philip_k_dick_-_the_man_in_the_high_castle

Dialing, Joe said, 'We have a folder on Abendsen and it seems he is attracted to a certain type of
dark, libidinous girl. A specific Middle-Eastern or Mediterranean type.'
As he talked to the hotel people, Juliana went over to the bed and lay down. She shut her eyes
and put her arm across her face.
'They do have a hairdresser,' Joe said when he had hung up the phone. 'And she can take care of
you right away. You go down to the salon; it's on the mezzanine.' He handed her something;
opening her eyes she saw that it was more Reichsbank notes. 'To pay her.'
She said, 'Let me lie here. Will you please?'
He regarded her with a look of acute curiosity and concern.
'Seattle is like San Francisco would have been,' she said, 'if there had been no Great Fire. Real
old wooden buildings and some brick ones, and hilly like S.F. The Japs there go back to a long time
before the war. They have a whole business section and houses, stores and everything, very old. It's
a port. This little old Jap who taught me — I had gone up there with a Merchant Marine guy, and
while I was there I started taking these lessons. Minoru Ichoyasu; he wore a vest and tie. He was as
round as a yo-yo. He taught upstairs in a Jap office building; he had that old-fashioned gold
lettering on his door, and a waiting room like a dentist's office. With National Geographics.'
Bending over her, Joe took hold of her arm and lifted her to a sitting position; he supported her,
propped her up. 'What's the matter? You act like you're sick.' He peered into her face, searching her
features.
'I'm dying,' she said.
'It's just an anxiety attack. Don't you have them all the time? I can get you a sedative from the
hotel pharmacy. What about phenobarbital? And we haven't eaten since ten this morning. You'll be
all right. When we get to Abendsen's, you don't have to do a thing, only stand there with me; I'll do
the talking. Just smile and be companionable with me and him; stay with him and make
conversation with him, so that he stays with us and doesn't go off somewhere. When he sees you
I'm certain he'll let us in, especially with that Italian dress cut as it is. I'd let you in, myself, if I were
he.'
'Let me go into the bathroom,' she said. 'I'm sick. Please.' She struggled loose from him. 'I'm
being sick — let me go.'
He let her go, and she made her way across the room and into the bathroom; she shut the door
behind her.
I can do it, she thought. She snapped the light on; it dazzled her. She squinted. I can find it. In the
medicine cabinet, a courtesy pack of razor blades, soap, toothpaste. She opened the fresh little pack
of blades. Single edge, yes. Unwrapped the new greasy blueblack blade.
Water ran in the shower. She stepped in — good God; she had on her clothes. Ruined. Her dress
clung. Hair streaming. Horrified, she stumbled, half fell, groping her way out. Water drizzling from
her stockings . . . she began to cry.
Joe found her standing by the bowl. She had taken her wet ruined suit off; she stood naked,
supporting herself on one arm, leaning and resting. 'Jesus Christ,' she said to him when she realized
he was there. 'I don't know what to do. My jersey suit is ruined. It's wool.' She pointed: he turned to
see the heap of sodden clothes.
Very calmly — but his face was stricken — he said, 'Well, you weren't going to wear that
anyhow.' With a fluffy white hotel towel he dried her off, led her from the bathroom back to the
warm carpeted main room. 'Put on your underwear — get something on. I'll have the hairdresser
come up here; she has to, that's all there is.' Again he picked up the phone and dialed.
'What did you get me in the way of pills?' she asked, when he had finished phoning.