She glanced at the list. “Correct. And?”
“We were in France together all those times?”
“Always together, yes.” She scanned the list again. “But I don’t see—”
“You never did. Tell me, do you recall in all our trips to Paris, how often did we make love?”
“What a strange question.”
“Not strange at all. How many?”
She studied the list as if the total was there.
“You can’t expect me to name the exact times.”
“No,” he said, “because you can’t.”
“Can’t—?”
“Not even if you tried.”
“Surely—”
“No, not ‘surely,’ because not one night in Paris, the city of love, not one night ever, did we make love!”
“There must have been—”
“No, not once. You’ve forgotten. I remember. Total recall. Never once, not once, did you call me to bed.”
There was a long silence as she stared at the list and at last let it fall from her fingers. She did not look at him.
“Does it all come back now?” he wondered aloud.
She nodded silently.
“And isn’t it sad?” he said.
She nodded again, quietly.
“Remember that lovely film we saw so long ago when Garbo and Melvyn Douglas looked at a clock in Paris and it was almost twelve and he says, ‘Oh, Ninotchka, Ninotchka, the big hand and the little hand almost touch. Almost touch, and in a moment one half of Paris will be making love to the other half. Ninotchka, Ninotchka.’”
His wife nodded and a tear appeared in her eye.
He went to the door and opened it and said, “You do understand why I have to go? Because next year I might be too old, or maybe even not here.”
“It’s never too late—” she began.
“For us, yes, too late. Twenty years in Paris too late. Twenty weeks and twenty July 14 possible nights, Bastille Days, and all of it too late. My God it’s sad. I could almost cry. But another year, I did. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” she whispered.
He opened the door and stood there, staring at the future.
“Oh, Ninotchka, Ninotchka,” he whispered and went out and was careful to shut the door with no sound.
The concussion thrust her back in her chair.
THE TRANSFORMATION