"You tell me the rest of my mistakes and I correct them," she said lightly. "Next time Nick tells me I'm good, I'd like to think he means it."
"He did mean it. You were good. You'll be better. There's only one more problem: you didn't give us a reason to think this guy might get bigger or more important. We've got this little fact about him and it's interesting, but what might he be doing that we should be thinking about, other than more of the same? Maybe that's enough, but if so, why? Why should we be interested in him other than the fact that he's got great connections and does some favors? Does that make sense to you?"
"Yes. It's probably the most important thing you've said. Thank you."
'Tou're welcome." He paused. "You don't have to prove you can do it yourself, you know. We're here to help."
She nodded absendy. She was making notes, Les saw: listing her mistakes.
She kept the list in front of her for the rest of the week, while she
prepared her next show. First she made dozens of telephone calls, to Jewell himself to set up an interview, then to people whose names she found in magazine and newspaper stories about him, asking them for information and opinions. When she knew what she wanted to ask, she went to New York, where Jewell was staying for the week, and spent a day with him in his hotel room, along with her director and two cameramen. The next day, she had slides made from the photographs he had loaned her, of himself, the circus, his new office, and some location shots she had requested. At the same time, she was writing her script, and when the first draft was finished she spent a day with a tape editor in one of EScN's editing rooms, splicing together quotes she thought would give her viewers the best and most complete picture of Jewell in his old hfe and the beginnings of his new one.
That was the pattern for all the weeks. And at the end of each week, Nick would appear in the studio or the control room as Valerie was clipping on her microphone and testing the sound level, and stand quietly in a corner, watching the taping. Afterward they would talk briefly in the bright corridor outside the darkened studio. As the weeks passed, their brief talks became longer. They always were about "Blow-Up" or Valerie's program, but now and then they drifted naturally into something personal: a play Nick and Chad had seen, a book Valerie was reading, a newspaper story Nick had admired, a statement by a congressman they both found amusing. There would be moments when the corridor was empty, and their voices would weave together in the silence, until someone walked past and greeted them. And it was then, when they were interrupted, that the moment became intimate. But neither of them acknowledged that; they would talk and laugh together for another minute or two; their hands might accidentally touch; and then they would go off" in opposite directions.
It was as if they were getting acquainted all over again, much more cautiously than the first time. Valerie found herself thinking about Nick during the day, and much more often in the evening, when she sat at home with Rosemary, reading or flipping through television channels to see what the competition was doing. She thought of him most at night when she lay in bed in her small room crowded with fiirniture from her childhood, and fought die longings of her body that swept through her only then, only in bed, when she was not absorbed with work and the conversation of friends and co-workers.
She wondered if she was finding Nick attractive because he was wealthy, or because she was trying to recapture her youth, or because
she was lonely for the closeness of a man, or because she genuinely was drawn to him all over again, for the same reasons she had been the first time.
I won't know until I spend some time with him, she thought. And it doesn't look like that's going to happen unless I make it happen.
Well, why shouldn't I? I sent him away, a long time ago. Maybe it's up to me to ask him to come back.
If thafs really what I want. It wouldn't be fair to go after him and then decide I don't want him after all.
Besides, if I did that, I'd be out of a job.
Oh, the hell with it, she thought in exasperation, and sat up, turning on her light and picking up her book. Maybe reading about other people's dilemmas would put her to sleep. Thinking about her own certainly wasn't doing it.
It was a time when she made dozen of decisions a week about her program, and could not make one about her personal life. She no longer tried to push Rosemary into finding something to do, because it created tension between them and made Valerie feel guilty. She could not get interested in the men she met and so did not go out at night, unless it was with Rosemary to a concert or a movie. She bought a few new dresses and suits to wear on her program, but shopping was not the pleasure it once was and so she continued to wear the wardrobe she had brought from New York and Middleburg, now over two years old. It was a good thing she had her work, she thought; that was where she got all her satisfaction these days.
