chapter01-03

The story waswriting itself and I was having a hard time keeping up with it. I ordered anotherrum St. James and I watched the girl whenever I looked up, or when I sharpenedthe pencil with apencil sharpener with the shavings curling into the saucer under my drink.

I’ve seen you,beauty, and you belong to me now, whoever you are waiting for and if I neversee you again, I thought. You belong to me and all Paris belongs to me and Ibelong to this notebookand this pencil.

Then I went backto writing and I entered far into the story and was lost in it. I was writing itnow and it was not writing itself and I did not look up nor know anything aboutthe time nor think where I was nor order any more rum St. James. I was tired ofrum St. James without thinking about it. Then the story was finished and I wasvery tired. I read the last paragraph and then I looked up and looked for thegirl and she had gone. I hope she’s gone with a good man, I thought. But I feltsad.

I closed up thestory in the notebook and put it in my inside pocket and I asked the waiter fora dozen portugaises and a half-carafe of the dry white wine they had there.After writing a story I was always empty and both sad and happy, as though Ihad made love, and I was sure this was a very good story although I would notknow truly how good until I read it over the next day.

As I ate theoysters with their strong taste of the sea and their faint metallic taste thatthe cold white wine washed away, leaving only the sea taste and the succulenttexture, and as I drank their coldliquid from each shell and washed it down with the crisp taste of wine, I lost theempty feeling and began to be happy and to make plans.