Take my face

by Held, Peter

  Cholo lived on the top of Telegraph Hill. His apartment consisted of a single room forty feet long, with kitchen equipment at one end, studio

  couches at the other. The walls were pasted with light green burlap, reed mats covered the floor. Two old upright pianos stood along one wall; between them was a drum setup.

  When George, Dean, Cathy, and Julie arrived the room was empty.

  "What the devil," said George. He yelled, "Hey, Cholo!" There was no response. He strode the length of the room, opened a door, stuck his head through; then turned, came back shaking his head.

  "Oh, well," said George. He opened the icebox, looked inside. "The son of a gun shorted us. There's only three beers."

  He opened the three cans, found four glasses, divided the beer. Dean served. George went over to the piano, ran his fingers over the scale. He turned with a look of sheer pleasure, "Why, hon —old Cholo's fumigated the thing! Grease job, tune-up. Listen!" He struck out a scale. "Last week a man couldn't tell high C from a cowbell."

  The door opened. Six men and four women streamed in. There were greetings, introductions, names which neither Julie nor Cathy remembered.

  Cholo was a dapper young Italian, short, thin, full of merriment; he filled a pitcher with ice cubes, poured in a fifth of vodka, a pint of lime juice, set the pitcher on the piano. Two of the

  men unpacked tenor saxes; a middle-aged man with red hair brought out a trumpet. Cholo played electric guitar.

  George sat down at the piano.

  Julie and Cathy took seats at the far end of the room. Dean brought over three glasses of the vodka-lime juice, and sat down beside them. "Isn't this fun? It kinda gets in your blood, this way of life. It's free and easy ... Of course half the time we don't know where our next meal's coming from. George is just crazy with money." She sighed, leaned back. "Have you seen anything of my folks?"

  "Just Carr," said Cathy.

  "Oh, Carr," said Dean. "He's the phoniest of the lot." Her voice was bitter. "He's not good enough to lick George's boots."

  The music began. Up the scale, down the scale; across, back; tonal, atonal; sharp, flat; chords, discords.

  A number of other people came in, Two young men came over to Julie and Cathy. They spoke of a party scheduled for next Friday night and invited the girls to it.

  "I can't," said Julie. "I only get one night out a week. And I already have a date."

  "Oh, you college chicks," said the one boy. "Well, let's work up a big time for week after next . . ."

  "You chicks ever try the Green Bottle?" asked the other boy.

  "No," said Cathy.

  "That's a hangout for the crowd—maybe we could meet you there."

  "We're too busy," said Julie. "Much too busy."

  Dean was circulating at the far end of the room. She stopped in front of a young man in a tan tweed jacket, sitting with his back to Cathy and Julie. They could look directly into Dean's face.

  Cathy nudged Julie. "Marriage hasn't changed Dean very much."

  "Hm," said Julie. "Definitely."

  "Something tells me," said Cathy, "that our friend George doesn't like the guy."

  Dean, laughing, took the young man's hands, leaned back.

  The piano gave three harsh jangles. Everyone stopped playing. George rose to his feet, and said in a loud voice, "Keep your hands off my wife!"

  The young man turned his head. He looked surprised. "Sure."

  Dean whirled away from him, cheeks flaming, and came to sit beside Cathy and Julie. The music began again.

  "Damn that George!" muttered Dean. "I can't even talk to a man!"

  Julie and Cathy said nothing.

  Dean went on viciously, "He sure steps out whenever the mood takes him."

  The young man in the tan jacket rose, waved to Cholo and left. George watched him go.

  Cathy said, "I think it's about time we were going, too."

  "Oh, dear," said Dean. "There's so much I want to talk over ..." She looked suddenly wistful and lonesome.

  "Why don't you come over to the house someday?" said Cathy. "For lunch."

  "George hardly lets me out of his sight," said Dean. She contemplated the back of her husband. "Oh well ..." She forced a smile.

  Cathy and Julie waved goodbye to George and left.

  Chapter VI

  In early March, Carr Pendry returned from Europe with a new Jaguar. He spent two days in San Giorgio, then drove south to Berkeley. He drove up University Avenue, swung around the campus, and finally drew to a proud halt in front of the Delta Rho Beta house.

  As luck would have it, Cathy herself answered the door.

  "Cathy!"

