"I'll be in later," Sybille said coldly "After I change."
Their eyes held and then Dominus nodded. "Please. As soon as you can. He is very anxious."
"Is he dying?" she asked sharply.
A small smile touched his thin lips. "No, you must not fear that. I should think he will live for quite awhile."
Sybille turned and went into her sitting room, slamming the door behind her. While her maid ran her bath and helped her take off her riding habit, she thought about Dominus. It was time for him to leave. Quentin could damn well do without him; they didn't need an intolerable bug-eyed preacher with dyed hair and dirty fingernails in their home, no matter how good he was at keeping Quentin quiet. Valerie wouldn't have tolerated it for a day, much less seven weeks.
Two hours later she went to Enderby's room, wearing a brightly striped silk caftan, her hair loose and held back with a gold band. The bed was raised halfway and he was holding a glass and scowling at Dominus. "Kept me awake," he said to Sybille. "Told me you were coming and I couldn't sleep."
"Of course you can sleep. I'll come back."
"Sit down," Dominus said, holding the chair he had vacated when she came in. "May I offer you tea? We've been keeping it warm."
"No. I'll talk to Quentin alone."
Dominus shot a look at Enderby, but Enderby did not see it; he was gazing at Sybille's caftan. "Pretty. Like a peacock—parrot—whatever. Rudy, get yourself a suit like that. Lots of colors. Too goddam much black in this room."
Dominus leaned over and wiped Enderby's mouth. "Mrs. Enderby wants me to leave," he said.
"Whatever she wants. Keeps me young, Rudy, like you. Two of you, working on me. Live forever."
"I'll wait in your sitting room," Dominus said reluctandy, and left, leaving the door slighdy ajar.
Sybille closed it. "I want him out of here," she said, returning to the chair. "He makes me nervous, and he's acting like he owns the place. I don't like him, and we don't need him."
"I need him."
"You're doing fine with the nurses. Look how strong you are. I want him gone, Quentin."
"Promised him a God show."
"What?"
"God show. We don't have one. Do we? You get a God show while I was sick?"
"No. We don't need—"
"Hell we don't. Big audience if you get a good one. Rudy's good. Lots of people out there want a preacher in their living room. Don't have to go in the rain to go to church, don't have to shave or get dressed, watch him in bed if they want. Rudy's good, grabs people." He shut his eye. "Christ, I'm so tired. Syb, give him a show."
"What do we get out of it?"
"Audience..."
"That's not enough. We can't sell commercials on a God show."
"Donations. Different... daddy... drift... desperate..." Tears squeezed through his closed eyes. "Can't do it anymore. So much fun, putting words together, took people by surprise. Now I can't do it. Gone."
Sybille pushed back her chair. "Go to sleep. And tell your firiend he's to be gone by tonight. If you can convince me we need a God show, I'll find someone who fits in better with our style."
Enderby opened his good eye and fixed it on her. "Donations. We take a piece of them."
She paused. "How much?"
"Rudy says fifty-fifty. Renegotiate it later."
"How much could he get?"
Enderby shrugged one shoulder. "Oral Roberts gets millions."
"How much has your friend ever gotten?"
"Never had a tv show."
"How much in a church?"
"Christ sake, leave it alone, Syb! I want him, give him a chance! Half hour a week, maybe an hour, what do you care? Hard to fill those hours, specially if we expand... you're doing that, right? More hours? You doing that? Remember I told you to—"
"I'm running the place," Sybille lashed out. "I do all the work! I make the decisions!"
"Shit—" Enderby struggled to speak; his chin was wet with spittle. **Who owns the fucking—"
'Tou do." She took a deep breath. He might live for a long time; that's what Rudy said; the doctors said it could go either way. "I'm sorry, Quentin. Of course we're going to expand, to fifteen, maybe sixteen hours. I didn't forget that was what you wanted. I wouldn't be anywhere without the plans you made, you know that. I'm just doing my best until you get back and then we'll expand even more. When you're strong enough I'll bring you everything I've done; just tell me when you want it."
"Not now." He sighed. "You're a good girl. You going to give Rudy his God show?"
"What about the girl? Lily. Is she part of it?"
