This summer, however, Scott seemed more introspective than anything else. Dreamy, almost. More like Zelda, actually.
One evening last week, when the Fitzgeralds had arrived for dinner at Villa America, Scott had beckoned the children over and taken Honoria onto his lap.
“Reach into my pocket,” he’d told her.
Gerald watched as she put her little brown hand in his suit pocket and emerged with two lead soldiers, one painted red and gray, one painted blue and black. Scott took them from her and held them up for Baoth and Patrick to see too.
“I have something terrible to tell you that concerns these soldiers,” Scott had said conspiratorially. “There is a princess who’s been locked in a castle by an evil witch, and she’s guarded by a fierce dragon.”
Three pairs of very wide eyes looked back at Scott. Gerald smiled. He felt Sara’s arm go around him.
“And one of these soldiers is a secret prince,” he said. “But the other is the head of the witch’s evil army.”
Baoth nodded as if this made complete sense to anyone with a brain.
“Now,” Scott said, “Scottie is having a party, and at this party…” He stopped. “Wait, I’ve forgotten if you Murphys like parties.”
“We do,” Honoria said breathlessly.
Baoth laid a hand on Scott’s leg and pinched him lightly.
“Oh, I see. Oh, right,” Scott said. “Well, at this party there is to be a battle royal, where the secret prince will attempt to rescue the beautiful princess. Would you like to come and see it?”
“Now?” Baoth asked.
“No, not now.” Scott laughed. “Tomorrow.”
They’d gone the next day, of course, the children nearly hysterical with anticipation. Scottie, almost four now, with beautiful plump arms, had led the way out to the Fitzgeralds’ garden, where the children found an elaborate papier-mâché castle, all turrets and towers.
“I made that,” Zelda had whispered to Gerald and Sara. “Don’t the stones look real?”
“Oh, Zelda, very,” Sara had said.
Around the perimeter of the castle, on a small moat that had been dug and filled with water, rubber duckies floated placidly. A foot away two armies of lead soldiers faced each other, ready for combat. And next to all this was Scott, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Look,” Honoria said, pointing to a doll with flowing blond hair standing at one of the windows in the tower. “The beautiful princess.”
“Yes,” Scott said sadly. “She is in great distress. The prince must defeat the evil army to rescue her. Which one do you think is the head of the evil army?”
Baoth marched over, his stolid little body mimicking Scott’s stance, hands behind his back. “The blue and black one,” he said. “And that fellow,” he said, pointing to the gray and red figure Scott had brought to dinner, “he’s the secret prince.”
“Correct,” Scott said. “Well spotted. But that’s not all. There is also a dragon that must be vanquished.” From behind his back, Scott produced a small wooden cage. The children rushed to him and peered inside.
“A beetle,” Baoth said joyfully. “It’s a beetle, Dow-Dow. That’s the dragon.”
“Ahhh,” Gerald said, nodding.
Scott put the tiny cage in front of the castle and began to narrate the battle, moving the soldiers hither and thither, enlisting the children’s help, until finally the gray and red army were able to rush the gates. As Scott had the secret prince open the wooden cage, Zelda cracked two rocks together to simulate the sound of the breaking of the lock. The children jumped at the noise.
The beetle, clearly ready to escape, moved in the direction of the secret prince.
“Now,” said Scott, “we’ll just turn him over on his back, which makes beetles helpless, you know.” He flipped the beetle, and its legs wiggled in the air. “Now the prince can rescue the princess.”
While the four children were busy marching the prince up the side of the tower, arguing over how exactly the princess was to be extracted and where exactly the evil witch was lurking, Gerald watched Scott.
Scott, with a gentleness that Gerald would never forget and that continued to pain him long afterward, ever so carefully turned the beetle back over, cradled it in his palm, and placed it tenderly under a mound of lavender.
Monty Woolley was having a grand time. “Honk the horn,” he instructed the Murphys’ chauffeur as they drove through the gates of Villa America.
The chauffeur, whose name Monty had immediately forgotten at the train station, gave him a weary look but obliged.