  "Why, Carr!" said Cathy.

  "Well, I'm back," said Carr. "Look what I brought with me!" And he pointed to the Jag.

  "How nice," said Cathy. "An MG, isn't it?"

  "MG!" exclaimed Carr. "That's a Jaguar Mark IV, the undisputed lord of the road! Now get into your prettiest gown—we're going out!"

  "Oh, Carr," said Cathy. "I've already got a date."

  "You'll have to break it," announced Carr. "I

  haven't come six thousand miles just to be stopped by another date."

  "Oh, well," said Cathy. "I'll see what I can do . . . Come in."

  Carr waited in the hall, while Cathy ran upstairs, to where Julie lay on her bed with a French grammar, memorizing vocabulary.

  "Ouvrez la porte," said Julie. "Avez vous du pain . . ."

  "Julie—guess who's downstairs wearing a blue Jaguar."

  "I give up."

  "It's Carr."

  "Sacre blue! Nom d'un chienl"

  "He wants me to go out. I dread it. He'll be maudlin and messy."

  "Tell him you have a date."

  "I do and I did. He says to break it."

  "Tell him you can't."

  "Oh, Julie—that's bearing down pretty hard."

  "Okay," shrugged Julie. "Go out with him."

  "I want you to come along."

  "Me? A third wheel? Carr would love that."

  "You don't have a date?"

  "Not with three midterms Monday. Think of it. Three on one day."

  "Oh, Julie. Come on. Don't be a grind. You can study all day tomorrow and Sunday."

  "I don't have a date." Julie tossed away her

  book. "But I sure can get one in a hurry." She led Cathy to the upstairs telephone, thumbed through the Officers and Students Directory, called a number.

  "Hello," said Julie. "May I speak to Joe Tred-dick please?"

  Cathy asked in a hushed voice, "Who's Joe Treddick?"

  "Man next to me in English ... I think that's his name. I read it off one of his books." She turned back to the phone. "Hello? Is this Joe Treddick? . . . This is Julie Hovard. I sit next to you in English 1B . . . Well, I don't have a date and I'm wondering if you're doing anything . . . Oh, rats. I've got three on Monday myself. I wouldn't go, either, except it's a very special occasion . . . We'll go Dutch. I insist . . . Okay, thanks a lot. Eight o'clock." Julie hung up. "There. That was easy."

  "You're shameless," said Cathy. "You even thank him."

  "Sure. He's doing me a favor."

  "Ha ha," laughed Cathy. "I'll bet he's just been afraid to ask you for a date."

  "Not Joe," said Julie.

  Carr was not pleased. "Cathy, can't we go somewhere by ourselves—wine by candlelight— look at each other—"

  "Now, Carr, I've made myself hated once this

  evening; I can't do it again. Besides, we've got to be in early."

  Carr turned away sulkily.

  "I've got to dress," said Cathy. "You sit quiet, or go out and polish your Jaguar."

  At eight o'clock, the front doorbell rang. A freshman ran to the door. A muscular young man with dark hair and a heavily tanned skin stood outside.

  "Will you tell Julie Hovard that Joe Treddick's here?"

  "Right. Won't you come in?"

  Joe Treddick had a quiet manner, and a face that was rugged and hard. He looked
at Carr, nodded, sat down.

  Julie appeared wearing a simple gray jersey dress, an infinitesimal white knit skullcap, and looking like a princess. She waved at Carr, grinned at Joe Treddick.

  "Hello, Joe."

  "Hello, Julie."

  She pitched her voice low, "If anyone asks, we've had this date for two or three days."

  "Anything you like."

  She glanced at Carr, who was watching her suspiciously. Then Cathy came into the room and Carr's attention was distracted.

  "Carr is an old friend," said Julie hurriedly. "He's crazy about Cathy, but she doesn't want to

  encourage him; so she asked me to go out with them."

  Joe Treddick nodded. "I see."

  Julie took his hand, led him to where Carr stood holding Cathy by her shoulders, devouring her with his eyes.

  Cathy stood before him in pale beige, her dark hair long and lustrous, her eyes like melted amber, her mouth faintly tinted, tender as butter. She could have done nothing to make herself more beautiful. She had done her best to twist the knife in Carr's heart.

  Carr suggested dinner-dancing at the Fairmont, but Cathy said in horror, "The prices, Carr!"

