Night of Fire and Snow

by Alfred Coppel

  “So now we venture into the realm of prophecy, Karl? What makes you so sure Nora’s world is so bad? Can Hillyer offer a thousand a week?”

  “We aren’t talking about the same things, are we?” Olinder’s expression was bland. “I’m talking about Miss Ames’ particular world.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with Nora, Karl.”

  “I didn’t say there was.”

  “You didn’t? Perhaps I misheard you.”

  Olinder lit a cigarette and drew smoke deep into his lungs. “Let’s get back to the book. This other isn’t getting us anywhere.”

  “All right.” A headache was beginning behind Miguel’s eyes. He glanced at his watch to see that it was after one-thirty. “Why don’t I just leave it with you and call you, say, next Tuesday—after you’ve had a chance to look it over?”

  “You go from here to Los Angeles?”

  “Yes. No stopovers. I’ll get to San Francisco to see Dorrie as soon as I can.”

  Olinder nodded and they finished their meal in a desultory silence. It was as though, suddenly, they had run out of things to talk about. Miguel was glad when Olinder said he had to get back to the office.

  “I’ll call you, then.”

  “All right, Michael.”

  He walked as far as the lobby with Karl and left him there.

  Then he picked up his key at the desk and went upstairs. His legs ached with weariness and the headache was beginning in earnest. In his room he called Nora’s suite, but there was no answer. He hung up the receiver and lay down on the bed. He was asleep almost instantly.

  TEN

  The ringing of the telephone woke him. It seemed to pull him up out of green depths with its shrill insistent bell. He opened his eyes and stared for a moment at the ceiling, trying to remember where he was. Then he reached for the phone and held the receiver to his ear.

  It was Nora. “Oh, darling, did I wake you? You sound so fuzzy.”

  “That’s all right. What time is it?”

  “It’s after five. May I come down?”

  Miguel rubbed at his eyes and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. “Yes, of course. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

  Nora laughed provocatively. “If Victor calls don’t tell him.”

  “All right.”

  “Did you see Olinder?”

  “We had lunch here at the hotel.”

  “What time?”

  “Around noon or a little later. Why?”

  “You should have called me.”

  “I did. You were out.”

  “Van Cleef and Arpels. Getting ready for tonight,” she said.

  Miguel reached for a cigarette and lit it with one hand, twisting the paper match to scratch the head on the abrasive strip. “What happens tonight?”

  “They didn’t tell you, for heaven’s sake?”

  “No. Should they have?”

  “Cocktail party at the Waldorf. The bankers will be there. I’ll explain when I see you,” she said. “In about two minutes, darling.” She hung up and Miguel sat for a moment with the dead phone in his hand. Finally he put it gently in its cradle and stood up. The street outside was in shadow. Around the corner of the building he could see a strip of Central Park. The sounds of traffic were an unceasing rumble rising out of the canyons of the city.

  Miguel went into the bathroom and stripped. He got under the shower and let the water run steaming hot over his neck and shoulders. He thought about going out tonight with some distaste. He hated cocktail parties and he had hoped he and Nora would be able to get some time alone before flying west. Alone? What’s that, he thought sardonically. Having Nora sneak down to his room for a few minutes made him feel that nothing had really changed. They were still “having an affair.” And it began to look as though that, at least, would never change into something more regular. They would always be hiding from someone, or something.

  He climbed out of the shower stall and toweled himself dry. He could hear Nora in the other room. She was ordering drinks from room service.

  “Make mine a Bloody Mary,” he called.

  “That must have been some lunch,” she called back.

  He slipped on a traveling robe and opened the door. Nora, at the phone, blew him a kiss.

  She was dressed in a green cocktail dress with a deep V bodice and she wore an emerald choker that made her throat look even whiter than it was. There were golden metallic flakes in her hair to match the setting of the emeralds. There was only one word for the way she looked. Spectacular.

  He walked into the room, feeling the very faint evening breeze from the open window cool his still-wet hair. Nora stood up and came over to him, slipping her hands under his robe and lifting her mouth to be kissed.