“Again, if you please,” Monty said, only for the thrill of annoying the man.
On the second sounding, Sara glided out of the house wearing some sort of gorgeous creation that would have looked well on Madame Butterfly, all silk and delicate printed flowers with wide, bell-like sleeves.
“Ah, my beautiful Sara, do you come to us from the Far East?”
He smelled her nutty perfume as she wrapped her arms around him.
“Oh, you don’t know how glad we are that you’re here. We’ve been desperate for you,” she said. Her tan face and lovely almond eyes looked up at him. “Gerald in particular,” she said, taking his arm and walking him towards the house. “I think he needs a little cheering up.”
“Your wish is my command,” Monty said. “Where is my old school chum?”
“He’s at Eden Roc with the children. They’ll be back soon. Definitely before cocktail hour.”
“That’s a relief. Now, show me this house of yours. I am agog with anticipation.”
He had to hand it to them, the house was like nothing else he’d seen in the South of France, or anywhere, really. The floor was all black waxed tile, the sitting room painted a stark white, and the furniture was covered in alternating black and white satin with flashes of steel. The fireplace had been tiled in mercury glass, which glinted in the sun streaming through the row of French doors. Dotted around this rather austere and modern palette were flashes of bright color: huge arrangements of hot pink flowers trailing all the way to the floor, a small coral carved elephant on the corner of the mantel, a provençal cloth draped over an armchair, blue and purple and green Venetian glassware on the bar.
On a side table, what looked like some kind of green lace was fanned out on a golden plate. Monty touched it gingerly.
“Parsley,” Sara said, laughing. “Come with me to the bastide, your very own little farmhouse.”
“Oh, please don’t put me in with the livestock. I promise I’m housebroken.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Sara said. “It’s lovely. In fact, we’re a little too proud of it, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, well, in that case.”
After he’d bathed and changed in the lovely room that Sara had filled with branches of eucalyptus, Monty made his way back to the main house, his gifts under his arm. It was very early evening and he could hear birdsong over the terraced garden.
He hadn’t liked the sound of Gerald’s mood as Sara had described it. But part of him wasn’t surprised. How long could one go on denying the basic facts of one’s personality, even if one was doing the denying in paradise? He had a suspicion that this was at the root of Gerald and Cole’s falling-out, although neither had spoken to him on the subject. Linda, of course, had her own theories, but he was less interested in those.
Perhaps, though, Gerald wasn’t in denial, and that was the reason for their disagreement, Monty thought to himself. Perhaps some young man was at the heart of it all. Either way, his two old friends weren’t talking, and Gerald was apparently in a low place. And Monty intended to do a little investigating while he was here.
As he skipped up the flight of steps to the terrace, he could hear Gerald’s voice through the open doors saying something in French. He crossed through into the sitting room, where he found his friend standing at the bar in what appeared to be deep concentration.
“There you are,” Monty said.
Gerald turn
ed and smiled at him, a shaker in his hand. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I would have come down to say hello, but we had a bit of a situation with les enfants. Baoth, I’m afraid, won’t be able to greet you tonight. He’s had a spanking and been sent to his room. Honoria, though, is thrilled to see you.”
“Blast the children,” Monty said. “What have we got to drink?”
“The Villa America special,” Gerald said, returning to his project.
Monty sat on the sofa, placing his parcels next to him. “Don’t you have a third?” He lit a cigarette.
“A third?”
“A third child.”
“Patrick, you know that. He’s been put to bed,” Gerald said, his back still to him.
“Well, I guess the presents for the boys will have to wait until tomorrow.” Monty pulled a pink glass ashtray closer to him. “So, what projects do you have on the go? Still wrestling with that painting?”
“Yes. But I don’t really want to talk about that,” Gerald said, a little waspishly, Monty thought.
Gerald brought over two long-stemmed glasses on a tray and then sat down in an armchair. “The more exciting news is that Vladimir and I are building a boat. Down in Marseille. Or, well, he’s designed her and we’re having her built.”
