At eight o’clock, the sun had just begun to set. The clouds at the far edge of the horizon were a shocking coral, and the date palms made dark fingers against the sky. Nightingales competed with the sounds of Clara Smith, her indolent voice stretching against the scratch of the gramophone.
A warmth had risen in Gerald, the kind he felt when he was glad about all the people around him and with his efforts to make them happy.
The children, long since bundled off, had displayed their paintings proudly and he’d photographed them next to their works, promising a Villa America art magazine later on.
Now, amid the music and birdsong, there was the pleasant hum of the guests. Dos, who’d joined them at the Hôtel du Cap last week on his way back from Spain, was here, as were the Picassos and the comte and comtesse de Beaumont, who’d brought along their very decorative but drunk houseguests. By the banquet table, Gerald saw Philip Barry and his wife, Ellen, beautiful in a salmon-colored gown, talking with his sister, Esther, and next to them, Don Stewart in conversation with Vladimir and a young writer whose name he’d forgotten. In the middle of it all, Sara, in a white draped linen dress, backless and shot through with silver thread, her long pearls spilling down her spine.
The only ones missing were Owen and the Fitzgeralds. But as he’d told Sara, he doubted that anything short of murder would keep those two away from a party billed as Dinner-Flowers-Gala.
He walked over to the banquet table and joined the Barrys and Esther, catching the strand of their conversation.
“Yes,” Phil was saying, “but what interests me is whether in order to have—and maintain—a happy family, one must give up art and seek money.”
“I’m surprised,” Esther said, towering over the playwright. “I didn’t think money would be a question for you at all.”
Ellen laughed, throwing her dark head back. “She’s got you there, Phil.” Gerald loved her throaty chuckle, her sardonic temperament.
“No,” Esther said. “I think the more interesting question is whether an artist can truly make such connections, such intimacies, as a family. An artist will always be an artist, whether she sublimates it or not.” She waved her hand—ragged nails, Gerald noticed—as if to dismiss Phil’s thought. “But can a true artist be part of a collective, or will she always end up striving for individuality? That is what we must focus on. All we know is—”
Gerald could tell his sister was gearing up for one of her blue streaks and he interrupted before the monologue took on epic proportions.
“Aren’t you in a collective?” he said, putting his hand on her arm.
“A circle,” Esther said, “is different than a collective. A collective—”
“I see,” Gerald said before she could continue. Esther had a monumental intellect, but party conversation wasn’t her strong suit.
“Ah,” Phil said, turning to Gerald. “Here’s a man who’s an artist and a family man, and successful at both.”
“Yes,” Esther said. She moved unconsciously closer to Gerald. “But that’s because Sara doesn’t go tinkering around inside his head. She doesn’t play Dr. Freud with his motivations. Thus, in a way, he is able to live both the examined and the unexamined life.”
“Is that true, Murphy?” Phil seemed highly amused. “No Dr. Freud at bedtime?”
“If Dr. Freud came to our bedside,” Gerald said, “we’d offer him a warm milk and brandy, have a nice little chat, and send him back to his own room, like we do with all naughty little boys.”
“Even in that comment—” Esther began, but she was cut off by a commotion coming from behind them.
Dos had been half listening to Esther Murphy from his spot a few feet away near the peach wine. Esther was one of those talkers who could leave you both irritated and spellbound at the same time. Ditto her appearance, with that ungainly figure and lazy eye and bad smell. He knew not all lesbians were like that. In fact, Esther’s circle included some positively elegant women, not to mention young nubile girls.
But whatever her looks, Esther was terrifyingly bright. He just couldn’t stand the way she talked at you instead of with you. This was what he was thinking, anyway, when Scott and Zelda arrived, bringing all that drama and staginess with them.
They were noticeably stumbling and arguing loudly as they entered, and of course everyone turned to watch.
Scott was trying to take Zelda in his arms and she was pushing him away. “You almost killed us,” she hissed loudly. “Don’t talk to me.”