  "Yes," said Julie. "Joe isn't a millionaire. We've got to be practical, Carr."

  "Who wants to be practical?" declared Carr loftily.

  "Nobody wants to be," said Joe.

  Carr gave in with the best grace he could muster. Since the four couldn't squeeze into the Jaguar, Julie drove her convertible, with Carr and Cathy in the back seat.

  They drove across the bridge to San Francisco, and wandered from bar to bar: Green Dragon in Chinatown to the Paper Doll in North Beach to the Finnish Bar on the waterfront to the Club Hangover on Bush Street. Carr took great pains with his conversation, formulating epigrams,

  sophisticated criticisms, clever wisecracks which somehow always belittled something or someone. And Carr made sure the conversation centered on San Giorgio and old times, with the effect of isolating Joe from the group.

  Whatever Joe Treddick thought, he gave no outward sign. He listened politely, laughed at Carr's jokes and made no effort to compete. After a few drinks, Carr adopted a patronizing attitude. "What are you studying, Joe?" "I'm a civil engineer," said Joe. "Sounds like a lot of hard work," said Carr with a laugh. "Myself, if I can make my brains do the work of my back, I'm all for it."

  "It's no bed of roses," Joe admitted. "But if I wanted to scrounge my way through life, I'd go into something like politics."

  Julie said brightly, "Carr is planning to run for state senator." And they all turned looks of speculation upon Carr.

  "Have you been to see Dean?" Cathy asked Carr.

  "No," said Carr shortly.

  "We went to see her last winter, and she came over—oh, a couple weeks ago." "How's she making out?"

  "Well," said Cathy slowly, "she's not very happy ... It must be like living with a—a leopard, living with George."

  "What's wrong with him?"

  "Oh—he's moody. And temperamental."

  Carr sighed. "I guess I'll have to run over to see her ... I bought her some French perfume; got it in Grasse. Only suckers buy it in Paris. Get a jugful of any blend you can name if you know where to look for it. Naturally you've got to have a nose; otherwise they'll palm off after-shave lotion on you. Same way with wines. They think that just because you're an American you have no taste." He sat back, pleased with himself. "If you ever plan to go to Europe, Joe," he said in a fatherly voice, "let me know and I'll give you a few pointers."

  "Thanks," said Joe. "But I won't be going back for a while."

  "Oh," said Carr. "You've been there."

  "Off and on."

  "Off and on? I don't get you."

  "I'm an ex-seaman."

  "Oh, Navy."

  "No. Merchant-seaman. I've got third-mate papers. Panamanian third-mate papers, I should say. Anybody that can read can get 'em."

  "That sounds like fun!" said Julie.

  "You don't see much perfume or vintage wine. You drink with the rest of the peasants. Vino rosso —schnapps— slivowitz — retzina ... In the Pacific there's always betel nut."

  "Oh," cried Julie, in excitement. "That's the way I'd like to travel. Anybody can buy their way."

  Carr sat looking stonily into his highball. He thought never in his life had he disliked anyone as much as Joe Treddick.

  At one o'clock Cathy insisted on going home.

  Back at the house, Carr wanted Cathy to go for a ride in the Jag, but Cathy said she had to sign in.

  Joe got out on the sidewalk to walk Julie up to the door, but she said, "Jump in, Joe. I'll drive you home."

  Joe got in, and Julie started the car. "You tell me where."

  "Barrington Hall."

  She said, "I hope you weren't too bored . . . Carr is rather a pill. We've known him all our lives. That makes him different, I guess."

  "I had a good time," said Joe.

  "I said we'd go Dutch," Julie laughed. "But I don't know how to go about giving you money."

  Joe smiled. "Forget it."

  She stopped in front of Joe's rooming house. Joe got out.

  "Good night, Julie."

  "Good night, Joe."

  "Joe?"

  "Yes?"

  "Do you think I'm a spoiled brat, a typical sorority snob with too much money and a superiority complex?"

  "I hadn't thought about it too much."

  "But if you thought so, you wouldn't want to go out with me again."

  "No," said Joe, smiling faintly. "I guess I wouldn't."

  "Well," said Julie, "I can't go anyway until after midterms—so you can ask me then."

  "Okay," said Joe. "Good night."

