It was about time they finished dinner and their sex-tranquillizing salads. I was glad when the same voice came to the phone again. He was smoking a cigar now, and the smell of cabbage was less pronounced. “Schnier speaking,” I said, “remember?” He laughed. “Of course,” he said, “I hope you didn’t take me literally and really burn your St. Augustine.” “Certainly I did,” I said. “Tore the thing up and fed the pages into the stove.” He was silent a moment. “You’re joking,” he said hoarsely. “No,” I said, “in matters like that I am consistent.” “For heaven’s sake,” he said, “didn’t you grasp the dialectic in what I said?” “No,” I said, “I’m just a straightforward, honest, simple guy. How about my brother,” I said, “when will they be good enough to have finished dinner?” “The dessert has just been brought in,” he said, “it won’t be long now.” “What is there?” I asked. “For dessert?” “Yes.” “Actually I’m not supposed to say, but I’ll tell you.