“A boat? I didn’t know you sailed,” Monty said, eyeing him.
“I’m going to learn,” Gerald said. “And I’ve bought a motorcycle.”
“I think I saw the beast on the driveway,” Monty said, taking a sip of the drink. “Delicious. What’s in this concoction?”
“Just the juices of a few flowers,” Gerald said, smiling over the rim.
“So,” Monty said. “You’re building a boat, learning to sail, riding a motorcycle. Quite a list. What is it that you’re trying to distract yourself from?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Before Monty could answer, Sara swept in.
“Monty,” she said with mock alarm. “Didn’t Gerald tell you? We absolutely do not dress for dinner when we’re en famille.”
Monty looked down at his evening clothes. “Ah,” he said, winking at her. “But I have a surprise. And I wouldn’t want the two of you to feel underdressed. But we’ll get to that soon enough.”
Sara clapped her hands.
“Now,” he said, “where’s the child who’s not asleep and not in trouble?”
Sara walked towards the hall, calling up: “Honoria, come down and say hello to Mr. Woolley.”
Monty could hear a thudding noise from somewhere in the interior of the house, and a few moments later, the Murphys’ daughter appeared, cheeks pink, clearly fresh from a bath.
“Hello,” she said, a bit shyly.
“Now,” Monty said, “what have I got for you?” He pulled out a thin parcel and handed it to the seven-year-old.
She tore the brown paper off to reveal the record, read out the words on the cover: “‘Jelly Roll Morton.’”
“You can practice your Charleston to that,” he said. “But I’ll want a performance at some date in the future.”
“Thank you, Mr. Woolley.”
“Monty,” he said, but she wasn’t looking at him; all her attention was on the record. He returned to the pile of parcels next to him. “Now, what else do we have here? I think this one is for the beauteous Sara.”
“Me?” she said, putting her hand to her heart and then taking the package. She carefully undid the paper and pulled out a silk wrapper the color of a peach peony with a long slit in the back from the collar all the way down to the waist.
“This, actually, is from your devoted husband. I’m just the messenger.”
“It’s for the beach. I sent the design to your dressmaker,” Gerald said. “The slit is so that you can sun your pearls while keeping your shoulders covered.”
“Oh,” Sara said. “I love it.” She slid it on over her dress and twirled.
Honoria held a bit of the hem between her fingers and rubbed it.
“And this,” Monty said, “is for you, old chum.” He handed Gerald two bulky packages.
Gerald opened them. “Dinner clothes?”
He shrugged. “Again, just the messenger. Your wife had them made up and I retrieved them from your tailor in Paris.”
“I know you said you didn’t want any down here,” Sara said, smiling at Gerald. “But sometimes dressing up can be ever so cheering. And I thought you needed a little cheering, darling.”
“The amount of to-ing and fro-ing for Murphy clothing…” Monty said. “I felt like I was in ‘Gift of the Magi.’”
“What’s ‘Gift of the Magi’?” Honoria asked, watching her mother smiling at her father.
“It’s a story about a husband and wife who sell their most precious possessions to buy each other gifts,” Sara said.
“Why?”
“Because they have no money.”
“Why don’t they have any money, Mother?”
“They just don’t. But they don’t mind in the end because they realize that their love is the real gift.” Sara sat down on Gerald’s lap and kissed his cheek.
“Why?” Honoria said.
“Well…” Sara said, throwing her hands up.
“Because O. Henry said so,” Monty said. “And because he was a puritanical blighter.”
“Who’s O. Henry?”
“Goodness, we’re literal this evening,” Sara said. “All right, Honoria. Give Dow-Dow a kiss good night. Then up to bed, and Mam’zelle will read you a story.”
“But not Baoth,” the girl said. She turned to Monty. “He’s been naughty.”
“No.” Sara sighed. “Not Baoth.”
Honoria went over to her father, leaned across the arm of the chair, and kissed his cheek. “Bonne nuit, Dow-Dow.”
“Good night, Daughter,” Gerald said, and he gave her bottom a little shove away.
