by Irwin Shaw
“You’re too generous by half,” Strand said, but was pleased even as he said it, thinking of the nights ahead for himself and Leslie.
“Nonsense, Allen,” Hazen said. “I’d feel guilty if they went to waste.”
“Thank you, anyway.”
“If anything comes up while I’m gone,” Hazen said, “just call Conroy at the office.”
Strand wondered if Conroy, who certainly looked in need of amusement, ever got a free pair of tickets from his boss.
“I’m sure nothing will come up,” he said.
“Just in case,” Hazen said. “Well, keep well and give my love to the family.”
Love, Strand thought as he put down the phone. It was the first time he had heard Hazen use the word. A figure of speech. No more.
Hazen was in the Mercedes with Conroy at the wheel when they drove up in front of the apartment building precisely at four thirty. Strand, Leslie, Caroline and Jimmy were waiting for him. Eleanor was due to leave for Greece the next week and had so many things to do to get ready that she couldn’t take the time off to go along with them.
Jimmy was bringing along his guitar. When Strand had protested, Jimmy said that when they were at Hazen’s house the time before, over lunch, Hazen had told him he’d heard the young people talking enthusiastically about Jimmy’s performance at the bar in Bridgehampton and said that he’d like to hear what Jimmy could do on the instrument. “All right. Take it with you. But for God’s sake don’t play it unless you’re specifically asked.”
Leslie had worried a little about canceling still another Saturday’s lessons, but Caroline’s delight at the prospect of the holiday was infectious and now Leslie greeted Hazen warmly as he got out of the big car with Conroy to help them stow their bags in the trunk. It was a warm, muggy afternoon and the radio had promised more of the same for the next two days and Jimmy had voiced what they all felt about getting away to the seashore when he said, “It couldn’t have happened at a better time or to nicer people.”
When they got to the house it was still light and still hot. “We have plenty of time before dinner,” Hazen said. “I suggest we all take a dip in the ocean. Clear the city out of our souls.”
Even Strand approved of the idea after the muggy day at work. His family knew what his legs looked like and by now Hazen must have guessed that he was not built like a fullback. When they assembled on the beach fifteen minutes later Caroline and Jimmy went splashing into the waves with wild whoops of joy. Hazen lunged at the sea as though he intended to batter it into submission, and Strand and Leslie watched him swimming strongly in an impromptu race with Caroline, who had a deceptively easy stroke that made her knife through the water at a smart pace.
Leslie looked curvy and pleasantly buxom in a one-piece black bathing suit, her fine legs firm and rosy in the light of the westering sun. She was not as full-bodied as the woman in the Renoir drawing that hung in their room, but, Strand thought approvingly, if Renoir had been alive today he would have been happy to use her as a model. She went in sedately, but then plunged into a wave and swam methodically toward where Jimmy was paddling just beyond the line of the breakers. Strand went in gingerly, conscious of the way his bathing trunks flapped around his skinny legs. But once he was in he felt light and buoyant, his skin tingling deliciously in the cold water. He had a thrashing stroke that Eleanor had once described as the slowest Australian crawl in the history of swimming.
The sun was low on the horizon when they came out and Strand shivered a little and noticed that Leslie was shivering, too, as she toweled herself. They smiled at each other. “I feel ten years younger,” he said.
“What a luxury,” she said, shaking the sea water out of her hair, “to be shivering on a hot day like this.”
When Strand came downstairs, leaving Leslie to get herself ready for dinner, Hazen was already in the living room, a drink in his hand. He was wearing bright red pants, an open shirt and a linen jacket. He had told them that there was a little dinner party arranged for the evening and Strand had dressed carefully, with gray slacks and a blue blazer that Leslie had had pressed for him, and a necktie.
“Join me?” Hazen said, lifting his glass.
“Not for the moment, thanks,” Strand said. “I feel too good to drink.”
“Lucky man,” Hazen said. “The swim was bracing. The ocean was innocent today. But it isn’t always like that. A man drowned off this beach last summer. Tell the children to be careful.” He sipped at his drink. Then, abruptly, “I want to ask you to forgive me for the drunken scene the last time you were here.”