And then, suddenly, she went to Italy, and everything in her life changed.
Of course she had been to Italy many times, in a life that was now gone. But this was different. This time she was with Nick.
It did not begin that way. She knew he was going to Italy in June; he told her at the end of May, as he walked with her from the studio, where she had finished taping a program. It was the first time he had told her he was going away, though he took two or three short trips a month that she knew about, and perhaps more. "I'll miss a couple of your programs," he said. "I'm sorry about that."
"So am I," Valerie replied. "I've gotten used to knowing you're there, beyond the lights. I wonder what I'll do differendy with you gone."
"Are you sure you will?"
She nodded. "I think everything we do is affected by whoever is watching."
His eyebrows rose. "You think people are always acting for the benefit of an audience?"
Valerie thought of Sybille. "Some people are always acting," she said thoughtfully, "no matter who's around. But what I meant was, we change the way we behave, depending on who's watching and what we think that person expects. The way we talk, whether or not we use complicated words and ideas, when we smile, how much we gesture ... and probably a lot more. We're all chameleons of one sort or another."
"But you don't know for sure that I'm watching; you can't see me off in my corner, or in the control room. What if I walked out halfway through your program?"
"I'd think there was a crisis somewhere, because you're too polite to walk out for any other reason."
He chuckled. "That doesn't answer my question."
"It wouldn't matter whether you left or not. What matters is that I believe you're watching. That's why some people can't bear to be alone; they don't know how to behave without thinking that someone is watching."
Nick contemplated her. He thought of Sybille. "An interesting idea," he said. "I look forward to seeing the tapes of your program when I get back."
"I look forward to seeing them as soon as I've made them," she said, and they parted in laughter.
Nick left for Italy the first week in June. He had never been there, and on the flight over the Atlantic he looked up firom his book fre-quendy, at the dimly lit cabin, his fellow passengers reading or sleeping or playing cards, and wished he were traveling with someone who could share his discoveries. He had planned on taking Chad, but just the week before, as the school year was ending, a classmate had invited him to his family's summer home in Vermont where they could swim and ride horses and hike in the woods. "I want to do both," Chad had said in frustration as they sat at dinner. "How come things always come at the same time? Life isn't fair."
"Probably not," Nick said seriously. "Ifs just as hard for me, you know, because I'd like you to do both, too."
"So why can't we go to Italy in July?"
"Because I have meetings in three cities and I can't put off any of them. I wish I could. I do have some others later this year; what would you think of London in September?"
"School," said Chad gloomily. "The way things are going, I won't
live long enough to do a hu
ndredth of the things I want."
Nick chuckled. "Since you just turned twelve, I think you have time to do considerably more than that. How do you think I feel, at my advanced age?"
Chad studied him. "Old, I guess. You don't go out as much as you used to, and you never talk about getting married anymore. I'm going to grow all the way up without a mother." They were silent, both of them thinking about the mother that Chad did have. "I mean, a mother who's here. Telling me to clean my room and what time to be home, and things I can't do."
"I tell you those," said Nick quietly. "So does Elena. And Manuel."
"Sure." Chad concentrated on making a pyramid of peas in the center of his plate. "It's okay. Dad," he said at last, looking up with a mischievous grin. "I don't want you to rush into anything; you'd probably make an awfiil mistake. Give yourself another eleven years, just to make sure."
Nick burst out laughing. "Thanks a lot; I just might do that."
"That's what I was afraid of"
"Or I might not." Nick gazed at his son. "Do you remember Valerie Sterling? We had lunch with her—"
"In Middleburg. That day we went to the church. Sure I remember; she was terrific."
"She's working at E&N," Nick said.
"She is? Yeh, but she's married."
"Her husband died."
Chad's face brightened. "Good deal! Well, I mean, it's too bad, but ... I can't even remember him, you know, I mean, he didn't seem, like, special...Not that that makes 't£iood. .." He stopped to untangle his thoughts. "So is that why she's working for you? 'Cause he died?"
