A few months later. The same hotel, the same room. We look out on the courtyard where the bicycles are parked, and there is the little room up above, under the attic, where some smart young Alee played the phonograph all day long and repeated clever little things at the top of his voice. I say "we" but I'm getting ahead of myself, because Mona has ( Read more... )

Standing in the courtyard with a glass eye; only half the world intelligible. The stones are wet and mossy and in the crevices are black toads. A big door bars the entrance to the cellar; the steps are slippery and soiled with bat-dung. The door bulges and sags, the hinges are falling off, but there is an enamelled sign on it, in perfect condition ( Read more... )