“I’ve forgotten it,” Strand said.
“I’m sure you haven’t, Allen.” Hazen looked at him steadily. “I had had a trying day. Most trying. It won’t happen again.” He made a dismissing gesture with his hand, the night obliterated. “By the way, I bumped into Eleanor yesterday afternoon. Did she tell you we had a drink together?”
“No.” So. No drinking at home, but a little bracer now and then to prepare for the evening. “She didn’t say anything.”
Hazen nodded. “She has more important things on her mind. There’s a bar near my office where I sometimes drop in for a drink after work. It turns out it’s near her office, too. There was a young man with her. A Mr. Gianelli.” He paused as if to see what effect the name would have made on Strand.
Noncommittally, Strand said, “I’ve only met him once. Briefly. At your house, in fact.”
“Oh, yes,” Hazen said. “He told me how much he liked the house. They kindly insisted I join them at their table. Over drinks Eleanor told me a little about herself.”
“At that age,” Strand said, “that’s likely to be the chief subject of a girl’s conversation.”
Hazen smiled. “A man’s, too,” he said. “Do you remember what you talked about mostly when you were twenty-two?”
“Not really. It was a long time ago. Nearly thirty years.” He reflected, trying to remember. His closest friend then had been a young man by the name of O’Malley, who had been a classmate of his and who described himself as a Trotskyite. O’Malley had been disappointed with him, he remembered, because Strand, according to O’Malley, was interested only in getting ahead, fitting in meekly with what O’Malley called the system. For O’Malley, the system represented a gigantic fraud, a war won, and its principles cynically betrayed, victory thrown away, Stalin triumphant and bloodstained, McCarthy rampaging and threatening America with fascism, bloody British imperial ism, the rape of Ireland. O’Malley was willing to fight on all fronts and was looking for barricades to defend. Ancient history. Strand wondered what had ever become of O’Malley and if he had ever found a suitable barricade. “I think we talked a great deal about politics in those days,” Strand said.
Hazen nodded. “There’s a subject. Were you ever in the armed services? Korea?”
“No. When I took my physical, they discovered I had a heart murmur. I never knew I had it and it’s never bothered me.”
“I enlisted,” Hazen said. “My father thought it was a good idea. I was an ensign in the Navy. Sailing a desk in Washington. Also my father’s doing. Is your father still alive?”
“No. He died a long time ago.”
“There’s much to be said for it,” Hazen said. “Having a dead father I mean. Wasted years.” He sipped carefully at his drink. Obviously there was going to be no drunken scene tonight. “Your daughter, Eleanor, strikes me as being a very clever girl.”
“She is that.”
“But dissatisfied.” Again the steady, probing look.
“A common disease for youth,” Strand said lightly.
“She says if she were a man she’d be getting twice what she’s getting now and be head of her department to boot,” Hazen said.
Strand tried not to look surprised. She had always sounded enthusiastic when talking about her work at the office.
“Bright young people don’t like systematic climbing,” Hazen said. “They want to get promoted in leaps and bou
nds. They’re sure they could run the company ten times better than some old fuddy-duddy who should be working standing at a high desk and using a quill pen. I imagine there are quite a few ambitious young people in my office who say the same thing about me.”
“That must have been a long drink,” Strand said.
“Two, to be exact. The young man with her, Mr. Gianelli, seemed to have had several more. To be honest, he was somewhat under the weather, as though he had stopped at more than one bar during the afternoon. He became quite excited during the course of the discussion. He said to her that she kept saying she was fed up being bossed around by idiots but when she is offered a chance to get out and be her own boss she looks at him as though he’s crazy.”
“Did he say just what he was offering her?” Strand asked carefully.
“The implication, as far as I could figure it out, was marriage,” Hazen said. He stared closely at Strand.
Strand managed to keep his face blank. “I did gather they were—well—fond—of each other.”
