by Irwin Shaw
“The expression on that young man’s face when you left him,” he said.
Gretchen grimaced. “We were engaging in that most creative of occupations—wounding each other. One picture and he thinks he’s the editor of Cahiers du Cinéma. A lost soul. No great tragedy. America is full of one-shot talents. I was worried about you. Where’ve you been all this time?”
Rudolph shook his head. “We’ve run into a holy mess in Connecticut. Donnelly’s ready to slit his throat. The whole project looks as though it’s going to come apart.”
“Why?” Gretchen asked. “What’s happened?”
“Some damned society for the preservation of the environment or something like that is suing us for an injunction to stop us from building,” Rudolph said. “We spent the whole day with lawyers.”
“I thought it was all set,” Gretchen said.
“So did I,” said Rudolph. “Until yesterday. We thought we had bought a tract of abandoned farmland. Now it turns out we have bought a precious piece of Connecticut wilderness, full of rare birds, herds of darling deer, lovely snakes. Three lynx have also been sighted there in recent years. Instead of being semiphilanthropic benefactors of aging humanity, it seems we are grasping city slickers out to pollute the pure air of the sovereign state of Connecticut, besides being the enemy of the lynx.” He shook his head again, half-humorously.
“What do the lawyers say?”
“It will take years, even if we finally win. Donnelly almost wept with remorse when he realized how long our money was going to be tied up.”
“Where is he?” Gretchen asked. “Donnelly?”
“I put him to bed. Dead drunk. He’ll feel even worse tomorrow.”
“I’m so sorry,” Gretchen said.
“The roll of the dice,” said Rudolph. “Don’t let it spoil your big night. Another thing. I got a call from California yesterday. From a man I know, an agent called Bowen.”
“I know him, too,” Gretchen said. “He’s got a good office.”
Rudolph nodded. “He says the word has gotten around about Wesley. He says he can get him a fat contract. If Wesley’s going to continue as an actor he’ll need an agent and Bowen’s as honest as any of them. I have to talk to the young man.”
“He was holding up the bar the last I saw of him,” Gretchen said, “smeared with lipstick.”
“I saw him. I’ll give him some sage, avuncular advice.” Rudolph leaned over and kissed Gretchen on the cheek. “Congratulations for everything. You’ve done a wonderful job. And it isn’t only your brother who thinks so.”
“Things went smoothly. I was afraid it was going to be amateur night from beginning to end.”
“Don’t be so modest, Sister,” Rudolph said and squeezed her hand. “You’re in the major leagues now.”
“We’ll see. Let’s keep our fingers crossed,” Gretchen said, but she couldn’t keep back a pleased smile.
“Now for the young man,” Rudolph said. “Save me a dance for when I’ve finished with him.”
“I haven’t danced in years.”
“Neither have I,” Rudolph said. “I’ll ask the boys to play a waltz.”
Then he went back to the bar, but Wesley was no longer there. The bartender said that he had left five minutes ago.
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Alice was sitting reading in the living room when Wesley got to the apartment. He had stopped at two bars on the way home. The bars had been too dark for anyone to ask him for proof of his age. Walking on the city streets had proved something of a problem, as the sidewalks seemed to be sliding away from him at different angles and he had stumbled twice at the curbs at corners.
“Good evening,” he said gravely to Alice.
“Good evening,” she said. She did not look up from her book. He noticed that the sofa was not made up as usual with sheets and blankets. He had the curious feeling that it was not Alice he was seeing, but a reflection of her in rippling water.
He misjudged the distance when he tried to sit down and just barely made the edge of the chair. He stared intently at Alice, who was still rippling.
“I’m no good,” he said. “You’re wasting your time worrying about me.”
“You’re drunk,” she said. “And I’m not worrying about you.”
“Tomorrow,” he said, his voice sounding strange and faraway in his ears, “I will pay you every cent I owe you and I will de—de—depart.”
“None too soon,” Alice said, still looking down at her book. “I’m sure you’ll be able to find another place to sleep. And don’t talk about money to me. You don’t owe me a cent. What I’ve done for you I didn’t do for money.”
He looked at her, focusing with difficulty. “Do you mind if I say thanks?” he said.
“I mind everything you say,” she said fiercely. “Hollywood bum.”
“I’ve never been to Hollywood. Not even to California,” he said foolishly.
“You and your tarts.” She threw the book to the floor. “What am I reading this damned book for? It’s a terrible book.”
“I thought you were my … well …” He spoke confusedly. “Well—my sister.”
“I’m not your sister.”
