Besides, forty days isn’t forever: you write to each other, then you get back together and shack up again . . .
Does your friend have an office?”
“An office?
No, he has no office.”
“Does he have . . . an auto factory?
In short: he putters around with something?”
“No.”
“He does nothing?”
“Nothing.”
Brague emits a whistle that can be interpreted in at least two ways . . .
“Nothing at all?”
“Nothing.
That is, he has forests.”
“Amazing!”
“What amazes you?”
“That anyone can live like that. No office. No factory. No rehearsals. No racing stable!
Doesn’t that seem funny to you?”
I look up at him with an air of embarrassment and a little guilt:
“Yes, it does.”
I can’t answer differently.
My friend’s idleness, his sauntering about like a high-school boy perpetually on vacation, is a frequent cause of alarm to me, almost of shock . . .
“I’d croak,” Brague declares after a silence. “A matter of habit!”
“No doubt . . .”
“Now,” Brague says, sitting down, “let’s make this short and sweet. Have you got all you need?”
“Of course, what do you think?
My new Dryad costume is a dream, green as a little grasshopper, and it weighs only about a pound!
The other costume is mended, with new embroidery, laundered: you’d swear it was brand-new; it can hold out for sixty performances without weakening.”
Brague puckers up his mouth:
“Hmm . . . are you sure?
You could have shelled out for a brand-new gown for Dominance!”
“Oh, sure, and you would have paid for it, right?
What about your embroidered doeskin breeches in Dominance, which have taken on the color of all the stage boards that have waxed them—do I find fault with you for them?”
My partner raises a dogmatic hand:
“Excuse me, excuse me! Let’s not confuse things!
My breeches are magnificent! They’ve taken on a patina, subtle shades: they’re like a piece of artistic pottery. It would be a crime to replace them!”
“You’re just a skinflint!” I say, shrugging my shoulders.
“And you’re a grouch! . . . ”
Oh, how good it feels to tackle each other a little! It’s restful.
We’re both annoyed just enough for our squabble to resemble a lively rehearsal . . .
“Halt!” Brague shouts. “The matter of costumes is settled.
Let’s move on to the matter of luggage.”
“As if I needed you for that!
Is this the first time we’re traveling together?
Are you going to teach me how to fold my slips?”
Brague, under his eyelids creased by professional grimaces, casts a crushing glance at me:
“Poor creature!
Total lamebrain! Talk, talk, kick up a fuss, stir up the bee in your bonnet!
Am I going to teach you?
I’ll say I am!
Listen, and do your best to latch on: we pay the excess-baggage penalties, don’t we?”