Three months had passed.
In the spacious hotel room there was a “roomy love bed.” Martha sat on the bed, nervously crumpling the fabric of her terry robe on her knee.
“Don’t go, Bobby, listen to me to the end,” she asked wretchedly.
Robert, with a wide towel around his hips, stood facing Martha, leaning his buttocks on the windowsill. He was well-built, but the muscles of the arms and shoulders had slight fat pockets.
He turned to the window with an inarticulate “hmm-hmm,” and pretended to look at something on the street. There was nothing interesting there—a stream of red and yellow lights floating on the roads, the contours of skyscrapers, and the spire of the Empire State glowing blue-and-white in the distance, meaning the Yankees had beaten the Mets.
Finally, having composed himself, he turned decisively and sat down in an armchair opposite Martha. This position was very advantageous for him; he was in the armchair with his arms crossed over his chest, as a formidable judge opposite a criminal.
“Speak up. I’m listening.”
Martha paused for a short time, as if gathering strength before the decisive battle.
“So… If you recall, I told you that James was a biochemist by profession. He has a PhD; he did research, working in the laboratory of the University. He left science to pursue a career in cosmetology and naturopathy. James has always fanatically believed in the power of natural remedies. Notwithstanding his hopeless condition, he continues to buy these products even now. He forces me to take all sorts of naturopathic crap along with him—vitamins, herbal remedies, fish oil.”