The girl came back. Jeff was still standing by the telephone.
She smiled, fresh-faced. “That was wonderful!”
Jeff nodded absently. He had been calculating flying time from Moscow. And could Kyrogin be at another hotel, not the Inter-Continentale, even though he’d made a reservation there? Of course he could be. “I’ll go into the bedroom. So make yourself comfortable here. You probably want to sleep. I think that sofa’s just about long enough.”
She had sat down on the sofa, slipped off her shoes. “Why do you have to stay up all night?” she asked with a childlike curiosity.
“Because—I’m trying to reach a man who’s due in from Moscow. And he hasn’t arrived at his hotel yet.”
“Moscow—you’re a government official?”
“No, just an engineer.” Jeff smiled. “Would you like some mineral water? It’s all I have to offer.” The Vichy stood in an ice bucket on the oval table.
The girl said she would, and Jeff poured it. He went to get a glass for himself from the bathroom. The girl had left her wash cloth spread on the basin rim, out of habit, probably. He took off his tie, opened his shirt collar, then took off his jacket. He went back to the anteroom and poured himself a glass of Vichy. He was thirsty.
“I’m going to have a shower,” he said. “If the telephone rings, give me a shout, would you? I’m not sure I’ll be able to hear it.”
“Sure.”
Jeff showered, put on pajamas and because of the girl’s presence put on also a seersucker dressing gown. He had closed the door to the salon, and now he knocked gently, in case she was asleep.
“Yes?”
He opened the door. The girl was half reclined on the sofa, still dressed, reading a magazine.
“It just occurred to me you might want a shower or a bath. Why not? Anyway you’re not going to sit up all night, I hope.”
“I don’t know. I suddenly don’t feel sleepy. Second wind, maybe. It’s so strange being here.”
Jeff gave a laugh. “It’s a strange night. Or morning. I’ve got to try my quarry again in a minute and after that I’ll be reading, too, so it won’t bother me in the least if you walk through to the bathroom.”
“Thanks. Maybe I will.”
Jeff went into his room, this time did not quite close his door, and tried the Inter-Continentale again. The answer was the same. Now it was after three. What other hotel should he try? The Hilton? Should he ring Roissy and ask about incoming flights from Moscow? Abruptly Jeff remembered that he had a bottle of scotch in a plastic bag by his suitcase. He opened the bottle, and poured some into his glass.
Then he tapped on the half-open door again. “Hey . . .” The girl was still reading. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Eileen.”
Eileen what? he wondered, then remembered that he didn’t want to know. “Eileen—would you possibly like a nightcap? Scotch.”
“Yes! I think that would be nice.”
He added scotch to her Vichy water, then brought the bucket and offered it to her. “Ice down there.”
“Any luck with your phone calls?” She fished ice cubes out.
“No. No.” Jeff took a cigarette.
“What’s it all about?—Or is it a secret?”
“Not unless you’re a competitor. It’s about setting up oil rigs in the White Sea. My firm does that—that kind of thing. We want the job.—And I have a good offer to make,” he added, as if thinking out loud or justifying himself, and he began walking slowly around the room. He remembered talking to Phyl about his work, just like this, but in those days he would have been smiling, would have gone to Phyl and kissed her, and then—
“You’re a very serious man, aren’t you?”
You haven’t any time for me anymore, Jeff heard in his ears again. The girl’s voice was like Phyl’s, or her accent was, and there was a ringing quality in the higher tones, a resonance like that of a stringed instrument, that was also like Phyl’s.
“I hope you make it,” the girl said. “The White Sea—I only know where the Baltic is.”
Jeff smiled. “The White Sea’s north of that. The big port there’s Archangel.” The girl was looking at him in awe, Jeff could see.
She took a swallow of her drink. “I wish I were here for something as sensible as that—as important as that.”
Jeff looked at his watch, wishing the time would pass faster, that it would be eight or nine A.M., hours when people could do business. Maybe. “You’re here on vacation?”