"She's gone. Boarding school somewhere. Can't remember. Whcit about Rudy? He get his show?"
She thought for a moment. It would keep him busy; less time to hover over Quentin. And she'd get rid of him when Quentin died.
"Syb? He gets it, right?"
'Tes," she said.
"What time?"
"Sunday, I suppose. I can give him eleven-thirty in the morning or six-thirty at night, right after the news."
He sighed again. "Don't ask me; talk to him." He closed his eye and moved his head fi"om side to side, making small barks of laughter. "Littie Syb. Getting religion. Not likely. Roll down the bed."
Sybille turned the handle until Enderby lay flat. She bent over and brushed her cheek against his forehead. "I'm going out tonight. I wish you could come; I'll miss you. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Tell Rudy to come in."
Once he wanted to know where she was going and what she would be doing every hour of the day. Now he wanted only Dominus. But that won't last; he won't be here long, Sybille thought as she came up to him in Enderby's sitting room. "Sunday morning or night," she said curdy. "Tell me which you want, and as soon as you get an audience—"
"Congregation," he said with a smile.
"—a bunch of people sitting in front of you, to make you look legitimate, we'll talk about a contract. Don't keep Quentin waiting."
She walked past him and crossed the hall to her own sitting room. He won^t be here long. The day Quentin dies, Rudy Dominus will begone.
Nick first heard of Rudy Dominus in March, eight months after the television premiere of his ministry, when Sybille came to California for Chad's fifth birthday. She sat on the sofa, Chad at her side, her arm loosely around his shoulders. He sat carefully, touching his mother but not pressing against her: he knew that would make her angry and he was careftil to follow her rules because that meant she would come again. "Nick, have dinner with us," Sybille said. Chad knew she would say that; she always did. "Chad's birthday ought to be a family celebration."
Nick looked at Chad. "What would you like?"
"All of us would be okay," said Chad, knowing what Sybille wanted and she rewarded him by giving his shoulders a little squeeze.
"I have presents for you," she said. "Would you like them now or after dinner?"
"Now, please." Chad jumped down. "Can I get them?"
"They're in my large suitcase. You can open it; just don't take anything except the wrapped packages."
"I wouldn't," said Chad, offended, and ran off".
"He's so grown-up," Sybille said to Nick. "You always did know just what to do with him. And he looks exactly like you."
"He has your hair."
"But your eyes. And your mouth. And his fingers are long, like yours. He's so beautiftil, I can't believe he's mine. Does he like your new house?"
"We've been here over a year. Yes, he likes it. And his school, and the friends he's made in the neighborhood."
"Ifs amazing, how incredibly well you've done. I can't get used to it." She surveyed the large, square living room with its suede and
leather furniture, two large Bakhtiari rugs, and the Georgia O'KeefFe desert paintings and Giacometti sculptures Nick was collecting. The house was luxurious, with a simplicity that made its luxury more striking. "All this, and a housekeeper to help Elena, and a handyman, and landscapers... do you take it all for granted b
y now? Does anyone ever take two hundred million dollars for granted?"
"Tell me about your television network. You said, at Christmas, you were working on some new shows. And longer hours."
"This is a lot" Chad said, coming in with five brighdy wrapped packages.
"One for each year," Sybille said.
"Can you handle them alone?" Nick asked, "or do you need some expert help?"
Chad grinned. 'Tou just like to open presents."
Nick laughed. 'Tou're right. Okay, ifs your birthday, you do it all. We'll just watch."
''''O-kay" he said happily, and bent to the first package. Sybille began to resume her conversation, but Nick held up a hand and they watched in silence as Chad ripped off the paper. A family at home, Nick thought wryly, and the words hurt. Chad swept aside the wrapping paper and opened a large box. Bewildered, he looked at the spheres and connectors, motors and strange parts in neat compartments. "Capsela," he read. "How does it work?"
"We'll do it together," Nick said. He had seen in an instant how the various parts could be used, and he joined Chad on the floor. "We're going to make some very special contraptions here. I think you'll be amazed." He looked up at Sybille. "A good choice."