When she was gone, Sara turned to Gerald and said: “You go put on your dinner clothes, and I’ll wear my wrap, and we’ll really dine in style.”
“I’ll man the cocktails,” Monty said.
Gerald rose and gathered up his dinner clothes. On his way out, he put his hand on Monty’s shoulder. “I am very glad you’re here, you know,” he said.
Dinner was a real Murphy affair, plenty of gin fizzes and fresh food from their garden—chicken and olives, the latter of which, Gerald told him, had come from their own trees.
Sara wore a bathing suit and pearls and her new silk wrapper; the peach glow reflected onto her face in the dimming light. She rested one bare foot on her husband’s knee. Gerald, meanwhile, was all solicitous about whether Monty had enough to drink, and had he heard this record of rare Negro spirituals, and how was his job going at the Yale drama department.
“So, I’m sure Gerald told you in his letter,” Sara said, “but the hordes are descending soon. Hoytie and Esther and Noel and Lord knows who else. We’re going to have a real Dinner-Flowers-Gala on Friday.”
“I did hear,” Monty said. “Unfortunately, I won’t be able to join in the fête. I have to get on to Venice tomorrow. Night train. I promised Cole.”
“No.” Sara swatted him with her napkin.
“He’s very low. Some Russian poet. You might know him, Boris Koch-something?” Monty said. “Dances in the Ballets Russes.”
“I don’t,” Sara said and turned to Gerald. “Do you?”
Gerald shook his head.
“Well, what’s wrong with Boris Koch-something?” she asked.
“Doesn’t return our friend’s very amorous affections, it appears.”
“Oh, dear,” Sara said.
“When’s the last time you saw Cole?” Monty asked, studiously keeping his eyes on what was left of his chicken.
“In Paris, briefly, this spring,” Sara said. “At a party.”
“And the lovely Linda?”
Sara took a sip of her drink. “Oh yes, she was there.”
“I was sorry to hear things are difficult for Cole,” Gerald said. “Career
-wise, I mean.”
“Were you?” Monty asked, giving Gerald a mischievous smile. “Sorry, I mean?”
“He hasn’t done anything to me,” Gerald said, throwing up his hands. “We just…something came between us. I don’t know what exactly.”
“Mmm,” Monty said. “Well, there you are.”
They sat in silence a moment, and Monty would have given his eyeteeth to know what each of the two was thinking. Sara, he knew, would never tell. But Gerald…perhaps, if he could get him alone. “What time is it?” he asked.
Sara reached into Gerald’s pocket and pulled out a gold pocket watch. “It’s dreadfully early,” she said. “Only seven thirty. We would have been more elegant if we knew you were staying only one night. Would you like to go to the casino? Or—”
“You know what I think?” Monty said. “I think Gerald and I should get on that motorcycle and take a spin in town in all of our grandeur. Then we’ll come back, pick you up, and get that obliging chauffeur to take us to the casino.”
“I’m not sure I’m up for all that,” Gerald said.
“Yes, you are,” Sara said. “You boys go and have a good time. I’ll put on something a little less…something.”
Many of the shops in Antibes were already shuttered as they whizzed through the winding streets, but there were still plenty of locals out whose consternation Monty enjoyed as he and Gerald flew by, tails flapping, top hats perched jauntily on their heads.
“A drink?” Monty yelled into Gerald’s ear above the roar of the motor.
Gerald nodded and in a few more turns pulled the motorcycle up to a little café overlooking the old port. They both dismounted and took a table in front of the small crowd sipping aperitifs and ogling the machine.
“Well, if that doesn’t get their attention, I don’t know what will,” Gerald said, a little grumpily.
But Monty didn’t care about the motorcycle now. “I know what’s gotten my attention,” he said, nudging Gerald.
To their left, sitting by himself at one of the tables on the edge of the terrace, was a tanned, blond man perhaps ten years his junior. A lovely, well-built specimen, the kind he’d seen coming off the football fields at Yale, fresh and strong and…
Villa America Page 24
