Movement by Valerie Miner Page A

moment.
    â€œSee you next Saturday morning,” he said. He told the baby to wave good-bye, because now, both his arms were full.

VI
    Single Exposure
    Susan was sitting alone in the quiet restaurant, leafing through The Four-Gated City for her place. She moved the candle closer. Perfect. Or as near to it as anything in the last three days. The redwood panelling reminded her of restaurants on Fisherman’s Wharf—that and the kitsch fishnets with the colored glass balls. At the rate of service around here, the waiter may have gone to San Francisco for the fish.
    Ever since Susan had moved to England last year, she had planned to come to Cornwall. Was it a silly Arthurian romance to hike along the cliffs in early winter? Susan had counted on and dreaded the trip. She needed the time alone to think and to work on the book, but she was afraid she would be lonely. The first two mornings had been hell—long and steep. Today hadn’t been so tough.
    The door opened with a draft and three men arguing. The short one blurted anxiously. “I didn’t mean to lay an authoritarian trip on you about the time.” After a long, rather ceremonial debate, they took the table next to Susan.
    She opened her pendant watch—eight o’clock. Where was the bloody waiter? She had to get back to her room and plan the shots for tomorrow. Pushing the menu obviously off to the edge of the table, she returned to Lessing.
    â€œOh, excuse me, Miss, are you dining alone?” asked a short Englishman.
    What the hell did he think she was doing, eating with the ghost of her mother? Oh, dear, why was she so touchy? Just a friendly question. And she knew her role—amiable, no-nonsense American.
    â€œYeah, I’m on my own.” she said.
    â€œWould you care to join us, then?” She heard an upper-class Oxbridge accent. “I do hate to see people dining alone,” he said.
    She admitted that they were reasonable looking: three men in their mid-twenties, blue jeans and Shetland sweaters. Bright, but slightly self-conscious from the edge of their Laing and Lorenz conversation. Damnit, she was happy alone with her book. She regarded him closely. A simple invitation; no need to elucidate. She found nothing in his face except subtle charm, not even discomfort at waiting for the reply. She decided she wouldn’t mind some company for a couple of hours.
    â€œLet me introduce myself. I am Andre and I’m from London. This is Colin, a true Scot and a dedicated nationalist.” He indicated a thin, skittish man. “And Ronald, next to you. One of your countrymen, I suspect.”
    â€œI thought I heard an American accent,” she said, hating herself immediately. Expatriates were such archetype Americans. Businessmen on assignment overseas and students searching out their roots in theses. Or they were as confused as she was—exasperated by the compromises of American politics; guilty about deserting the States; ambivalent about their positions in England. She hated the clubbishness of Americans who sipped Tom Collins’ or smoked Oaxacan hash and griped about England’s primitive indoor heating.
    â€œWhat part of America are you from?” asked Ronald.
    â€œSan Francisco,” she said, wincing to herself at the word “America.”
    â€œIsn’t it imperialist to say ‘America’?” interrupted Colin. “You don’t own the whole bloody continent. Yet.”
    She liked Colin.
    â€œYou’ll have to excuse our sarcasm,” said Andre. “It’s because.…”
    â€œBecause of the weekend,” Ronald nodded solemnly. “Let’s be up front.”
    â€œBecause of the weekend,” agreed Andre. “You see, we’ve all been on a Gestalt encounter at St. Ives. Trying to dispel the cognitive fog around our emotions.” He reached inside his red parka and pulled out a brochure, Deep Life Diving Off The Cornish Coast.
    Susan