"Thank you," Chad said quickly. He went to Sybille and reached out his arms and she leaned forward so he could kiss her. "Thank you very much. I'll have lots of fun with it."
'Tou may be a little young for it," she said, "but I thought, with Nick, you wouldn't have any trouble."
"We'll do fine," Nick said, already joining two spheres, one of them enclosing a miniature motor.
"Daddy" Chad said reproachfully.
With a laugh, Nick put it down. "Sorry, friend; I couldn't resist. Fll wait till you're ready." He sat back and watched Chad open the other gifts: a set of a hundred crayons, a wooden train with a dozen cars, three Dr. Seuss books, and a pair of pajamas and matching robe decorated with grinning dinosaurs.
"Fantastic!" cried Chad, looking at the hoard. "This is the most
fantastic birthday!" Once again he went to Sybille and held out his arms, carefully, so she would not feel jumped on. "Thanks a lot. There's a lot here."
"They're really all right?" Sybille asked Nick. "I wasn't sure. I don't know much about this."
He sat again in his chair. "Who helped you?"
"One of the managers at F.A.O. Schwarz. I called and told them a five-year-old..." Her voice fell away. "What else could I do? I don't know what he's interested in; I don't know what five-year-olds can do. And he changes so much between visits I can't keep up."
"They're great," Chad said loudly, looking earnestly at Nick. "Sybille did great; she got everything I wanted. I really like them."
Nick was silent, unpleasandy struck, as always, when Chad called his mother by her first name, as she insisted.
"Daddy, they're great," Chad said again. His eyes were worried. "You think so, too, don't you? Don't you think Sybille did great?"
"Yes, she did," Nick said quietly. "It's a terrific bunch of presents."
'When does Chad get his present from you?" Sybille asked.
"Tomorrow. On his birthday. And for now," he said, standing up, "we should be getting ready for dinner. Chad wants Chinese food for his birthday, so that's what we're going for. Sybille, do you need anything in your room?"
"No, it's fine," she said. "You always have everything I need."
Nick made no response. He was never sure how calculated her comments were and so he let them drop. There seemed to be more of them lately, he thought, since Enderby's stroke, but he preferred not to think about that. In fact, he thought very litde about her, and then only in connection with Chad. When they talked about her, Chad said he loved her and missed her and Nick never asked what there was to love and miss, because he had long since understood that, for Chad, a remote mother was better than no mother at all. And, because he understood his son, and knew how quick and creative was his mind, he thought it probable that, even at five, Chad had created a fairy tale in which, somewhere in the future, there would be a reformed Sybille, a loving Sybille, a Sybille who wanted to be his mother.
That night, after dinner, when Chad had gone to bed, Nick and Sybille sat in the library, a botde of Armagnac and a plate of biscuits between them. "Tell me about Quentin," Nick said.
She looked down and slowly shook her head. "It's terrible, whafs happened to him." She raised her head and Nick saw bewilderment in her pale-blue eyes. "He was so vibrant, Nick, so much ftin to be with
and so excited about what we were going to do in Washington, and now he just sits in a chair and stares out the window. He doesn't seem to care about anything anymore."
"Not even the network? You're running it by yourself^"
"Completely. I have no one to turn to for advice or help; Quentin used to be there whenever I needed him, but now it's as if—her lip quivered and she took it between her small white teeth—"as if he's already dead. He never even asked if we were going to expand our hours, and that was one of the first things we planned to do as soon as we had a good base of cable operators buying our programs. I've got us up to fifteen hours a day, and our audience is big enough now for us to raise our advertising rates; I'm even starting a production company for our own shows and others that I'll sell. Everything Quentin wanted to do I'm doing. But he's too sick to care, even to pay attention." She blinked as if to hold back tears. "It takes so much of the ftm out of it for me. I really need someone to share the things I do; otherwise I feel... lost,"
Nick contemplated her. "Is there any hope that he'll get better?"
"No." She held out her glass. "May I have a litde more? It's won-derfiil." She watched Nick pour. "There's a preacher of sorts who's attached himself to Quentin, and he talks about spontaneous cures, but I don't believe in miracles; I never did. He's mesmerized Quentin, though; he got him to give him a show on our network."
