“I have no trouble sleeping now,” he said, “night or day. In fact, I have trouble in the daytime keeping awake.”
Helene laughed.
“May we drop you somewhere, Congressman?” the museum man asked.
Jimmie assumed he had some such place as the Potomac River in mind, but he smiled and said, “I was about to ask you the same thing, Doctor.”
Helene intervened, “Dr. d’Inde, I had no idea you would do me this honour, so I’d asked Jimmie to meet me, you see. Would you mind very much if I were just to come in to your office later this morning?”
“But, of course, Madame Joyce,” he said pleasantly, again bowing.
He was the sort, Jimmie thought, who could turn a moment’s gallantry into a lifetime advantage.
“He boasts of having seven children,” Helene said placatingly as d’Inde took his departure. “He’s a family man.”
“I should hope so, with seven children,” Jimmie said.
“I think he’s very good looking, don’t you?”
“Exquisite,” Jimmie said.
“I’m touched even if you’re pretending,” Helene said, and laid her hand on his arm. “Aren’t you proud of me to have got the commission? That’s why d’Inde came to meet me, you know.”
Jimmie squeezed her hand against him. “I’m very proud, and more than that, dear.” He gave her luggage ticket to a porter, and asked for a cab. To Helene he said, “Mrs. Norris comes down by train this morning. With her here you could have been our house guest quite decently.”
“The old hotel is better for me, but thank you, Jimmie.”
“Likely you’re right. Father’s decided to move in with me now.”
“Oh, dear. Your life is complicated.”
“All I need is a wife,” Jimmie said slyly.
“And what would Mrs. Norris do then, poor thing?”
“You two have never met, have you?”
“No, but I agree, Jimmie. Discretion is the better part of valour. Will you excuse me a moment, dear? There’s a hat box I want to make sure our man doesn’t miss.”
She had a great habit of agreeing with him on something he hadn’t said whenever he brought the subject of matrimony anywhere near the conversation, thereby deflecting him while making it seem he had saved himself. Helene had been married very young—in her Greenwich Village days, the days when she was herself a student of sculpture and a model—and the marriage had smashed very soon and very painfully for her whether by death, annulment, or possibly desertion: Jimmie had heard rumours of all of them, and considerably more of gossip about Mrs. Joyce. But even if she did some day consent to marry him, Jimmie was the sort who would not pry beyond her wish to confide. She had once said of him, he was far too tolerant for a man with political ambition. They had met only a few years ago at Helene’s first major exhibition. Now she had fame. She wore it quite as well as the beauty she had preserved through a youth of struggle. She must be about his own age, Jimmie thought, the late thirties, and if she were an example of what came out of the school of hard knocks, he might wish he had had a scholarship to it himself.
In the car riding along Massachusetts Avenue, Jimmie said, “I hope that dandy d’Inde hasn’t planned to take you to the Beaux Arts Ball.”
“Isn’t it wonderful that there’s to be a Beaux Arts Ball in Washington?” Helene again diverted him. “I’m very pleased to have been asked.”
“Without you there could be no Arts Ball—for me anyway,” he said.
Helene cast him a sidelong glance; her expression was one of amused affection. “It must be a dreadful chore to have to make up the guest list for such affairs, everybody expecting to be invited.”
“You would be surprised how many in this town won’t risk being seen at affairs like this just now.”
“You are joking, Jimmie?”
“Not entirely. I’ll tell you this, Helene: there will be people there tonight keeping careful watch to see whom other people talk to.”
“Aren’t there always at such functions?” she said lightly.
“Yes, but the possibilities have rarely been so lethal.”
She looked at him. “Politically, you mean?”
He nodded. “And in Washington. Therefore, economically, socially.”
She sat in silence a moment, thinking. “Do you plan to do anything about it—in Congress?”
“What can I do? I’m a freshman—too young, except to vote.”
“And are all the rest too old?”