He groped for what he wanted to say, feeling his brain and tongue misted over. “You say I die,” he said. “In your book. You want me to be noble and die. You’re asking for too much …”
“Oh, my God,” she said. She rose from her chair and came over to him and took his head into her hands and pressed him to her body. “I’m so sorry. I don’t want you to die, Wesley. You’ve got to believe that.”
“Everybody wants something from me I can’t give,” Wesley said, his mouth muffled against the stuff of her dress. “I don’t know where I am. Tomorrow ask for me in the Lost and Found Department.”
“Please, Wesley,” she whispered, “don’t say things like that.”
“You said once you were stealing a piece of my soul …” He moaned as he spoke. “I hear you typing at night and I say to myself, There goes another bit of my soul.”
“Please, please, Sweet …” She held his head tighter to her as though to keep him from saying another word. “You’re killing me.”
“Everybody shames me.” He pulled his head sidewise, so he could speak. “What I went through tonight … Now you … I haven’t lived up to you, I know that, but …”
“Sssh, sssh, baby,” she crooned.
“I love you,” he said.
She pulled him, hard, against herself. Then, amazingly, she laughed. “Why the hell did it take you so long to say that?” She dropped to her knees and kissed him, briefly. Then she moved her head back so that she could look at him. “Say it again,” she said.
“I love you,” he said.
“You look awful,” she said.
“I feel awful. This is the second time in my life I’ve been drank. Excuse me, please, I have to puke.” He stood up, unsteadily, and reeled into the bathroom and there all the whiskey of the night came up. He felt no healthier, still weak and wobbly. He undressed carefully, brushed his teeth for two whole minutes, then took a cold shower. He felt a little better as he dried himself, although when he turned his head he had to do it with great care and his stomach felt as though he had swallowed nails. He put on a robe that Alice had picked out for him and went back, his hair wet, steadying himself with his hand against the wall, into the living room.
The living room was empty and the sofa was still not made up for sleeping.
From the bedroom, he heard Alice’s voice. “I’m in here. You don’t have to find any other place to sleep tonight.”
Still weak and with his head feeling as though a carousel were going around in it, with the calliope playing, he stumbled into the bedroom. There was only one small lamp on and the bedroom was dim, but he saw Alice, still rippling, under the covers of the big bed.
“Come here,” she said. “Get in.”
He started to climb into the bed with his robe still on.
“Take that damn
ed thing off,” she said.
“Turn out the light.” The idea of Alice Larkin, that shy and most ladylike girl, seeing him naked was shocking to him.
She chuckled as she turned the lamp off. He stumbled as he dropped the robe on the floor and he barked his shins against a dressing table as he felt his way to the bed. She was small and her skin soft and fragrant as he put his arms around her, but he still felt terrible.
“I can’t do anything,” he whispered. “I love you and I can’t do anything. You should have told me earlier tonight, before I drank all that booze.”
“I didn’t know earlier,” she said. “No matter.” She kissed his ear as she pulled closer to him. “You’ll be all right in the morning.”
And he was.
CHAPTER 8
FROM BILLY ABBOTT’S NOTEBOOK—
SHE IS STILL HERE.
SHE HASN’T MADE A SIGN THAT SHE KNOWS ME. SHE AND HER FROZEN-FOOD MANUFACTURER FROM DUSSELDORF SPEAK, AS FAR AS I CAN TELL, TO NO ONE. I NEVER SEE THEM WITH ANYONE ELSE. HE PLAYS GOLF EVERY DAY. THEY ARE NOT AT ANY OF THE PARTIES TO WHICH I AM INVITED. I HAVE FOUND OUT THAT SHE IS REGISTERED AT THE HOTEL AS “SENORITA” MONIKA HITZMAN, WHICH WAS NOT HER NAME WHEN I KNEW HER BEFORE. WHEN WE PASS EACH OTHER BY ACCIDENT, WHETHER SHE IS ALONE OR WITH HER FRIEND, WE PASS AS STRANGERS, ALTHOUGH I FEEL A GLACIAL CURRENT OF AIR, VERY MUCH LIKE THE CHILL YOU MIGHT FEEL SAILING PAST AN ICEBERG.
OCCASIONALLY, SOMETIMES ALONE, SOMETIMES WITH HER FRIEND, SHE PASSES BY THE TENNIS COURTS. MORE OFTEN THAN NOT SHE STOPS FOR A MOMENT OR TWO TO WATCH THE SPORT, AS DO MANY OTHER OF THE GUESTS.
MY GAME IS DETERIORATING DAILY.