Her voice was bitter and Nick understood that Enderby was not indifferent to everything. "What kind of show?" he asked.
"A God show. That's what we call them. He switches back and forth between preaching and asking for money. One minute he's talking about sin and guilt and a lowly spirit, and then he slides into money. His voice doesn't change, the crazy chant he has, but all of a sudden he's saying how much money it costs to bring other sinners under the mantle of his benevolent forgiveness. Or something like that. I don't watch him. Quentin does."
"Does anyone else?"
"Not if you go by the money. There's not much coming in. We could put another program in that spot, and sell commercials in it, but Quentin refuses. He says he doesn't care about the money."
"But he's—what's his name?"
"Rudy Dominus."
"What?"
"That's what he says."
"Colorful. It sounds as if he has a good imagination. He's not cost-
ing you anything, is he? Other than not being able to sell that time?"
"He's cost us eleven million dollars so far." She smiled thinly at Nick's raised eyebrows. "Quentin wanted him to have his own studio. It's almost a goddam church, with seating for two hundred; of course we make it look like more with the right camera angles, but we could have done the same with half that many seats. As it is, we're feeding them sandwiches every Sunday, to make sure they come. It's better when the girl is there. He has a ward or a mistress—he told Quentin, very high and mighty, that she's a virgin, but I wouldn't believe anything he said—whatever she is, she's very young, mousy, malleable; he probably does whatever he wants with her. But for some reason, when she's on the show the audience seems to wake up. We get more money those times, too. Maybe I'll dump Rudy and make it Lily's hour."
"Why is she on the show?"
"She wants to be a minister. I suppose she's practicing."
"What's her last name?"
"Grace."
Nick smiled. "I think you should sign her up. What better name for a minister?"
Sybille gazed at him. "I hadn't thought of that."
"How old is she?"
"I don't know. Sixteen, seventeen; she's still in school. I suppose he must be her legal guardian or the welfare people would be on his back. Quentin probably knows, but he doesn't talk about either of them very much. Or he forgets; he forgets more than he remembers these days."
Nick refilled their glasses. "Tell me what else you're doing." To his surprise, he was enjoying the conversation. He had never been interested in television; now he found it intriguing. That had always been true of him: hearing a little of a subject, he became avidly curious, wanting more. When he was growing up, it had been model railroad trains and airplanes, followed by his father's vegetable garden and principles of planting, harvesting and pest control, followed by a home chemistry set and, finally, computers. In my next life, he thought, amused, I'll take up television. He was beginning to feel restless at Omega, missing the excitement of its early years, being a part of building, rather than managing. Why not television? he thought. I'd like to do something different. "What kind of shows are you producing?" he asked Sybille.
She went back to the beginning, when Enderby had bought the network, and described the first programs she had bought to make ten hours of programming they could sell to cable operators. "I expanded
it in the last few months with old and new movies: mysteries, romances, pornography; there's more kinky stuff out there than you can imagine. And I bought a bunch of new programs on Hollywood and European royalty, skeletons in the closets of the rich and famous, odd people doing odd things, heroic medicine, sports, that sort of thing."
"Like a magazine," Nick said.
She looked pleased. "Exacdy. The kind of things people really care about. Short pieces—nobody wants to spend a lot of time on anything these days—and lots of sharp graphics, very fast. You don't want anything on the screen for more than two seconds; people have a remote control in their lap and they'll change channels and then you're through. The only way you can keep their attention is to make sure they don't have time to think."
"That's the goal of your network?" Nick asked.
"Oh, Nick, the goal is to make money, and you know it. And to expand; you can't sit still in this business. So far it's cost me about seventy-five million: new studios and equipment, remodeled offices and bigger staffs in the office and studio, and reporters—I've got ten cities covered now and I want at least another ten in Europe and Asia, all looking for the happy side of the news—and then there are the new programs I'm buying and the ones I'll be producing. If s expensive, but it will all come back; the money is enormous, Nick, you can't imagine the potential. It's the most incredible feeling, manipulating all of it. I could never have it just by being on camera; I can't imagine why anyone would want that."
A Ruling Passion Page 28
