# The Blind Bow-boy/Chapter 13

It was the morning of the third day. Harold awoke, immersed, as usual, in a vast sea of rose satin and lace, and looked up at the rococo cupids high over his head. Through an open window the bright sunlight entered. Presently, he knew, Desdemona would appear with their breakfast on a tray. Zimbule was still asleep. He wondered if he could get out of bed without waking her. A mild form of curiosity impelled him to attempt this feat, but no sooner had he lifted a corner of the covers than Zimbule cast her arm across his body. Smiling, he fell back into the soft bed, and she, content once more, ran her slender fingers through his thick hair.
They had been lovers for two days. Zimbule had telephoned the studio that she was ill, too ill to work, and had kept Harold with her in this Riverside Drive apartment, which she had furnished for Love, but until now Love had not abided there. Now, however. He seemed to have entered into every object in the place. Not only the gilded plaster Cupids were instinct with life; the silver and ivory on the toilet-table vibrated with passion; the ​needle-point chairs invited to it; even the pictures took on new meanings. When they had entered this amorous bower two days earlier, passing through the Viennese room, Zimbule had frowned at the Metzinger. It no longer seemed suitable. It was more in the mood of the interior decorator than her own. She had tried, on this initial evening, with Desdemona's and Harold's assistance, to turn its face to the wall. They had not been suc cessful, but their united efforts finally dislodged the wire from the hook and the great canvas in its massive frame crashed to the floor, smashing the frame and shivering the glass. There it had lain ever since, for Zimbule was superstitious regarding an incident that had happened immediately after the entrance of the new master, and she refused to have it removed. But they had scarcely gone into the Viennese room since.
Harold was very happy, happier, he realized, than he had ever been before. An aureole of happiness seemed to radiate about his head. They had talked very little together. They had eaten, they had slept, they had kissed. . . . With her lips upon his, his conscience died. He felt secure in this new happiness; never had he felt secure before. He was even a little proud of himself. . . . Love! So this was love, the love that he had avoided, fled from, rejected.
The days had been so saturated with this novel feeling that all that had happened before seemed a ​little vague to him, like a series of half-forgotten dreams. Places he had known came to his mind surrounded by a haze; even people, faces, were only pale shadows of things no longer familiar. All he really knew, all he really felt, all he was conscious of was before him, within his reach . . . within his reach!
Hal!
Yes, dear.
I'm so glad you're here.
Yes, dear.
Desdemona, grinning broadly, brought in a tray of coffee and steaming buckwheat-cakes, a passion in which Zimbule was indulging herself now that she had the opportunity. They taste, she commented, like angels' saliva. The cackling Desdemona catered to all the girl's whims. Meals were served at irregular hours and their composition was lacking in rhythm. Zimbule entertained fancies for old-fashioned scallop broil, for spumoni, for curry, for chicken à la Maryland, for apple pie smothered in Welsh rabbit. Sometimes, an entire meal would consist of one of these; sometimes, a strange group would be served in a strange rotation. Whatever Zimbule wanted was all the same to Desdemona and Harold thought this wanton self-indulgence part of the girl's fascination.
Desdemona closed the window and turned on the steam. Presently she came in with a great bouquet of huge white fluffy chrysanthemums.
​Zimbule clapped her hands. Like geese's bottoms! she cried.
A number of rolled magazines arrived in the morning mail. While Harold and Zimbule were eating their breakfast, Desdemona opened them with a butter-knife: Motion Pictures, Photoplay, Picture-Play Magazine, Shadowland, Screenland, Movie Weekly. . . .
Is my picture in any of 'em? demanded Zimbule.
I'll see, Miss Jimbool, Desdemona answered. She turned over the pages with her long, brown fingers. Suddenly she emitted a howl. Yah t'is! Yah t'is!
Gimme! Gimme!
Harold looked over her shoulder and saw the portrait of his bride, the familiar picture of the Long Island Phryne, which, as a poster, had hung in his room at the studio. Zimbule, impatient, grabbed the lot from the darkey and began to examine them herself, making comments as she flipped the leaves: There's that sheeny vamp. She had a beak but a doctor took a knife to her and gave her a pug. Cut off her nose to spite her race! Kitty Grandison: you know how she gets her drag. Senators will be boys. He went to Paris with his wife and Kitty was there ahead of him. She called him up and told him she wouldn't have him travelling with his legal wedded. Bad for Kitty's reputation. . . . Olly Waters: Director's wife. 'nough said. Looks like a piece o' pie cut on the bias. ​Couldn't get a job as a waitress at Coney. They make me sick, the poor boobs! Kiss me, Hal!
A package of books arrived from a bookshop.
Oh! I know what they are. Henderson told me he'd send 'em. Got to read 'em to see if they'll do for a picture. She cut the string and removed the wrapper. The Glimpses of the Moon, Babbitt, The Bright Shawl, The Vehement Flame, December Love, and a few others fell out. Zimbule tore open the uncut edges of one book with her finger, rapidly turning the pages, glancing at a line or two, and muttering Um—Um. Then: You read 'em, Des, you're stronger'n I am.