"That's one of the reasons."
"So are you taking her out, or what?"
"Not yet. I've thought about it."
"Well, you could wait another eleven years."
"I don't think I'd wait that long." Elena brought their dessert, and Nick changed the subject, relieved because he found he liked talking about Valerie but was uncomfortable with the direcmess and speed of his devastatingly logical son.
Still, sitting on the plane, he wished Chad were with him. The times they had traveled together had been journeys of delight for Nick, seeing cities and their people through Chad's innocent, unsparing eyes. Even familiar places had seemed new with Chad beside him. I won't
leave him behind again, Nick thought. I'll find a way to reschedule meetings. If I don't he might never do a hundredth of the things he wants to do.
At dawn they were over the Italian Alps. Frothy clouds, tinged pink and coral from the rising sun, nesded in the valleys between the snow-covered peaks; the sky was a burst of light. And when they landed in Rome and the Italian passengers gave an ovation of ecstatic applause, the sun was up, already hot, turning the city's umber brick buildings to deep red-gold.
Nick's room in the Hotel Hassler, at the top of the Spanish Steps, looked out over red tile rooftops and the domes of dozens of churches interspersed with the dark green of Cyprus, pine and plane trees. The cobblestone Piazza de Spagna, at the foot of the Spanish Steps, was a kaleidoscope of families, business people, tourists, and children climbing over the dolphins in the fountain of Barcacia. The steps themselves, broad and steep, with carts of bright flowers beneath picnic umbrellas, were densely populated with people of all ages who lounged in the sun, read, gossiped, held passionate discussions, climbed up and down, and photographed the panorama of Rome in the distance. The steps, Nick would discover, were never empty. They thinned out at dawn, but by late afternoon they were carpeted with people, shifting, wriggling, gesticulating, being part of the scene.
He took photographs for Chad, and then turned and photographed the other three sides of the piazza, bordered by ancient, peeling brick and plaster buildings separated by narrow streets that led into and out of the square like mysterious dark passageways drawing Nick to the heart of the city.
I want to see it all, he thought, standing beside a flower vendor in the square. And he smiled. Just like my son.
But he spent that afternoon in meetings, and the next day as well, working out the last of the details that led, finally, to signed agreements that allowed E8cN to set up an Italian news bureau, including satellite uplinks and studio and office space for a reporter, a cameraman, a technician and a bookkeeper/secretary.
When the agreements were signed, it was four o'clock in the afl:er-noon. He was in Rome, elated with what he had accomplished, wanting to celebrate, and his only plans were to have dinner in a few hours with his Italian business associates. Something of a letdown, he thought ruefully and, back in his hotel room, he picked up the telephone and called Chad. But it was morning in Vermont, and Chad and his friend were horseback riding. So Nick called his office.
^^Buon£[wmo/' said Les. "Did it fly?"
"On schedule; everything we wanted," Nick replied. "That's a pretty good accent; you'd do fine here."
'Tou just heard my entire Italian vocabulary. Have you had any time to play?"
"This is a business trip, remember? What's happening there that I should know about?"
"How much can happen in two days? Let's see. Monica has an idea for a series of original dramas; it sounds chancy to me, but I have a feeling you'll like it. She's writing it up. Oh, one thing you might think about while you're there. You know Valerie's little guy? The one we're researching?"
"Scutigera. Did you find something on him?"
"Nothing much. Remember the newspapers picked it up after her show, but didn't find a lot more than Valerie had. Good publicity for her, though. Anyway, we found a yacht he chartered for a party off the Canaries, but who knows? It was billed as a cocktail party and it might have been. The son of a bitch is as tight as a tin can. Or he's clean. We'd like to ask him about the yacht, though, and a few other things; trouble is, he may not be around. We called for a follow-up interview and whoever answered said he was ill and going home to die."
"How ill? He was fine three months ago when Valerie talked to him."