“Fine,” he cried. “Although it was you asking for a light for your cigarette when you knew that turn was coming up.”
Dos saw Sara walk over quickly, but not too quickly, and take Scott by the arm. Smiling and speaking softly, she led him away. Then Gerald did the same with Zelda. Like referees separating boxers. Afterward, the rest of the guests began to resume their conversations, but halfheartedly, as if they were disappointed that the match had ended so soon.
With Zelda and Scott off in their respective corners and the spectacle cleared, Dos noticed someone who had come in behind them, a tall blond man with just the hint of a limp. War vet, he surmised.
The man walked over to the banquet table as if nothing unusual had just happened and picked up a glass. He poured an anisette and lit a cigarette. He didn’t greet anyone or even really look at any of the other guests. His eyes seemed to be fixed on the horizon. Dos had to laugh a little; the man seemed so much like a decorative extra in a play.
He picked up his own glass, along with the bottle of wine, and walked over to the other end of the table, where the man was standing.
“Hi,” he said. “That was quite an entrance. You part of the act?”
The man looked at him, smoking his cigarette. “I was the driver. They had a little car trouble.”
“Bad luck,” Dos said.
“Not for them,” the man said.
“No.” Dos laughed. “Not for them. They do like an audience. You’re American. Sorry”—he held out his hand—“John Dos Passos.”
“Owen Chambers,” the man said, taking his hand.
They stood in companionable silence for a while, the last of the evening light and the newly lit hurricane lamps making everything sort of glow. Then Dos said: “It’s kind of like being in heaven, isn’t it? You can bear it for only so long.”
The man smiled. “I’m not in it very often.”
“Ah,” Dos said. “Do you know the crowd? Do you want a rundown? I’ve had just enough to drink to be indiscreet.”
“Go on, then.”
Dos could tell he was amused, if only slightly. “Okay, do you know the Picassos?”
The man nodded.
“Right. And you know Scott and Zelda. And I assume you know Gerald and Sara.”
“Yes, I know them.” The man stubbed out his cigarette.
“So, the tall weird one over there, the woman? That’s Gerald’s sister, Esther. Sapphic. Smart. They say she’s in love with Natalie Barney. Follows her around like a puppy dog. Do you know who that is?”
Owen shook his head.
“Never mind. I digress. So, the tall one over there by the gramophone…the one with the glasses? That’s Don Stewart. He’s a writer. Funny stuff. One book about a tourist. We just got back from Pamplona together. Bullfighting with some fake bohemians. He cracked his ribs, that’s why he’s standing funny.” Dos looked around. “Where’s that bottle?”
The man handed him the peach wine.
“Thanks. I don’t know who that young guy talking to Don is. The woman by the tree, with the dark-braided do? That’s Ellen Barry, she’s a portrait painter, and that,” he said, jutting out his chin, “is her husband, Phil. Playwright. You’ll like them. Or I like them.” He sipped his wine. “I think that’s it…”
“It felt very complete,” the man said, finishing his second glass of anisette.
“It did, didn’t it?” He liked this fellow. “Here, have some more anisette. Wait. What are you drinking out of? That’s way to
o small. Have a wineglass. It’s a party.” He filled a wineglass with anisette and passed it over. “So—Owen, is it?—your turn to tell a story.”
“What kind of story would you like to hear?” Owen took a large gulp from the glass.
“One about car trouble and Scott and Zelda.”
“I don’t know how interesting it is.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Dos said.
“All right. Scott crashed the car into a post next to the café where I live,” Owen said.
“Where’s that?”
“Agay.”
Dos nodded; he knew vaguely where that was.
“Zelda knocked on my door and said they needed a lift. I was coming anyway, so…”
“How did Scott crash it?”
“He says that Zelda asked him to light her cigarette on a turn.”
“And did she?”
“I don’t know,” Owen said, tipping his wineglass back. “She says he did it on purpose. She seemed pretty upset.”
“What’s your theory?”
“I don’t really have one.”
“You’re not very good at this,” Dos said, refilling his glass.