THERE IS ANOTHER COMPLICATION. I AM BEING WOOED, IF THAT IS THE WORD, BY A YOUNG SPANISH GIRL, BY NAME CARMEN (IS THERE NO ESCAPING THAT MELODIC ECHO?) FROM BARCELONA, WHO PLAYS A FIERCE, TIRELESS GAME OF TENNIS, AND WHOSE FATHER, I HAVE LEARNED, WAS IN A HIGH POSITION IN THE FRANCO GOVERNMENT IN BARCELONA. HE IS SOMETIMES WITH HER AND SOMETIMES NOT, AN ERECT, GRAY-HAIRED GENTLEMAN, WITH AN UNFORGIVING FACE.
HIS DAUGHTER IS TWENTY YEARS OLD, WITH DANGEROUS DARK EYES, BLOND HAIR AND A TIGERISH MANNER OF MOVING, OFF THE COURT AND ON, AS THOUGH SHE FEELS IT INCUMBENT UPON HER TO LIVE UP TO THE LIBRETTO OF THE OPERA. SHE EXTENDS ME IN SINGLES. SHE ALSO FINDS OPPORTUNITIES TO OFFER ME A DRINK WHEN WE HAVE FINISHED PLAYING OR AT OTHER MOMENTS, AND ENTRUSTS ME WITH CONFIDENCES THAT I DO NOT WISH TO HEAR. SHE HAS BEEN TO SCHOOL IN ENGLAND AND SPEAKS THE LANGUAGE WELL, ALTHOUGH WITH A STRONG ACCENT. WITH HER I RETREAT INTO MY STUPID ATHLETE ROLE, ALTHOUGH SHE SAYS SHE SEES THROUGH ME, WHICH I’M AFRAID SHE DOES. AMONG THE THINGS SHE HAS TOLD ME IS THAT HER FATHER, ALTHOUGH CATALAN, FOUGHT IN FRANCO’S ARMIES, AND HAS THE OUTLOOK ON LIFE OF THE CAPTAINS OF FERDINAND AND ISABELLA WHO DROVE THE MOORS AND THE JEWS FROM SPAIN. SHE INFURIATES HER FATHER BY SPEAKING CATALAN TO HIM AND SHE LOVES HIM PROFOUNDLY. SHE WILL NOT BE HAPPY, SHE SAYS, UNTIL THE CATALONIAN FLAG FLIES OVER BARCELONA AND THE POETS OF WHAT SHE CALLS HER COUNTRY WRITE IN THAT LANGUAGE. SHE AND MONIKA, WHO ALSO SETS STORE ON THE LINGUISTIC DIVISION OF EUROPE, WOULD HAVE A GREAT DEAL TO SAY TO EACH OTHER, ALTHOUGH I DOUBT THAT CARMEN HAS AS YET THROWN HER FIRST BOMB. SHE DISTRIBUTES PAMPHLETS THAT MAY OR MAY NOT BE AGAINST THE LAW. SHE HAS A MARVELOUS, LITHE BODY AND I DO NOT KNOW HOW LONG I CAN CONTINUE TO RESIST HER, ALTHOUGH I FEAR HER FATHER, WHO WHEN HE LOOKS AT ME, WHICH IS SELDOM, DOES SO WITH THE COLDEST SUSPICION. CARMEN TELLS ME HE LOOKS AT ALL FOREIGNERS, ESPECIALLY AMERICANS, WITH THE SAME SUSPICION, BUT I CANNOT HELP BUT FEEL THAT THERE IS A REPUGNANCE THERE THAT IS NOT PURELY CHAUVINISTIC.
SHE LOOKS LIKE THE KIND OF YOUNG WOMAN YOU SEE STANDING AT THE “BARRERA” IN SPANISH NEWSPAPER PHOTOGRAPHS AS MATADORS DEDICATE BULLS TO THEM. SHE DOES NOT LOOK LIKE THE SORT OF GIRL ONE MEETS IN AMERICA WHO DISTRIBUTES PAMPHLETS.
SHE IS LIKE MONIKA IN AT LEAST ONE RESPECT. SHE WILL NEVER MAKE ANY MAN A GOOD WIFE.
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The next day was a bad one for Billy Abbott. Monika came down to the courts with her friend and signed up for a week of instruction, every day at 11:00 A.M.
Billy gave her her first lesson. She was hopeless. He couldn’t say anything to her, as her friend sat watching during the entire forty-five minutes. She addressed Billy as Mr. Abbott and he addressed her as Señorita Hitzman. As he tossed balls at her, which more often than not she missed, he thought, I must get her aside somehow and ask her just what she is up to; it can’t be coincidence that brought her to El Faro.
In the afternoon he was very nearly beaten by Carmen. She was in a cranky mood and played ferociously.
Later, in the bar of the hotel, where they were alone, he asked her what was the matter.