Jimmie said nothing. He did not like what was called “the temper of the times” or “the climate of Washington” in that year of 1953, and he was well aware that his own background of conservatism all but delivered him from inquisition. It was a situation for which he felt very nearly apologetic among friends like Helene.
“Wouldn’t it have been a fine idea,” she said, deliberately trying to be light about it now, “to have made the ball a masquerade? Then everyone might have been safe talking to anybody.”
“It was planned that way actually,” Jimmie answered. “Then Senator Fagan inquired why. ‘Why a masquerade?’ he said. ‘What are you trying to pull?’.”
“And that’s why you changed it,” Helene said incredulously, “because he inquired?”
“It was thought better by the committee,” Jimmie said carefully, “that none of us seem to hide our faces from him.” Even as he told it he realized the fallacy of the position: they, the committee of which he was a member, had thought themselves quite brave in the decision; what now seemed apparent was their self-deception: all they had done was mask their capitulation to the senator.
Helene drew up the collar of her fur jacket and yet it was a warm spring day. “Is it too early for you to have a drink, Jimmie?”
“No, though I’d prefer it not in a public place.”
“I’ve taken a suite,” she said. “It will be all right there.”
“So I understand,” he said, “that you have a suite.”
“I thought I should have a parlour into which I might invite you. Also, I’ve arranged to show some of my work—a few pieces to some special people.”
“Like dandy d’Inde, I suppose.”
“You’re being ridiculous, Jimmie, and just a little nasty.”
“I feel nasty. Weren’t you touched by his turning out to meet you in striped trousers?”
“Amused slightly. But rather shaken that an artist should take the time to go in for such nonsense.”
Jimmie mumbled a guilty agreement, and felt even nastier, but with himself.
4
MRS. NORRIS APPROVED OF the house, a three-storey brick building, Georgian, and modernized by a woman, she decided. She was to have more of a staff here than at home: a cook and a cleaning woman, a laundress, and whatever the Irishman called himself, she had chosen to make him a butler. He was a willing student, not, she soon discovered, because he fancied himself serving at table, but because he fancied himself sitting at table and wanted to know as much of what to do with “the instruments” as he could learn as a butler.
“It will take more than a ken of the instruments, my lad, to make you musical,” Mrs. Norris advised on the afternoon of her arrival.
“You know, m’lady, your coming will bring me a devil of a lot more work into the house,” Hennessy said finally, having failed in twenty ways of trying to please her throughout the day.
“It’d be a great pity to see you idle when it takes no more to keep you in work. Have you laid out Mr. James’ clothes for the evening?”
“I have. And his batman is up doing the same for the old gentleman now.”
“Batman,” Mrs. Norris repeated. “I haven’t heard that word since the old country. They call them something else here.”
“Orderly. M’lorderly’s orderly. That takes a twist of the tongue, don’t it?” Hennessy sat down and watched Mrs. Norris where she was inspecting the silver he had polished. “Don’t you wish you were going to the ball tonight? What’ud a fella ha
ve to do to get invited, d’you suppose, if he wasn’t elected to something? I wrote a few poems once to a girl. That’d be art enough, wouldn’t it?”
“Did you have them put in a book?” Mrs. Norris asked, liking a bit of romantic verse now and then herself.
“Her father burned most of them, bad luck to him, but I rescued a few. Would you like to see them?”
“I would, some time.”
“I’ll fetch them right now and you can read them at leisure.”
He was off at a gallop and soon was back with a well-thumbed envelope. “I can recite them if you like and save your eyesight.”
“I’ve nothing better to save it for,” she said, and tucked the envelope into the pocket of her second-best dress which she was still wearing beneath the tea apron.
Tom ran his tongue around his lips. “There’s one I call ‘Never sally if you can dally’.”
“Tom, you’re a villain,” she said, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. He was very handsome.
“Well, I work part time at it,” he said, and grinned.
“You worked part time at this, too,” she said, giving him a serving fork to polish over.