“I’m here to get married.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. It’s funny, isn’t it? I mean, since I’m alone now. But my mother’s due tomorrow and my—my fiancé’s coming in a couple of days. We’re going to Venice—for the wedding. Well, I’m not sure Mom’s coming to Venice. She’s funny.” The girl looked suddenly uncomfortable and glanced at Jeff with a nervous smile.
Mom was coming to this hotel, Jeff was thinking. He put out his cigarette, started to sit down and didn’t. “She’s funny?”
“Oh, she thinks I’m funny. Maybe it’s true. But I’m not sure I want to get married. You see?”
Jeff supposed the young man was a “nice” young man, approved by her family. Jeff wasn’t interested in asking anything about him. “If you’re not sure, then why do you even consider marrying?”
“That’s just it! That’s the way I feel.—Do you think I could have just a little more scotch?”
“All you want,” Jeff said, and set the bottle on the table in front of the sofa. “You pour it.”
She poured an inch, the bottle slipped and more went in. Jeff brought the Vichy bottle.
“I wish I were someone else. I wish I weren’t here. He’s—” She stopped, frowning into space. “It’s not so much him as the fact I don’t want to get tied down. After all, I’m only eighteen.”
“Well . . . can’t you postpone it?”
“Yes-s. Indefinitely. That’s what I’d like to do.” She drank off all her glass. “You really wouldn’t mind if I took a shower? That’s what I need.” She stood up.
“All yours,” Jeff said, nodding toward the bathroom. “You can even borrow my dressing gown.”
In the doorway the girl hesitated, as if it were a big decision, then said, “I’d like to borrow it, if I may, even though I’ve got one.” She held out her hand.
Smiling, Jeff untied his belt, and handed the dressing gown to her. Ah, youth! Troubles! Rebellion! Eileen didn’t know yet what troubles were! Apparently she wasn’t even in love with the young man. Or was she? Jeff looked into the long mirror between the windows, reassured himself that he was presentable in his pajamas, then something occurred to him that had to do with the word rebellion. Phyl had rebelled against her fiancé Guy. Almost for the sake of rebelling, it seemed to Jeff in retrospect—and it was a horrible thought for him. She’d fairly jilted Guy and run off with him, Jeff, for more than a year. Then convention or “sanity” had returned to Phyl, according to her lights. And at what pain to him! He still had the pain, and it was still sharp—after nineteen years. The girl Eileen needed a lecture, Jeff thought, from someone. He wasn’t going to give it to her.
He looked at his watch again, as if to drag himself back to his job, his search for the elusive Kyrogin. Before long, they’d be serving breakfast in the hotel. That was what he and the girl needed, a seven A.M. breakfast with strong coffee.
Jeff laughed out loud. Here he was, a forty-four-year-old man in a Paris hotel suite with a good-looking girl he hadn’t made the slightest pass at, longing for breakfast at seven A.M., or even earlier if possible. Jeff stared into his own smiling eyes in the long mirror, then the smile left his eyes as it had left his lips. He thought his dark hair had a bit more gray in it than the last time he had taken a look. He touched his cheek. He could us
e a shave.
The girl was coming in, barefoot, carrying her clothes over her arm. Now she looked even lovelier with her hair slightly dampened. “What were you laughing at?”
Jeff shook his head. “Can’t tell you.”
“You were laughing at me,” she said.
“No!—What does your father say about your marriage?”
“Oh—Dad.” She collapsed on the sofa again, dumped her clothes beside her, then took a cigarette and lit it. “Well, basically he takes an ‘I’ll keep out’ attitude, but he definitely wants me to get married. Now, I mean. After all, I quit college because I fell in love, I thought—and because I thought I preferred to get married rather than spend another nearly three years in college. You see?”
Jeff was sitting in an upholstered chair. “I suppose I see. In other words, your mother and father are in agreement—that you ought to get married.”
“Yes. But Phyl—that’s my mother, and half the time I call her Phyl—she’s more insistent about it. I mean, she tries to exert more control over me than Dad.—What’s the matter?”