“Did you read the paper this morning?”
“No.”
“On the front page there was a picture of one of your admirals being decorated by Franco.”
He shrugged. “That’s what admirals are for,” he said. “Actually, I don’t mind his getting a medal. What I mind is his being here, him and his ships and our air force with its planes. I was in the army a long time and I’m skeptical about how useful we would be if it came to the crunch.”
Carmen glared at him. “What would you like to see happen—the Russians overrun Europe?”
“If they had wanted to overrun Europe,” he said, “they’d have done it by now. We’re in Europe in just enough numbers to annoy the Russians and not in enough to do much about them. If it came to a war, the missiles would do the fighting, not the men on the ground. They’d just be sacrificed on the first day. I was a man on the ground and I wasn’t too happy about it.”
“I certainly am glad,” Carmen said sarcastically, “that I have my own private American military expert to explain the facts of life to me.”
“It’s all for show,” Billy said. He didn’t know why he was arguing with her. Probably because the last set had gone to eight-six. Maybe because he was tired of being lectured on politics by attractive young women. “A base here and there just gives the military boys a chance to flex their muscles and squeeze more money out of Congress so that they can ride around in big cars and live five times better here than they ever could at home.” Then, more to tease her than because he meant what he was saying, he said, “If we took every American soldier out of uniform and sent him home to do some useful work it would be better for everyone concerned—including the Spaniards.”
“The weak and lazy always find excuses for their weakness and laziness,” Carmen said. “Thank God, all Americans aren’t like you.” Her politics were complicated. She hated Franco and hated the Communists and now, it seemed, she hated him, as well as the American admiral. “Being here is moral,” she said. “Letting a man like Franco pin a medal on your chest if you’re an American is immoral. It’s one thing to be ready to defend a country in your own interest, after all; it’s another to help prop up the reputation of a disgusting regime. If I were an American I’d write to Congress, to the State Department, to the president, to the newspapers, protesting. There—you want to do something useful—at least write a letter to the Herald Tribune.”
“How long do you think I’d last here if that letter was ever published?”
“Twenty-four hours,” Carmen said. “It would be worth it.”
“A boy has to eat, too.”
“Money,” Carmen said disdainfully. “Everything is a question of money for people like you.”
“May I remind you,” Billy said, “that I don’t have a rich father, like some folks I know.”
“That’s a disgraceful thing to say. At least that’s one thing you can say about Spaniards—they don’t measure out their lives in dollars and cents.”
“I see some pretty rich Spaniards around here,” Billy said, “who spend their time making more and more money. Buying up olive groves down here, for example, and turning them into tourist traps. All those big yachts in the harbor aren’t owned by people who’ve taken the vow of poverty.”
“Scum,” Carmen said. “A fraction of the population. Without soul. Doing whatever Franco and his c
riminals tell them to do just so they can hold on to their fincas, their yachts, their mistresses, while the rest of the country starves. I hate Communism but when I see what the ordinary man or woman has to do to feed a family here, I can understand why they’re attracted to it. Out of despair.”
“What do you want to see—another civil war?” Billy said. “Another million dead? Blood running in the streets?”
“If it comes to that,” Carmen said, “it will be your friends, the yacht owners, who will bring it about. Of course I don’t want to see it. What I want to see is decent, orderly change. If you can do it in America, why can’t it be done here?”
“I’m not a student of the Spanish character,” Billy said, “but somewhere I’ve heard that your fellow citizens, when aroused, are likely to be bloodthirsty and cruel and violent.”
“Oh, I’m so tired of talk like that,” Carmen cried. “As though Spain was all bullfights and flagellants and people taking revenge for the honor of their families. How is it that nobody says how cruel and violent the Germans are as a race—after what they did to Europe? Or the French, after Napoleon? And I won’t say anything about what the Americans have done in their time, you poor, useless tennis player.” They were sitting at the hotel bar during this conversation and Carmen contemptuously signed the chit for their drinks. “There. You’ve saved the price of four gin and tonics. Aren’t you glad you came to cruel and violent Spain and became the lackey of the rich here?”
“Maybe,” Billy said, stung, “we ought not to see each other anymore. Find somebody else to play tennis with.”
“You will play tennis with me,” Carmen said, “because you are paid to play tennis with me. Same time tomorrow.” She strode out of the bar, leaving him sitting alone in the big, empty room. God, he thought, and I believed she was wooing me! First Monika with her bombs and now this.
The next morning Monika came to the courts alone. Billy had to admit that she looked like a tennis player, small and trim, with good legs, and dressed in a becoming short tennis dress, with a band around her head to keep her neatly set hair in place.