Why don't you do a snake-charmer picture? Harold suggested.
I don't want to see any more of those monsters. . . . Want to watch me take my exercises? She leaped from the bed, slipped out of her thin night-dress, and stood, her back to Harold, nude on the rose carpet, her palms on her haunches, arms akimbo, her tousled head turned coquettishly. Then, lifting her arms straight over her head, she began her exhibition of chamber athletics, stooping to touch the floor with her finger tips without bending her knees. She counted . . . twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. . . . Desdemona called out from the bathroom: Youah baff am suah ready, chile.
Wait for me! Zimbule pecked Harold's cheek with her lips, and skipped off to her tub. Presently ​shrill little cries, mingled with the clucks of the good-natured Negress, scrubbing her mistress's back, could be heard.
Harold lay back in bed. He was wearing a suit of yellow silk pajamas which Zimbule had unaccountably discovered in a chest of drawers. They were, it may be said, too small for him. The little gilt French clock on the mantelpiece struck two in clear bell-like tones. Harold realized that he was losing track of time, that he was drifting. The voyage to Cythera had proved unexpectedly pleasant. The voyage back? Why go back? he asked himself. Why not continue to live on Cythera, a joyous, careless island, with a quaint little animal in the shape of a fascinating woman leaping about in the shadows of the great trees, plunging in the pools, lying with him on the banks of velvet moss. Why go back? Harold tried to think what back would be like. Again, as before, it all seemed hazy, dreamlike. He could not see any of the figures in his past very clearly. His father's face he could not recall at all. Alice seemed a conventional figure, any conventional figure, a type. Paul had assumed the veil. . . . Even Aunt Sadi and Persia Blaine and Miss . . . what was her name? . . . Perkins. Only Campaspe emerged from his memory complete and definite. Campaspe! He must go to call on her, thank her. They must go together. She would understand. Approve? She would not disapprove; of that he was certain. He could not re​member that Campaspe had ever disapproved of anything or any one.
In a few days, a week, whenever Zimbule was ready, they would return to the studio, resume work. His heart . . . Zimbule interrupted his revery. Play a tune, Des! she wascrying. Desdemona emerged from the bathroom, wiping her eyes. Her head was dripping with water; Zimbule had spattered her. All right, honey chile, all right. She moved, flat-footed, across the room. Harold noted her thin legs, her long, narrow feet. . . . No use crying! shouted Zimbule from the bathroom, and then, No! I've got what it takes, but it breaks my heart to give it away!
All right, Miss Jimbool! Desdemona was arranging the disk in the Viennese room. The strains soon filtered in through the open doorway. Zimbule, nude, reappeared in the bedroom, and moved to the rhythm across the rose-carpeted floor. Perching on the bed, she kissed Harold's eyes and ears and throat, while he lay perfectly still, entranced with delight.
When are we going back to work? he asked.
Oh! I don't know. . . . Tired?
Tired! His tone was reproachful. I don't care if we stay here for ever!
Then we will. She kissed him again.
It bre-aks my heart to give itaway! She dragged him to the floor. Come on! Let's dance. Dancing, as it happened, was not one of Harold's accom​plishments, but he tried to follow her as she guided him.
Clumsy! she cried. Come on! Let's go in where the music is.
She pulled him after her into the Viennese room, where the Metzinger, the back of the canvas uppermost, still lay prostrate on the floor.
There's that damn picture! What are we going to do with it? Come on, Des, something swifter . . . Bandanna Land. . . . Come on, Des! She snapped her fingers. The Negress chuckled as she replaced the record, cranked the machine, and set the needle. . . . Come on, Hal! She bounced him about the room, as if he were a heavy rag doll. Desdemona, with a great expanse of white ivory and her red tongue protruding, beat time with her long, narrow feet. Ta-ta-ta-ta, Bandanna Land! Shake your shimmy, Hal. . . . The entrance-bell sounded. . . . Not at home, Des, cried Zimbule, to any one! . . . Desdemona shuffled off, closing the drawing-room door behind her. Zimbule did not stop the phonograph. She continued to circle the room with her willing but inefficient partner.
Desdemona, no longer smiling, came back into the room, again closing the door. Zimbule caught her expression.
What's the matter, Des?
The Negress was silent. Zimbule walked over to her and the black whispered something into the girl's ear.
​The cheek! I told you I was home to nobody, nobody! she shrieked.
He hab heard. . . .
What the hell . . . Tell him to get out.
Desdemona was propitiatory. He hab brought a chinchilly coat.
Tell him to leave the coat and get out! Zimbule's face was pale with fury.
Desdemona left the room. The phonograph disk continued to revolve: Ta-ta-ta-ta, Bandanna Land! The door reopened slowly. Zimbule, in a towering passion, advanced to meet the intruder. Harold watched the moving door with his eyes. It was not Desdemona who entered, but Cupid Lorillard, a heavy, expensive chinchilla coat over his arm. Ta-ta-ta-ta, Bandanna Land!