The Memory of Eva Ryker Read Online Free

Theaters and Drive-Ins Near You , a survey of the American film industry, as well as successful biographies of D. W. Griffith, Field Marshall Montgomery, and Pierre Laval. Hall is a frequent contributor of fiction to Playboy and the Saturday Evening Post , and of nonfiction to Life, Look , the New Yorker , and Punch .
    Hall has one son by a previous marriage. He and his wife live in the village of Fourqueux, just outside Paris.
    Last night I dreamed about Martha Klein.
    It doesn’t happen very often. Not anymore. There was a time, during the Inquest, when sleep was a personal enemy I fought every night.
    Of course, that was years ago. Between then and now is the War, a divorce, remarriage, and my work. All of which makes a pretty fair padding to absorb the jolt of old memories. But, once in a while, the nightmares still come back.
    Lying face down in bed, I listened to my pulse slow to a normal idle. My hand patted the crumpled percale. Jan was up early.
    Sleeping late is one of the pastimes my wife and I usually share. I turned on my side and burrowed my head in the pillow.
    The phone rang and Jan’s footsteps thumped across the living room floor in response. My ears caught the phrase “We’ll be there” before she hung up.
    The footsteps came my way. A fist nudged me in the ribs.
    â€œWake up.”
    â€œGo away. I gave at the office.”
    â€œCome on, Norman.” She tabbed off the electric blanket. “Time to leave the womb.”
    â€œThe last thing I need in the morning is paperback Freud.” I snuggled into the covers. “By the way, where is ‘there?’”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œAs in ‘we’ll be there.’ On the phone.”
    â€œThe Rotunde. We’re meeting Geoffrey Proctor for lunch.”
    I braved one eye outside the border of the electric blanket and saw she wasn’t kidding. Every time we meet a publisher Janice wears one of her no-bullshit tailored suits. The kind Adrian designed for Joan Crawford. Dark green this time.
    â€œYou win.” I flopped out of bed and padded to the bathroom. “What’s Geoffrey want?”
    â€œAn article from you, apparently. For World magazine.”
    â€œGod forbid.” Hot water steamed over my razor as I leaned into the mirror, counting the broken veins in my eyes.
    Jan leaned against the door. “You want any breakfast?”
    â€œJust coffee.” I took a second look in the mirror. “A quiet prayer wouldn’t hurt either.”
    She nodded in agreement and headed for the kitchen.
    After showering, I rummaged through my closet. What suit? The black? God, no. Combined with Jan’s outfit we’d look like embalmers. I compromised on the gray with the red tie.
    I sat at the dining room table as Jan poured the coffee. “Well, how do I look?”
    She threw out the paper filter from the Chemex decanter, then glanced over the kitchen counter. “Dissipated. A little decadent. Byronic darkness in the eyes. Like Papa or, no … I’ve got it!” She snapped her fingers. “Scott Fitzgerald in Beloved Infidel .”
    â€œJesus.” I sipped the coffee and added more cream.
    â€œDon’t worry. Geoffrey likes the look of shaggy genius.”
    â€œI’ll try to be suitably unruly.” I finished the coffee and rinsed the cup. “You about ready?”
    Jan headed for the bathroom. “In a minute.”
    â€˜In a minute’ turned out to be ten. She was still fiddling with her face as the Silver Wraith convertible crunched across the gravel forecourt and snoozed down the tree-lined road leading toward the Autoroute.
    â€œNorman, either I am misreading your sleepy Oscar Levant expression …”
    â€œâ€¦ Or?”
    â€œâ€¦ You’re looking very lukewarm over the prospect of going back to work.”
    â€œMy dear, I will eat a fattening lunch and listen to Geoffrey Proctor’s hard sell. And then we shall see. In