Days of Winter Read Free

verbal fencing to keep a man from thinking that she could be taken easily … or cheaply. But Rubin had affected her physically. She wanted to sleep with him. She had from the first moment she had seen him. But love … hardly …Behind her façade she loved no man, no man was worth loving. But love had nothing to do with lust, of course not, so she took only from those she chose, and threw back the others—
    Pierre coughed and cleared his throat. “It’s three o’clock, Magda.”
    Magda got up, took one last sip of wine and said, “Come along, Rubin Hack, you may walk me home. Bon soir , Pierre, and turn off the light when you leave.”
    “You tell me that every night.”
    “And if I didn’t you’d forget.” Laughing as she left, with Rubin following, she first unlocked the front door, then shut and secured it behind them.
    They walked six blocks in silence, then turned onto a narrow cobblestoned alley. After another few steps Rubin found himself walking up four rickety flights to Magda’s room. The door was unlocked. Opening it, she turned on the bedside lamp. A clothesline was stretched from one corner of her small disheveled garret to the next. She yanked down the line hung with stockings, a camisole, sheer panties, chemises, and threw them into a corner. Without apologizing for the unmade bed, the dressing table layered with dust, the cheap perfume and cosmetics, she motioned Rubin to sit in the battered, torn red velour chair.
    Out of habit rather than modesty Magda stood behind the cheap silk printed screen and undressed, throwing her stockings, skirt and blouse over the top. Seconds later she emerged, dressed in a sheer wrapper through which Rubin could see the silhouette of her exquisitely slim body. Her breasts were firm and provocatively ample, with delicately distended nipples. It was impossible for Rubin not to look. She seemed so casually unaware, almost like a naïve child. She had the ability to make her body a natural thing, as unself-conscious as the statue of a Greek nude he had been so affected by at the Louvre. However, she was not a statue. …She was flesh and soft, and he wanted more than anything in his life to feel her suppleness yield underneath his body. To touch her, to explore the inner depths of her passion. Out of fear that he would be premature, he sat rigidly, holding himself back with all the discipline of which he was capable.
    He watched as Magda went to the small cupboard and took out two glasses. “What will you have, absinthe or wine?”
    “Wine.”
    She handed the glass to Rubin, then lay down on the brass bed, propping the pillows as she sipped. There was an awkward silence between them. Finally Rubin asked, “How long have you lived in Paris?”
    “For five years now, since I was fourteen.”
    How incredible, Rubin thought, a child, a mere girl alone in a place like Paris. Of course, he had guessed how she had survived but it seemed that life had never touched her. Life is an illusion anyway, Rubin thought. We see what we want to see. …What’s real and what’s not lies in the eyes of the beholder, like beauty.
    As though she were reading his thoughts, she said, “Don’t be curious about my life. It is no different from a million others. If you become hard enough you become strong enough not to let life beat you. Tomorrow or the next day you will be gone. What contribution could I make to your memories?”
    “But you’ve already done that. I will never forget that I have met you.”
    “Yes, of course .” She pursed her lips. “You will remember me as you remember what you had for dinner last Tuesday. I don’t feel like playing games this early in the morning. Do you have a cigarette?”
    Rubin walked to the bed, sat on the edge and flipped the package. Magda took out a cigarette and put it in her mouth. She waited for Rubin to light it. He struck the match. His hand trembled. Magda watched the performance, then took his hand and guided it. She inhaled deeply,