Owen laughed. “No, I guess I’m not.”
“Never mind, we all have our talents,” Dos said. “So, what’s your talent, Owen?”
“I fly planes.”
“Damn good talent. Do that in the war?”
“In the Lafayette Flying Corps.”
“You flew for France. I was with Norton-Harjes. You know, the ambulance corps.” Then, before he could stop himself, he added: “Fucking mess, that war.”
“Yes,” Owen said.
“Well,” Dos said, wishing he hadn’t started this topic of conversation and wondering if he was obliged to finish it. “Well.”
He was saved from continuing the thought about the fucking mess of a war by the arrival of Don Stewart and that younger man, the one he didn’t know.
The sun had almost dipped completely below the horizon and Sara was trying to reason with Scott or at least calm him down enough so that she could release him back into the party. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tristan’s brother, hired to help out, lighting the last of the scattered hurricane lamps, which Gerald had painted all different shades of blue and silver. High above them, the lighthouse blinked on and off, and the wind was beginning to be audible.
She’d taken Scott down to the last level of the garden, away from the guests, and he was now sitting against an Arabian maple, hanging his curly head like a dog.
“Scott,” she said gently. “It sounds like it was all a misunderstanding. You love Zelda and I know she loves you. That car was worthless, anyway.”
“Oh, it’s not the car,” he said with a moan. “You don’t understand.”
“What don’t I understand?”
“She wants a divorce,” he said, lifting his mournful eyes to her. “She doesn’t love me.”
“Nonsense,” Sara said.
“It’s that Jozan. She’s fallen in love with him.”
“I think she just needs a bit of attention, that’s all, with you working so hard.” Sara did think this, but she was also slightly alarmed by Scott’s words.
“No, no, no.” Scott shook his head.
“She’s young, Scott. It’s only natural that men will be attracted to her.”
“You’re not listening.” He started banging the tree with his fist. “She doesn’t love me, she loves him. She wants a divorce. She’s had carnal knowledge of him. She told me.”
“Scott…”
“She said he made love to her like a man.” He looked like he was about to cry now.
“When was this?” Sara took Scott’s fist in her hand. “And stop that or you’ll hurt yourself.”
“I dunno.” He hung his head again.
“Scott, when did she tell you this?”
“A week ago, maybe more. It’s all over. The dream is over. It was there for a while, but now it’s gone…”
“What did you say to her?” Sara wanted to keep him to the concrete details, away from the hysteria that seemed to be threatening.
“I forbade her to see him again,” he yelled, hitting the tree once more.
“And did she?”
“She couldn’t,” Scott said. “I made sure she couldn’t.”
Sara wondered what exactly had been happening at the Villa Marie. “What do you mean, Scott? What do you mean, you made sure?”
“I need a drink,” Scott said, and he suddenly stood and swerved towards the stairs.
From his spot next to the gramophone, Gerald saw Scott heading unsteadily in the direction of the bar.
He turned back to Zelda. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
“I’m marvelous, Dow-Dow. Whatever do you mean?” She looked like a pale pink tulip, her silk dress cut in the shape of petals from the waist, like a dancer’s skirt.
In an effort to separate her from Scott, he’d asked her to help him pick out a record. But he hadn’t been able to get much out of her. Gerald had to admit that was one of the things he liked about Zelda: she didn’t talk behind Scott’s back.
Zelda held out an Al Jolson record. He put it on and then said, as nonchalantly as possible: “You and Scott. You’re getting along?”
“Swimmingly,” Zelda said. “We’ve spent so much time together lately. More than ever.”
“That’s wonderful,” Gerald said warily. “And the car?”
“Oh, the car? I’ve forgotten about the car. What happened to it?”
“I don’t know,” Gerald said. “That’s why I’m asking you.”
“Well, I’m sure I don’t know.” She looked at him incredulously.
“Oh,” Gerald said. “But you’re all right.”
“Of course I am,” she said, putting her hand gently on his forearm. “Why wouldn’t I be? Scott’s been keeping me locked up in the villa.”