  She pressed hard against him and then stepped back, her eyes cavernous and dark with desire. “Careful. You’ll muss me,” she said.

  “To hell with that.” He reached for her again, but she shook her head.

  “No. Afterwards, Mike. We haven’t time right now.”

  He sat down on the bed and lit a cigarette.

  “What about me?” Nora asked.

  “Sorry.” He offered her the pack and then held the lighter for her. “What about this thing tonight?” he asked. “I didn’t know we were going to be on display.”

  “A thing for the bankers,” Nora said. “Victor is a little worried about backing for Green Hills. Tony’s set this up at the Waldorf. Cocktails, smarty talk, and money. Beautiful money.”

  “Ask for it by name at any bank.”

  Nora laughed. “That’s it. Seriously, darling. It won’t take long. Then we can get away by ourselves for a little while. There are a million things I want to talk to you about.”

  “Such as what?”

  “The trip. Did you miss me? Why didn’t you write more often? Did J. C. find you a little French doxy—”

  “I knew we’d get to that. The answer is no.”

  “I’m very jealous, you know.”

  “Are you really? It’s something I never associated with you. Jealousy, I mean.”

  Nora stood by the window and turned to look at him, pivoting on the ball of one foot and the heel of the other. “So you’ve forgotten? Don’t you remember that I used to cry when you left a party with Alaine? And I knew you’d be going home together, to undress in the same room, sleep in the same bed? You don’t remember that?” She laughed, tossing her head. “I’ll bet you don’t.”

  Miguel stood up and studied her, the dark silhouette of her against the evening light. “Is that what you did, Nora? Cry?”

  “What’s the matter, Mike?”

  “Matter?”

  “Something’s wrong, isn’t there?”

  “No. Nothing’s wrong, Nora.”

  “Are you sure?”

  The waiter knocked discreetly. Miguel let him in and signed the tab. When he had gone he handed Nora her highball. “Let’s drink up. I’d better get dressed.”

  “I like you the way you are.”

  “Want to skip the shindig tonight?”

  “You know I do.”

  “Well, then?”

  “We can’t, darling. It’s business.”

  Miguel lifted the Bloody Mary to his lips.

  “Wait a minute,” Nora said. “Salud y pesetas?”

  “Y tiempo para gozarlas. Though I’m beginning to doubt we’ll have time for anything, let alone enjoying health and money.” The phone rang. Miguel picked it up.

  “Mike, boy. This is Tony. Is Nora with you?”

  Miguel held the phone out to Nora and she took it without hesitation. So much for good intentions, Miguel thought.

  “Yes, Tony,” Nora said. “All right. In two minutes.” She put the phone down and said, “I’m sorry, darling.”

  “Stop apologizing, Nora,” Miguel said. “What did he want?”

  “He wants me to come down and meet him in the bar.”

  “At least the son of a bitch isn’t lying in bed when he calls you. That’s s
omething,” Miguel said.

  “Mike,” she said reproachfully. “You’re not jealous—”

  “Like hell I’m not. I’ve got a quivering id and an overstimulated libido. I’d like to punch the bastard in the nose.”

  “For heaven’s sake, darling. You certainly don’t think there’s anything between Tony and me—”

  “I don’t know,” he said, wondering why he was trying so hard to pick a fight with Nora and wishing he could stop. “He may live in New York but he’s a lotus-eater first class.”

  “Yes? And what about me, Mike? Am I a lotus-eater, too?”

  “No. No, Nora. You’re Miss Univac,” he said.

  “Oh, you are in fine form,” Nora said. “Tonight is going to be lovely.” She walked quickly to the door and stopped. When he made no move, she sighed and came back to him, lifting her face.

  Miguel felt himself respond. Like a tropism, he thought, like a paramecium and a point of light, my God. Nora’s hands caressed the back of his neck. He could feel her lips parting and the flick of her tongue against his. When she moved away from him, he was shaken and aroused.

  Nora smiled at him and said, “Don’t be long, darling.”

  The door closed behind her.

  Miguel set himself to delay. He dressed slowly. He turned on the radio and listened to dance music, moving about the room with deliberation. It seemed important, somehow, to resist the impulse to follow Nora down to the bar.