"They didn't confide in me."
Nick thought about it. "Lousy timing. But if we get anything, we could do the piece without him."
"Sure, but who wants to? Listen, this is what I'm getting at. He went home to die. Where do you think home is for a guy named Salvatore Scutigera?"
Nick grinned. "I'd say somewhere around here. Where is he?"
"Siena. Small town not too far from—"
"Florence."
"Which I think is not too far from Rome."
"Four hours. There's a high-speed train. I could go up tomorrow morning—No, damn it, I'm leaving tomorrow afternoon for Paris."
"Can you put it off?"
"No. How close is he to dying?"
"Nobody gave me a timetable. Could you get to him after Paris?"
"No, but I could after Munich. Five days from now. I'll get an interviewer and..." He stopped, remembering past lessons at Omega. "You set it up, Les. We've got a Rome office now; they'll work with
you. If you can have an interviewer and cameraman waiting for me in Florence in five days, we'll drive to Siena together and try to get something out of him; it may be our last chance. And send me the questions you've got for him."
He was beginning to feel excited. How did he always end up behind a desk, he wondered, when it was always more fim to be in the middle of things, doing the work?
"What else can we do for you?" asked Les.
"We need his address," Nick replied.
"Good idea. I'll ask Valerie to get it. She met his staff when she was at his house here; they'll give it to her. She could get his phone number too. In fact, she could call him, to set up the interview. He liked her."
"Fine. Unless it would be better to take him by surprise. Ask her what she thinks; she knows him, and we don't."
"I'll talk to her right away," Les said, and the minute he hung up the telephone he went to the main office and found Valerie at her desk, writing a new script. "Can I interrupt? I just talked to Nick."
She looked up. "Did they sign the agreement?"
"It's a
ll wrapped up; Nick usually gets what he goes after. Listen, we need your help. We want to get an interview with Scutigera while he's still alive and kicking. I'm getting an interviewer and a cameraman from Rome, and Nick will go with them to Siena when he finishes up in Paris and Munich. What do you think, should we take him by surprise or call ahead? And if we call ahead, can you set it up? He trusts you, right?"
"Just a minute." Valerie gazed past him, at the windows on the far wall. Dark clouds moved sluggishly across the sky; it had been raining all day. And she had been missing Nick. It astonished her to discover how much she missed him. She had been seeing him once a week for a conversation that took place in a bright, public corridor and lasted less than ten minutes. Not what most people would call a haunting memory. But that was only a part of what she missed. Just as much, she missed knowing he was in the studio or the control room when she taped her program, and knowing he was in the same building while she did her work. She had not realized how important his presence had become, just the knowledge that he was nearby, while she tried to make up her mind whether to pursue him or not.
She made up her mind. "I should be there," she said to Les. "It doesn't make sense to use an Italian interviewer who's never met Sal, when I have. He's hard to get close to; why start from scratch? He
knows me, he trusts me, he probably wouldn't be surprised to see me come back." Her voice grew more urgent. "Les, I want to do this. There's no reason for me to pave the way for somebody with a phone call. If I can pave the way, I should be doing the interview."
Les was grinning. "A true journalist; totally possessive about her story. I understand that; I admire it. But Nick's set it up, Val; I can't tell him I'm sending you to do it."
"Then I will." She had suddenly realized how much she did want to do it. She'd want it whether Nick was there or not. And with stunning clarity she saw how far she had come from the days when she and her mother had discussed her marrying Edgar because there was no alternative. She would fly across the ocean to be with Nick for awhile, away from the office, but she was driven just as much by journalistic fervor, and that made her feel very good. "I'll call him and tell him I'll meet him in Siena on"—she reached for her calendar—"Thursday. No, I can't. I tape my show on Thursday. It will have to be Friday. He'll understand." She looked at Les. "I'm sorry; I'm going too fast, aren't I? Is it all right, Les? Can I do it?"
A Ruling Passion Page 53