“Excuse me?” He couldn’t have heard her correctly. The wind was picking up somewhere on the other side of the hill, and it carried some of her words away from him.
“It’s been like a dream, Dow-Dow. Although Scott says it’s the end of the dream. Beginning, end, who knows?” She looked off in the direction of the half-finished house.
He didn’t know what to say; she must have been out of her head with drink.
“Dow-Dow.” She turned back, those eyes leveled at him. “Don’t you think Al Jolson is just like Jesus?”
“I’m sorry? Like Jesus?” He was confounded. Still, he couldn’t help loving her. She was like someone who was perpetually moonstruck.
“May I have one of your lovely cocktails, please?” she asked sweetly.
“Of course,” he said, offering her his arm. “Of course you may.”
“I’m Whit Clay,” Don Stewart’s friend told Owen.
Owen guessed he was around twenty-two, twenty-three, perhaps. Young. But maybe the man seemed so young to him because he felt older than his twenty-eight years. He’d heard someone say once that you were born a certain age and that you remained that age in spirit all your life. Who’d said that?
Owen realized he was getting drunk. Then he realized that he’d been just standing there mutely staring at this Whit Clay. “Sorry,” he said. “Owen Chambers.”
“Don Stewart.” This from the tall bespectacled man who reminded Owen of a young Mr. Cushing, his old schoolmaster. He who’d saved him from…from what exactly? Ruin? Shame?
“We’ve been swapping talents,” Owen’s new friend John Dos Passos said. “It turns out I’m damn good at summing up party guests.”
“And filling wineglasses,” Owen said.
“Yes,” Dos Passos said. “Owen here was drinking out of a thimble. I was forced to step in and rectify the situation.”
“Good for you, Dos,” Mr. Cushing/Don Stewart said. “A useful man in a crisis.”
“And what do you do?” Dos Passos pointed a finger at Whit Clay.
“I’m a writer,” he
said. “Working for the Transatlantic Review.”
“Christ, who isn’t?” Dos Passos laughed.
The young man shrugged and returned his attention to Owen. Owen looked away and then couldn’t help looking back. Whit Clay was slim, slight almost, with smooth, clear skin and a strong mouth. He reminded him of some of the college boys he’d flown with.
“What do you do?” Whit asked him.
“I’m a pilot,” he said. “I run a business…”
“Pleasure flights?”
“Sometimes. I mostly fly in goods.” He shifted under the young man’s gaze.
“I’ve never been up in a plane. I’d like to.”
Whit’s eyes were green, he noticed. “Oh,” Owen said finally.
Whit smiled. “How much do you charge?”
“Well, well,” Dos Passos said, entertained. “Quite the journalist there, Whit. Big interest in flying?”
“Leave it, you idiot.” Don Stewart laughed.
“Sorry,” Dos Passos said. “Peach wine?”
“Thanks,” Whit said. Then, to Owen: “Do you live down here?”
“I do,” Owen said as Dos Passos refilled his glass too.
“It’s beautiful. I can see why you would. Paris is a swamp this time of year. And then cold in the winter.” Whit drank from his wineglass, wind catching his hair.
“I liked Paris,” Owen said. “Sometimes.”
Whit shrugged. “It’s fine. Lots of Americans. Some of the bad kind. But lots here too.”
“I guess.” Owen looked around. Dos Passos and Don Stewart had moved off, were now in their own conversation.
“I’d heard about Sara and Gerald Murphy,” Whit said. “Seems they know everyone.”
Owen didn’t really understand the comment, what it meant, where it was leading. He put his glass down. He never overdrank, and now he was definitely drunk.
“You look like…”
Owen could see Whit’s jaw, the outline of the muscles and tendons and bone. He wanted to touch it, run his thumb along the contours. Whit smelled like cologne, but it was a good smell. The two men seemed very close together, and Owen was wondering if they were too close when he felt a hand shove him aside.
Villa America Page 21
