At seven the next morning the telephone rang.
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lowly I swam up from the bottom of a black sleep. I already had atelegram from Jay Cee stuck in my mirror, telling me not to botherto come into work but to rest for a day and get completely well, andhow sorry she was about the bad crabmeat, so I couldn’t imaginewho would be calling. I reached out and hitched the receiver on to my pillow so themouthpiece rested on my collarbone and the earpiece lay on myshoulder. “Hello?” A man’s voice said, “Is that Miss Esther Greenwood?” I thought Idetected a slight foreign accent. “It certainly is,” I said. “This is Constantin Something-or-Other” I couldn't make out the last name, but it was full of S’s and K’s. Ididn’t know any Constantin, but I hadn't the heart to say so. Then I remembered Mrs Willard and her simultaneousinterpreter. “Of course, of course!” I cried, sitting up and clutching the phoneto me with both hands. I'd never have given Mrs Willard credit for introducing me to aman named Constantin. I collected men with interesting names. I already knew a Socrates.He was tall and ugly and intellectual and the son of some big Greekmovie producer in Hollywood, but also a Catholic, which ruined itfor both of us. In addition to Socrates I knew a White Russian namedAttila at the Boston School of Business Administration. Gradually I realized that Constantin was trying to arrange ameeting for us later in the day. “Would you like to see the UN this afternoon?” “I can already see the UN,” I told him, with a little hysterical giggle. 50 | Chapter 5
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