Jeff felt weak, a little dizzy. He sat up and leaned forward, like a man trying to pull out of a faint. “Nothing. Suddenly tired. I think I’ll have another snort. I need it.” He got up and poured some scotch, straight, into his empty glass. He sipped it, letting it burn his tongue and his throat back to life.
“You look pale. I bet you’ve been working like mad lately. . . .”
Now she was just like Phyl, comforting in a crisis, ready to minister—providing it was a minor crisis like this one. Jeff slowly felt stronger. The sips of scotch did him good, and quickly.
“. . . tell you how much I admire you. You’re doing something important. You’re a man of the world. You’ve achieved something.”
Jeff exploded in a laugh.
“Don’t laugh,” the girl said, frowning. “How many men—and you’re not even old. My Dad’s important, maybe, but he just inherited his job and I bet you didn’t. And I frankly can’t imagine Malc getting very far in life. He’s had it too easy.”
Malc, Malcolm was doubtless the fiancé. Had Phyl ever mentioned his own name? Jeff wondered. Maybe once or twice? But if only once or twice, the girl wouldn’t remember, probably. He hoped she didn’t know, or hadn’t heard his name. Suddenly the girl stood close in front of him, her hands on his shoulders. She put her arms around his neck.
“Do you mind,” she whispered, “if I put my arms around you?”
Jeff’s hands lifted also, he pulled the girl toward him, for seconds closed his eyes and felt her hair against his forehead. She was the same height as Phyl. How well he remembered! Then he released her and stepped back.
“You’re annoyed?” she asked. “I’ll tell you something—straight—if I may. I’d like to go to bed with you.” The last words were so soft, he barely heard them.
But he had heard them.
“Are you afraid of me? I’m not going to tell anybody. And I’m not feeling my drinks, if I may say so. I’m quite sober.” Her eyes, Phyl’s eyes, looked straight at him, steady, and with a smile in them.
“It’s not that.”
“Not what?”
Why not? Jeff was thinking then. As the girl said, who would know? And what would it matter even if Phyl found out? If Jeff wanted to be vindictive—it would serve Phyl right if she found out. But Jeff really didn’t feel vindictive.
“And another thing,” the girl continued in the same soft voice, “I’d like to see you again. Maybe again and again. Do you travel a lot? So could I. I’m in the mood for traveling a lot.” She still held to Jeff’s right hand, and her fingers tightened on his.
His desire was there, and so was a thought, and the thought was that he’d be taking advantage of the girl when she was in an upset state (as nearly every man would, he realized, too), and he was also thinking that he didn’t want to lose his memory of Phyl, Phyl as she had been with him, not as this girl would be, a nearly identical copy of Phyl, but not quite identical. Even her face wasn’t quite identical. Jeff smiled, and tugged his hand from hers. “Take it easy. You’re upset.”
She wasn’t hurt. She looked at him mischievously. “You’re an odd one.”
He didn’t rise to the bait. He lit another cigarette. “You know you’re going to marry your Mister Right, so why do you fool around with other people?”
“Do you think I’m in the habit of—”
“Oh, stop the crap!”
This time it sank in. “Now you sound like an American.”
“I said I was an American.” He was angry, and now he knew why, exactly why. This girl would lead him on, might lead other younger men on, exactly as Phyl had, lead them into misery if they were dumb enough to fall in love. The very harshness of his thoughts made him feel a sudden pity for the girl, as if he had said out loud what he was thinking, and had wounded her. “It doesn’t mean . . . I’m your enemy,” he said. But of course it did. “Why not leave things the way they are? Simple.”
Now she looked puzzled.
The telephone rang, and Jeff for a second relaxed, as if he had been a boxer, saved, and in the next second thought, who could it be except Kyrogin, then thought that was too good to be true. He lifted the telephone.
“Allo?” said a deep voice.
“Hello. Cormack here.”
“Ha-ha. Kyrogin here. What time is it?”