  It reminded him of something his father had once told him. He had asked advice on the best way to impress a girl who had taken his fancy, and Raoul had said, “Why, just leave her alone.” Raoul had known his women. Only the ends of his affairs turned messy. And when they did, he took a trip.

  After Maria’s death, he and Miguel had flown to New York, an adventure in 1933. Miguel remembered departing from Oakland Airport in a Fokker Trimotor and following the mail route of the old DeHavillands: Reno, Elko, Cheyenne, North Platte. At Omaha, the Fokker was exchanged for a Ford Tin Goose that rumbled and rattled all the way to Roosevelt Field.

  Dr. Winthrop had prescribed the trip. He thought Raoul should get away from the terrible business of Maria’s accident.

  He had gone even further and insisted that Raoul move out of the city, into the quieter atmosphere of the deep Peninsula. So while Miguel and Raoul flew to New York, Luis saw to the purchase of land for a new house in Los Altos.

  But the flight had made Raoul’s ankles swell and his lips turn blue and he had taken ill so quickly that Luis had to come all the way east to ride back with them on the train. Six days of misery, Miguel remembered, with Raoul gasping for breath and under a special nurse’s care.

  In April of 1933, Miguel transferred from the Rockridge School to the Lakeshore School as a temporary measure.

  Since their return from New York, Raoul had been confined to bed under the care of a Mrs. Berringer, a white-haired practical nurse. The house on Rockridge Terrace was sold and Miguel moved into his father’s apartment. The arrangement, Raoul explained, would hold only until the new house building in Los Altos was finished.

  Esther was living with the Sisters, ready to begin her novitiate, and Miguel was left alone with his father. He thought very little about Maria. The whole awful business seemed indistinct to him, but he was troubled by nightmares that brought his father’s nurse running into his room at night with a sedative to quiet him.

  The loss of Concha troubled him considerably, for he suddenly discovered how helpless he was without her. In time, he learned to care for his own belongings and do for himself the things that Concha had always done, but it was a tedious and unhappy process, for Raoul wasn’t always patient. “For heaven’s sake,” he would say, “do you mean to tell me you need a woman to tie your shoes for you?” The transition from living in a household of women to living in a bachelor establishment was not made without some bitter moments. But throughout, Raoul dominated and impressed Miguel so much that he imagined there was nothing he would not do to be like his father.

  One afternoon late in March, Miguel arrived at the apartment from school and opened the lower door with the key Raoul had given him. Upstairs, in the hall, he almost ran into a woman carrying an overnight bag. He excused himself and stepped aside, but the woman stood looking at him. He could see that she had been crying, for her face was red and her eyes were wet. It made him acutely uncomfortable.

  She put down the suitcase and said, “You must be Miguel.” Miguel shifted his weight from one foot to the other and said, “Yes, ma’am. I’m Miguel Rinehart.”

  There was nothing remarkable about her. She was rather plump, with auburn hair and faintly green eyes. She wore a white silk frock with fringe on the hem and her wrists were heavy with bangles.

  “Well, I’m Valerie,” she said. She took a handkerchief from her purse and wiped her eyes. She seemed agitated and faintly hostile.

  Miguel looked at her blankly. The name meant nothing. “How do you do,” he said formally.

  “You’re really much taller than I expected,” the woman said. “You look like him, all right.”

  Miguel nodded. “You mean my father.”

  The woman’s eyes lit up with anger. “Sure, I mean your father. Who did you think I meant?”

  “I didn’t know, ma’am.”

  The woman’s lips twisted. “Ma’am,” she mimicked. “Don’t you know who I am, for pity’s sake?”

  Miguel backed away from her unconsciously.

  The woman made a vague gesture with one hand. The bangles rattled. “Well, how do you like that? He didn’t even tell you my name, is that it?” She moved her face down close to Miguel’s. Her eyes were leaking more tears, but they seemed to be tears of fury. Miguel could smell brandy on her breath. “I’m La Roja,” she said with a flash of bitterness. She pronounced the Spanish words with an atrocious accent. “I guess you’ve never heard anyone speak of me any other way, have you? It’s as if I was dirt and didn’t have a name.”

