“Yes, sir, Mrs. Pinelli, sir!”
“Really, Stassen, I did employ you to drive us down, did I not?”
“Yes.”
“It’s so much easier to be able to give orders than to have it all on … a loose sort of friendship basis, don’t you think?”
“If you say so, Kathy.”
“Have a pleasant trip, Kirby.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
So faithful, loyal, reliable Stassen went booming up the auto pisto into the high mountains on the day of April Fool, and over the highest pass, and then down and down, ridge by ridge, all day long, down through the tierra Colorado, down to the rich tropic beach.
I found the beach home of Hillary Charis. It was west of the city. It was a pale, faded blue with a red tile roof. It sat about fifty feet above the highway, on a ledge of solid rock. The big garage had been cut out of the solid rock. The garage door could have served a fortress. From the garage level you climbed one hundred wide, flat, curving, concrete stairs up to the house. My first view of the wide blue Pacific at sunset from one of the terraces was like being hit solidly behind the ear. My jaw sagged and I felt as if I would stagger. Fishing boats were headed in. You could see the exotic hotels of Acapulco to the east.
I came to know the house well, its moods and vistas. The biggest and most dramatic terrace was on the south side, overlooking the sea. There were tile floors thoughout the house, and plaster walls in cool shades of green and blue and lavender. Soil had been carried up to make small garden pockets around the house, tended by Armando who seemed to live on his knees. He was a knotted old man, rosewood brown, seamed and eroded, with bad teeth and one milky, sightless eye. His wife was Rosalinda, the cook. She was a timeless Indian woman, square as an up-ended box. Her face had the impassive features of an aging hero of many Westerns. It gave her an almost comic look, as though, through some convolution of the plot, Our Hero had dressed in pink cotton and a horsetail wig the better to make his escape. When she smiled, a slow blooming smile, it was a glorious thing to see.
I had a phrase book and two years of college Spanish. Rosalinda had perhaps fifty words of English, and a striking talent for pantomime. We could understand each other. Armando made no attempt at communication. They both came down when I arrived. By burdening ourselves like burros, we were able to unload the car with but two trips up the hundred stairs. Armando fell immediately in love with the black car. He circled it, hissing softly. He linked hoses together so the water would reach, and washed it lovingly with soft rags and polished it until it was dazzling.
Rosalinda assured me that the electricidad and the agua and the teléfono were all working and in readiness for Señor and Señora Pinelli. It was evident to me that they had been lonely and bored in the house, and welcomed the chance to be busy. She said that there was a girl in readiness, who would begin work as a maid as soon as the Pinellis arrived. The girl’s name was Nadina, and she was related to them in some way. I did not have the words to explain to her my relationship to the Pinellis. I said that I was a friend, but that I also worked for them. She smiled and nodded with total lack of comprehension.
The servant quarters were adjacent to the house, on the east side where the crest began to slope down, so that it was about six steps up from their doorway to the kitchen door. I selected the smallest bedroom for myself in the main house, on the northeast corner, with no view of the sea. The Pinelli luggage was placed in the master bedroom, a room about twenty by forty with huge glass doors that opened onto a private terrace overlooking the sea. There were two great double beds there, with massive posts carved of black wood.
After I had unpacked my own things, I went to the master bedroom. Rosalinda was unpacking Kathy’s things, hanging her clothing in a vast closet big enough to serve as a dressing room. She gave little cries of pleasure as she examined the dresses and suits, skirts and blouses. “¡Qué lindo! ¡Qué bonito!”
By then it was dark, and so I did not see the beach until the next day. It was the most private beach imaginable. Two hard ridges of rock reached from the height down to the level of the sea. They were about eighty feet apart. Only at the lowest tide was it possible to walk around them. They enclosed a crescent of coarse, clean, brown sand. Stone steps reached from the front terrace down to the beach. They were of reinforced concrete and projected out from the concave wall of the cliff, with a hemp railing on the sea side. They made one long sweep, descending, from east to west, to a balcony halfway down, then reversed and slanted down from west to east to a truly massive freeform sun platform six feet above the sand. The platform was about eight by ten, and of reinforced concrete at least ten inches thick. It was anchored in place by steel rods as big around as my wrist. At high tide the sea came up under it, covering all the sand, so that each time the tide ebbed, the beach was new again. When I wondered at the massiveness of the platform, Rosalinda told me, with elaborate use of pantomime that it was the third such platform. Storms had smashed the other two. She made a spinning motion of her hands to show that they had been hurled high in the air. She said this one would be taken by the sea one day. She seemed to think it incomprehensible to try to outwit the sea’s fury.