“Mr. Gianelli then appealed to me,” Hazen said. “It seems he feels that he’s not cut out for the job with his father—he’s the middle one of five sons in his father’s business and understandably he feels somewhat constrained. He asked me, rather loudly, if I thought it was crazy to start a small newspaper somewhere, the two of them together as publishers and editors.”
“What did you tell him?” Strand asked, thinking, There must be some aura of wisdom and power, some secret quality, that Hazen has for the young, that makes them bare their souls to him immediately. “Did you ask the young man where he expected to get the money for this noble project?”
“He said something about his brothers agreeing to chip in to help him if he finds a suitable spot. They quite obviously would not be displeased to see him gone. Five brothers in the same business. There are also two sisters and brothers-in-law. Italian families.” He smiled indulgently at Mediterranean abundance. “I know something about the father. A client of mine deals with him. Hardheaded but fair, my client says. And quite successful. It is a group that has shown remarkable upward mobility in recent years. Except, of course, in Italy.” He smiled bleakly at his witticism. “The father, I take it, with some justice, is not enthusiastic about the enterprise.”
“Did you tell them anything?” Strand asked, almost accusingly.
“I said youth is the time for risks and I had to go home to dress for dinner.” He paused. “How would you and your wife take it?”
“We try not to meddle,” Strand said shortly.
“I’m constantly amazed,” Hazen said, “about how you let your children go their own way.” There was neither approval nor disapproval in the way he said it. “It was different in my own house. We were told very definitely what we were to do. My brother rebelled, of course. He didn’t even come back from California for my father’s funeral. We hardly communicate. I hear that he is happy. It may just be a rumor.” He smiled ironically.
From upstairs came the sound of Jimmy’s guitar, random chords, some dark and sad, others suddenly light, as though Jimmy were having a dialogue with himself on the instrument, one part of him gloomy, the other mischievous and mocking.
“If the noise bothers you,” Strand said, “I’ll go up and tell him to stop.”
“Oh, no,” Hazen said. “I like the sound of music in the house. I told him I’d like to hear him play.”
“He said as much. I thought perhaps you were being polite.”
“I’m not as polite as all that,” Hazen said.
The two men listened for a while. Jimmy started a song that Strand had never heard before. Jimmy was singing, but Strand could not make out the words. It was not a dialogue anymore but a plaintive, sweet solo murmur, with sudden harsh interjections.
“My mother, as I believe I told you, used to play the piano for me,” Hazen said. “Only when she was still young. She stopped. Several years later she died. She went in silence.”
Went in silence, Strand thought. What a way to describe the death of your mother.
“I think I’m going to treat myself to one more drink,” Hazen said, lifting himself from his easy chair. “Can I get one for you?”
“Not just yet, thank you.”
While Hazen was at the sideboard mixing his drink, there was a bustle at the door and a tall woman with a scarf wrapped around her head like a turban came in. “Make one for me, Russell,” she called as she came through the door. Her voice was high and vigorous and she smiled at Strand nicely as she entered the room. She was dressed in a skirt and sweater and she was wearing shoes with low heels. Forty years old, bony, not my type, Strand thought automatically.
“Oh, Linda,” Hazen said from the sideboard, “I was afraid you were going to be late.”
“The traffic was ferocious,” the woman said rolling the r to emphasize how ferocious. “Friday night. The march of the lemmings to the sea. Hello.” She extended her hand to Strand. “I’m Linda Roberts. Russell can’t do two things at the same time, like making drinks and introducing his guests.”
“Good evening,” Strand said. “I’m Allen Strand.” Her hand was surprisingly callused. He guessed she was a golfer. She had large gray eyes, carefully made up, and a bold sweep of lipstick on what otherwise would have been a narrow mouth. She went over to Hazen and kissed his cheek, leaving a little scar of red. “The usual,” she said.
Hazen had already begun to mix her a martini. She watched approvingly. “Martinis make everything worthwhile, don’t they?” she said, smiling at Strand.
“So I’ve heard,” Strand said.
“Russell, do I have to dress for dinner or can I sit at table in my traveling rags?”