  Miguel took another step backward and came up against the wall. The woman grated at him, “I’m not going to bite you! I’m not going to get you dirty! I just wanted to see you. You could have been my little boy, you know. .

  For some reason, the thought filled Miguel with horror. He shook his head and said, “No.”

  The woman began to cry. The sobs came out of her in jagged pieces. “I hate you, you little son of a bitch. I hate you. He’s sending me away because of you and I hate you, I could kill you—“ She wheeled suddenly, picked up her case and ran down the stairs. Miguel stood pressed against the wall, staring after her. His heart was pounding and there was a bitter, salty taste in his mouth.

  He thought of his father and this woman. They did it together. Like Martin Alberg and Ella Eubanks. His stomach heaved and he tried to swallow the bile that crept up into his throat. Almost instantly, his mind rejected the picture forming there. It couldn’t be. The woman was lying. His father wouldn’t. Not with a woman like that.

  He picked up his books and walked slowly down the hall to the door of his father’s apartment. His eyes were narrowed and his lips set thin and tight in the pale mask of his face. “Crazy old dame,” he said aloud. “Crazy old goddam bitch.”

  Mrs. Berringer, the nurse, opened the door and said, scandalized, “Here now, young man! What sort of talk is that?”

  He ran past her into his father’s bedroom. Raoul was propped up in bed, sheaves of papers and blueprints all around him. He looked up when Miguel burst into the room.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “There was a woman out in the hall, Dad,” Miguel said. “She—she said things—“ He finished lamely. Suddenly he knew he could not tell Raoul what the woman had said to him. Mrs. Berringer, who had followed him into the sickroom, raised her eyes toward the ceiling in a despairing gesture.

  Raoul said, “I’ll handle this, Mrs. Berringer.”

  Miguel watched her walk stiffly out of the room and then he looked at his father.

  “C
ome over here and sit down, hijo,” Raoul said.

  Miguel sat down on the edge of the bed and waited. Through the window, he could see Lake Merritt shining in the afternoon sunlight.

  “The lady you met,” Raoul said, “is—was a friend of mine. She came to pick up a few things she had here.”

  “Did she live here before I came to stay?”

  “Sometimes,” Raoul said.

  “Is she the one Essie said you wanted to get married to?”

  “Esther misunderstood,” Raoul said. “Valerie has simply been good to me from time to time. There has never been any thought—on my part, at least—of marrying her. Esther, being a woman, wouldn’t understand that. But I expect you to.”

  “Yes, sir.” Miguel looked at the floor and asked in a low voice: “Was she your—mistress?”

  Raoul looked shocked. “Is that what you get out of those books you read? That kind of talk?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I think you and I are going to have a talk soon,” Raoul said. “But for now, lets just say Val isn’t coming back here any more.” “Because of me, Dad?”

  “Not just because of you, son.”

  “But partly?”

  “Well, partly. You don’t want to worry about it.”

  Miguel thought of the agonized way the woman cried and a tingle of remorse ran up his spine. He shouldn’t have called her what he did. She probably hadn’t meant the things she said. She was only hurt and angry because she couldn’t come back any more since he had come to live with Raoul. He wanted to say something to Raoul about the woman, something that would make him understand he didn’t need to make her go away just because of him, but he couldn’t. Raoul didn’t seem to want to talk about it and Mrs. Berringer and Dr. Winthrop both had told him that he should do nothing, ever, to upset Raoul. His heart was bad and he could die.

  Mrs. Berringer knocked and came in with Raoul’s digitalis and a glass of water. When she left, Raoul said, “Ben Shriker was here this morning.” Shriker was the architect Raoul had engaged to do the Los Altos house. “Come over here and look at the drawings. This is your room.”

  Miguel moved closer to his father. He could smell the sickish sweetness of rubbing alcohol and the faint mustiness of the warm bed. Raoul unrolled some more plans, showing a rambling, single-story house on a knoll. He tapped on the thick blue paper with his fingertips.