  "Good night, Joe."

  Joe watched the red taillights dwindle up the street.

  Carr Pendry decided to put it off no longer. After all, she was his sister.

  He thought over the visit very carefully. He did not want to meet the husband, this piano-playing fellow—it would somehow set the seal of family approval on him.

  He drove the Jaguar to San Francisco, looked up the address of the Kalmyra Club, and drove there. The Kalmyra Club was a luxurious place, and Carr was surprised. He had expected something ratty.

  He made his way to the bar on a mezzanine, ordered a Scotch and soda, and made a careful inspection of the place.

  It was intermission; the musicians were off the stand. A short colored man idled up on the dais, picked up his tenor sax and began blowing. Carr, for the life of him, couldn't follow the tune. It was soft and quiet; still, it seemed utterly disjointed and discordant. A moment later, the piano player and the steel-guitar man joined him on the dais, and the Manley Hatch Trio was in session.

  Carr ignored the music and studied the piano-player. So this was George Bavonette. His brother-in-law. He looked distinguished, stern, intent on his music. His skin was pale, his eyes bright.

  George took an extended solo, finished, accepted applause with a curt nod. "Boy," said a man beside Carr, "tonight he's great."

  Carr went to the telephone and called the number Cathy had given him.

  Dean answered.

  "Hello, Dean. This is Carr."

  "Carr?" Dean's voice was tremulous and harsh at once.

  "Yes. Carr. I'll be at your apartment in ten minutes."

  Dean's voice was clouded. "Okay, Carr."

  The apartment was closer than he had expected; he made it in five minutes. He found the name on the directory: George and Dean Bavo-

  nette, Apt. 32. He pressed the bell smartly, noticed the door was not quite closed, and walked in. There was no elevator; Carr climbed the carpeted stairs to the third floor.

  He stopped at the head of the stairs, cursing the management for providing such inadequate lights.

  To the left, at the far end of the corridor, stood a man in a tan jacket and gray flannels. The man was looking out the window marked fire escape, with his back to Carr.

  Carr turned dow
n the corridor to the right, and found 32. He rapped; the door opened; Dean stood back. "Come in, Carr."

  Carr slowly stepped into the apartment, turned back to look at Dean. He was shocked.

  She wore lounging pajamas and a bathrobe. Her face was flushed and dazed, her lipstick was blotched and her hair was tangled. She looked thirty years old.

  "Sit down, Carr. Sit down," she said in a breathless voice.

  "What's the matter?" Carr demanded sharply. "You're acting queer."

  "Ha." She laughed—a soft-breathed laugh of wonder. "Ha . . . You'd be acting queer, too."

  Carr handed her a small package. "I brought you this from France."

  Dean took the package and put it on the table. Carr watched in irritation. Dean came to some kind of decision.

  "Carr."

  "Well?"

  "Something just happened. You'd never guess what."

  "No," snapped Carr. "I suppose I wouldn't."

  Dean leaned back against the record shelves. "You just missed an old friend."

  "Are you drunk? Or doped?"

  She smiled. "I wish I were. I feel funny, as if I'd seen a ghost."

  "Oh, cut the dramatics."

  Dean ran her hand through her shaggy auburn hair, sat down beside him. "Carr—do you remember Robert Struve?"

  Carr blinked, shifted mental gears. "Naturally. What about him?"

  "You missed him by about a minute."

  "I'll be damned!" He looked at her with narrowed eyes. "Was he wearing a tan coat?"

  "Something like that. A tan tweed jacket."

  "Mmph," muttered Carr. "I saw him in the hall. He had his back to me. By golly, I thought he looked vaguely familiar!" He glanced sharply at Dean. "What was he doing here?"

  "Oh—well—" Her voice faltered.

  "But great Gadfrey! Robert Struve! How could you stand it?"

  "He's changed. Oh, how he's changed . . ."

  Carr shook his head like an angry bull. "I don't get it—don't get it at all. What's he doing here in the first place?"

  Dean looked moodily at her feet. "Oh—well, if the truth were known—and I guess it is—I don't get along too well with George," she said angrily. "He treats me like a—a card table. Something you can pull out and use when you need it, then fold up and push back out of the way. Well," her voice became hesitant again, "I met—Robert. He knew me, but I didn't know him. He's going under a different name."