“There’ll just be a few friends,” Hazen said, coming over to her with her martini.
“A blessing,” she said, accepting the martini and sipping it. “A benediction on you, dear Russell. I will comb my hair, though.” She sank into a chair, cradling the stemmed glass, frosty with cold.
“Linda is staying with us for the weekend, Allen,” Hazen said, as he went to get his own drink.
“I’m the last-minute addition,” Linda Roberts said to Strand. “I didn’t think I could get away. I just got back from France to find out there was a mess at the gallery. A shipment of pictures arrived from our French branch and a half-dozen of them looked as though they had crossed the Atlantic in a canoe. I’ve been dreaming of this martini since the Triborough Bridge.”
But Strand noticed that her drink was only half-finished before she started up to comb her hair. She halted at the doorway and frowned. “Good heavens,” she said, “what is that funereal wail?”
Hazen laughed. “It’s Allen’s son, Jimmy. He’s a guitarist.”
“Oh, my.” Mrs. Roberts put her hand up to her mouth in mock dismay. “You must forgive me, Mr. Strand. I’m absolutely stone-deaf. I was exposed to Wagner at an early age and have never gotten over it.”
“That’s all right,” Strand said, amused. “At home we let him practice only behind locked doors. I’m afraid different generations have different notions of what constitutes music. I stop at Brahms myself.”
“I like your friend, Russell,” Mrs. Roberts said and went briskly out of the room, carrying her martini.
There was silence in the room for a few seconds as Hazen stirred the ice in his glass with his finger and Strand wondered if this was the reputed mistress. Offhand, he liked the woman, but he wouldn’t have chosen her as his mistress. If someone had seen him going up to Judith Quinlan’s apartment and then coming out with his hair mussed and a bemused expression on his face would Judith be known as his reputed mistress? Reputations are easily made.
“She visits here from time to time,” Hazen said, as though he owed Strand an explanation. “Always on the spur of the moment. The house is so big…” He stopped. “She’s the widow of one of my best friends. Forty-seven years old. Went off like…” He snapped his fingers. “Playing golf. Heart.”
“She s
eems to be bearing up bravely,” Strand said and Hazen gave him a peculiar sharp look.
“She wisely keeps herself busy. She’s half-owner of an art gallery and is very clever at the business. It’s associated with a gallery in France and it gives her an excuse to visit Europe several times a year. She sounds foolish at times, but I assure you she’s no fool,” Hazen said stiffly. “And she devotes herself extensively to charities.”
“I hope that when I’m gone my widow will be able to devote herself extensively to charities, too.”
“He was in Wall Street. Very shrewd,” Hazen said, ignoring Strand’s remark, which Strand now realized had been facetiously rude. “Boy wonder. Overwork. Did you read that postmen live longer than the executives of large corporations?”
“All that walking,” Strand said, wishing that the others would come down before the level of conversation sank any lower.
“You can take off your tie, you know,” Hazen said. “Probably nobody else will be wearing one. East Hampton has become proletarianized. Not like the old days. My father insisted that we dress for dinner almost every night. Now almost anything goes. See-through dresses, jeans, red pants like the goddamn things I’m wearing. I’m sure it all has the most somber sociological implications.”
Strand undid his tie and stuffed it into his pocket. His neck was so thin that it was almost impossible to get shirts that were long enough in the sleeve for his arms and still snug around the neck. Hazen looked at him curiously. “I’ve observed that you eat very well…”
“Like a horse,” Strand said.
“And yet you remain so thin.”
“Meager.”
“I wouldn’t complain. If I ate like you they’d have to wheel me around in a barrow.” He sipped at his whiskey. “But none of your family runs to fat.”
“No. Eleanor sometimes goes on a crazy diet if she sees she’s gained a few ounces.”
“Ridiculous,” Hazen snorted. “At her age, with her figure.”
The doorbell rang. “My dinner guests,” Hazen said. “I hope they don’t bore you. Parties in the Hamptons can be stuffy.”