“Would you know this Mrs. Joyce the boss is taking to the ball tonight?”
“I do and I don’t,” she said, not wanting to admit to him she had never met the woman.
“She’s a fine looker, she is—lean as a colt, and I’ll bet she could lead a man a wild chase.”
“You’ve not the right to be talking like that, shame,” Mrs. Norris said, burring the “r” in “right”. “And when did you see her?”
“When I took round the flowers for himself a while ago.”
“You were supposed to have them sent.”
“Aw, you can’t depend on the delivery service on a day like this, Mrs. Norris. I wasn’t going to take any chance on them never arriving.”
“You’re a villain true, and I hope Mr. James puts you in your place before you’re too big for it.”
“I’m glad I went around all the same,” Tom said. “The boss isn’t the only one she has on the string.”
“No?” Mrs. Norris said, wanting to keep him going without encouraging him.
“There was some French fella there just waiting to see my heels. But she wasn’t in any hurry to push me out, I’ll say that for her. Or maybe it’s for myself I should say it. You know, she introduced me—me, mind you—to this Frenchman. I wish I could think of his name. It’s something that rhymes with Dan, but not quite. My father’s name was Dan, God rest him.”
“She wanted you to carry the tale home, that’s all,” Mrs. Norris said.
“To make the boss jealous?”
“I wouldn’t say just that,” Mrs. Norris said, “but after all, Mr. James is a man of many interests, too.”
Tom squinted up at her. “Is he now? You wouldn’t be jealous yourself in your fashion?”
“I would not. You’ll have the pattern rubbed off the fork there. Give it to me.”
And at that moment a sudden blast of wind flushed the curtains, the drapes, Mrs. Norris’ apron and hair, and a great booming voice halloed through the house.
“The General is home,” she said. “I must wash my hands.”
But he was into the pantry before she could more than wipe them in her apron. “Well, and how’s my bonnie lass?” he cried.
Mrs. Norris gave a bob of a curtsey. “I’m fine, sir thank you, and you look very well if I may say so.”
He nodded, smiling, and began removing the buckles from his blouse. “By God, it’s nice to be in a house that’s a home,” he said.
Tom snickered, and the General glanced round at him. “Did you speak?”
“No, sir. I was breathing.”
“Then go out and breathe in the kitchen. I want to talk to Mrs. Norris.” When the young man was gone, he said, “Shall we conspire against him, you and I? The place is so damned cluttered with help you can’t say a word. Well, I daresay you could handle a regiment, and it’s none of my business. We’ll have a drink, shall we? Does he keep a decent bottle in the pantry?”
“If he does, he won’t for long,” Mrs. Norris said. “I’ll see to that.”
“Ah-ha! That fellow’s Irish, isn’t he?” the General said, finding a bottle of whisky and two glasses.
“But do you know, sir, he doesn’t drink? He’s taken the pledge.”
The General grunted. “Sometimes I think there’s something to what they say about this damned bomb turning the world inside out. Think of that: an Irishman who doesn’t drink.” He lifted his glass. “Cheers, old girl.”
“Your health, sir, and your happiness.” Mrs. Norris took her whisky as neat as did the General, but not so often.
“Happiness,” the General repeated morosely. “Well, I’ll go up and have my bath and a bit of a nap before dressing. You and I will have to renew our acquaintanceship. They’re retiring me soon, you know. It will be into your custody probably.”
“God ha’ mercy, sir!” she clapped her hand to her mouth. It was the drink that spoke, not she.
The General laughed and went to the door. “Is it true, Mrs. Joyce is down for the ball?”
“I understand she is, sir.”
“Do you know he never let on to me she was coming? Well. That makes me feel better at least, he’s afraid of my competition.”
“Are you going with someone important yourself, sir?”
The General peered into her face. “Whomever I go with shall be important, Mrs. Norris.”
The arrogant old sinner, Mrs. Norris thought. All the same, there was something about him that could charm the heart of a wheelbarrow.