Kyrogin sounded a bit drunk. “I dunno. Four, maybe. Mr. Kyrogin, I’d like very much to see you. And thank you for ringing me. You’re at the Inter-Continentale?”
“Yes, and I am very sleepy. But I know—I know—you are an American engineer.”
“Yes. Look, can I see you early tomorrow morning? I mean this morning? After you’ve had some sleep?”
Silence. Deep breathing. Was Kyrogin lighting a cigarette or passing out?
“Mr. Kyrogin—Semyon,” Jeff said.
“Semyon here,” said Kyrogin.
“It’s about the White Sea thing, you know,” Jeff persisted, thinking if anyone were listening at this hour, they deserved a medal. “Have you—have you done anything about the deal, or can we still discuss it?” Long pause. “Have you spoken with anybody else about it tonight?”
“I was with my French girlfriend tonight,” said Kyrogin.
Jeff smiled. “I see.” He sat down in the chair behind him. “In that case, after you’ve slept—can I phone you around ten? I’ll phone you around ten. Your first appointment is with me, understand, Mr. Kyrogin? Jeff Cormack.”
“Right you are,” said Kyrogin, as if remembering some of his English lessons. “I have done no work at all tonight,” he added sadly.
It was the sweetest confession Jeff had ever heard. “That’s all right, Semyon. Sleep well. Good night.” Jeff hung up and turned to the girl, beaming.
Eileen smiled back at him, with a look of triumph, as if the victory was hers, too. “You’re going to be the first to see him.”
“Yes, so it seems.” Jeff slapped his hands together, then stood up. “And I’m going to have another scotch.”
“Good. May I join you?”
Jeff made them both fresh drinks. The Vichy bottle was empty. He filled the third glass in the bathroom and brought it, in case they wanted more water. He could feel the girl’s zest and pleasure in his success (the first step to success, anyway) as he had felt Phyl’s in the old days. It was the same. The girl had brought him luck, as Phyl had done. It was Phyl who had given Jeff the courage to break away from his boss, and start a company on his own. Phyl who had launched him like a rocket, Phyl who had given him all the confidence in the world and all the happiness. And Jeff knew he could go to bed with the girl now, as he had so often with Phyl, under the same circumstances, in the same mood. Jeff felt the same desire, and he looked at the girl differently now, as if
seeing her for the first time.
She understood. She put her glass down and embraced him, pressed herself against him. “Yes?” she said.
It was still no. And this time Jeff couldn’t explain, didn’t want to try to find words to explain to himself or to her. “No,” he said, and extricated himself.
He went into the bedroom, got his battery razor and went to work on his beard. He brushed his teeth. Then he went in to see the girl.
“I’m going to get some sleep till nine-thirty. Don’t you want to do the same?—Maybe you’d prefer my bed and I’ll take the sofa?”
“No,” she said sleepily, tired at last.
Jeff wasn’t going to argue. He was also tired. “Can I ask you one favor?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t mention my name to your mother—ever. All right?”
“Why should I? You haven’t done anything.”
He smiled. Maybe she wouldn’t remember his name, anyway. “Okay, Eileen. Good night.” He closed his door, then rang the desk downstairs and asked to be called at nine-thirty A.M. He got into bed, and after one long sigh fell sound asleep.
When the telephone rang the next morning and awakened him, he found the girl already up and dressed, putting on makeup in the salon mirror. Jeff had ordered breakfast for two.
“What time is your mother due?” he asked.
“Oh—her plane comes in at ten, I think.”
Jeff was relieved. He would pack his suitcase, check out this morning and spend—he hoped—most of the morning with Kyrogin. Anyway, Phyl was not due now, or even in the next hour, at the hotel. With his first cup of coffee, Jeff rang up Kyrogin. To Jeff’s surprise, Kyrogin answered promptly and sounded wide awake.
“Fine, Mr. Cormack! Come over anytime!”
Jeff packed his suitcase quickly, and when he had closed it, he said to the girl, “You’re welcome to stay here till noon, if you like. I’m checking out now, because—”
Nothing That Meets the Eye Page 42
