’
    ‘And what if I did?’
    He took a step forward, his hands groping the air. ‘Where is it?’
    ‘I won’t tell.’
    ‘I’ll find it,’ he said.
    ‘I’ll only buy another and another,’ she said.
    ‘Annie, Annie,’ he said, stopping. ‘How long are you going to carry this
    crazy thing on? Don’t you see what’s happening?’
    She looked at the wall. ‘All I know is that you’ve been a bad husband,
    neglecting me, ignoring me. You’re gone, and when you’re gone, I have my friends, and my
    friends and I have parties and I watch them live and die and walk around, and we drink drinks
    and have affairs, oh yes, you wouldn’t believe it, have affairs, my dear Joseph! And we have
    martinis and daiquiris and