5
A GREAT MANY DINNER parties preceded the Arts Ball. One of the better-kept secrets of Washington was the manner in which hostesses on such occasions arrived at a fair and equitable distribution of very important people, important people, and people who had to be invited because they were important to the very important people.
It was a fine art in itself, the General thought, shaking hands with his host, to pair off an ageing stag like himself with someone it was hoped he might see to the ball afterwards. Ed Chatterton, an under secretary of state, was an old friend of the General’s, a career diplomat. With a wealthy wife, he mused, observing the gold plate as he passed the dining room door on his way to the study. There were damn few posts in the service of the United States government to which a wealthy wife was not a man’s very great asset. Fancy that: a man’s patriotic duty to marry money! Hurrah for democracy!
In the study where the drinks were set out, the General found two gentlemen in the interesting position of examining the labels on the bottles without disturbing the bottles—in other words, with their own bottoms up. Ambassador Cru came erect like a mechanized toy, which in some ways he resembled, his clothes, his mustachios—with eyebrows matching them, sheenly black—impeccable, a jewelled sash across his breast. Another poor boy who had made good, the General thought wryly, taking a hand weighted with a diamond ring. Cru represented a Latin American country which still bore strong traces of French influence, and Cru himself was a curious mixture. The General thought him pompous, antiquated and interesting only as money interested one. Which it did this one. The other gentleman wore more sheen on the highly polished bottom of his dress suit than anywhere else. The General recognized him, however, Joshua Katz, the violinist, and introduced himself.
“You’re playing here next Thursday, aren’t you?”
Katz shot his cuffs out from his coat sleeves. “I am.”
“Sold out, I understand,” the General said. “We’re not all philistines, by God. It makes a man perk up to hear that when he’s just about had it up to the apple.”
“So I have,” Katz said, assuming ridiculously that the General was being solicitous of him.
“In my country,” the Latin American said ponderously, “we are partial to the piano.”
It was on the tip of the General’s tongue to say that
in his country they were also partial to the nut, but he forebore. He poured himself a glass of sherry, a tribute to the wines his host would serve at dinner.
“I’ll have a man’s drink,” Katz said, and hooked into the Scotch.
“I hope it suffices,” the General said, and moved on toward the great parlour as the violinist turned and glowered after him. He surveyed the rest of the guests from the doorway.
His host came up and pressed his elbow in gentle persuasion. “You’re going to be well taken care of at dinner, Ransom.”
“I trust by women,” the General said, looking up from under his brows. It was his habit to lower his head when he felt bullish. And obviously, when he felt it, he looked it.
His host nodded gravely. “A virtual harem to attend you.”
If it was to be drawn from those present, the General thought, he might as well be a eunuch.
Senator Grace Chisholm was here. She stood head and shoulders above most men in the Senate, a frightening thought. Also present was an ageing opera singer, Maria Candido. He had heard once that she had the most extensive repertoire of bawdy songs in America. But to have to deliver them in a coloratura soprano the General thought downright indecent. The ambassador’s wife flapped her eyelashes at him like Venetian blinds every time he glanced her way. He was reasonably certain nothing was going on behind them, and even more certain that he was not going to find out. And then there was Madam Secretary Elizabeth Jennings of the presidential cabinet. She was the only woman present the General had not spoken to, but she seemed at the moment to have caught for herself the only animate creature in the room, a very slim young man who seemed, from the distance at which the General explored him, a trifle seedy; “quaint” might be the word, for he wore his hair long, in a style known some years before as a pompadour, and the collar of his dress shirt was high.
The General elbowed his host. “Who’s the young chap?”
“Talking to Madam Jennings?” the General nodded. “Young man about town,” Chatterton said off-handedly. “His name is Montaigne—or something like that.”
Chatterton was trying to be matter-of-fact, trying too hard, the General thought, and his curiosity was but the more whetted. He leaned toward his host. “Does he belong to anyone I know?”
Old Sinners Never Die Page 2