I cannot forget what it was like to awaken there that first morning and hear the sound of the sea, and see the sun against the mint-green wall of my room. I had that feeling of inexplicable and joyous anticipation which had been gone for a long, long time. I felt renewed. All things were possible.
I was served on the terrace, elegantly, with papaya, toasted muffins, strong, black coffee. I went down to the sea and swam out until the blue house was a sandbox toy. The sea sighed and heaved and glittered. I floated there, and yelled for no reason, and went all the way in, using a long racing crawl, spending myself. I baked in the sun. I showered. Rosalinda served lunch. I napped until three, then drove into Acapulco and bought myself an ornate silver lighter and a snake-skin billfold, sat and drank black beer at a sidewalk café and smiled at pretty girls who walked slowly, arm in arm, in the dusk, while the birds made a great clatter over settling down for the night in the big green trees.
Those four days before John and Kathy arrived were good days. They were the last good days of my life. Had I known they were, I could not have enjoyed them more. I did not think of the future in terms of purpose or direction. I just had the unreasonable confidence that everything was going to be fine and golden. It was euphoria. And it could not, of course, last. I sent a card to my folks. I bought a lottery ticket and won two hundred pesos. I worked diligently on my tan, and my Spanish. I waited for the phone call from my employers.
I picked John and Kathy up at the airport at noon on Friday. There were two men with them. August Sonninger and Frank Race. August was a squat, bald, imperious little weasel in a soiled scurfy beret, Bermudas, Indian sandals and a sports shirt emblazoned with pastel fish. He was obviously the dominant, completely in charge, full of power plays and rude contradictions, snapping his fingers for service. The others treated him as if he were king. Frank Race was a towering, languid, storklike man in a cotton cord suit and a tasteful tie. He drawled in an inconsistent Limey accent, and seemed to be trying to give the impression that all this was a sort of grotesque game, and he was playing along for kicks. He was almost amusing, in a withdrawn, ironic way. Kathy was being very windblown and girlish with them. It didn’t seem to suit her. The big surprise to me was John Pinelli. The great soft pink-and-white thing had come alive. He was full of snap, glitter and enthusiasm. For the first time I was aware of the quality of his mind—quick, perceptive, agile, imaginative.
They were hopped up, so busy with plans and schemes that they seemed only vaguely aware of being in Acapulco.
August Sonninger and Frank Race stayed through until the following Tuesday afternoon when I drove them and John Pinelli back to the airport. I guess it was not what Rosalinda had expected. She had a sense of order. They would not conform to any schedule. They seemed to take no pleasure in the house. They talked busi
ness endlessly. They fought over details. To the four of them I was a part of the background, like the house and the sea and the servants.
I learned that Kathy and John were still being remote and formal and polite with each other. From their arguments I gathered that John Pinelli had bought into the enterprise by signing over, in exchange for a stock interest, his piece of the successful television property.
They had brought a pile of scripts with them. They called on me for some special service on Saturday night, at about eleven o’clock. They were all in the big living room. Frank Race came and got me off the terrace. He had me sit down with a script in my hand. He and Kathy both had copies. Sonninger sat scowling at us.
“Read the Wilson lines, old boy, if you will,” he told me, pointing to a speech that started a scene.
“I don’t know anything about …”
“Just read the lines, old boy.”
I started to read the first speech, feeling like a damn fool, trying to sound the way I thought Wilson should sound from what little clue I had.
Sonninger broke in. “You!” he said.
“Yes?”
“This is not talent scouts,” he said in his slight Mittel European accent. “It is not Actors’ Studio. Just read, please. Nothing more.”
I shrugged and read my lines as if I were reading a market report. That’s what they wanted. That’s what they got. Kathy had the corner on emotion. Frank Race and I read our lines woodenly. She emoted. I thought she did fine. But I thought the script was horrible stuff, full of pretentiously poetic expression. It went on until three in the morning. They would quarrel viciously, yell at each other, and then mark up the copies of the script. Sonninger was boss. I couldn’t see how they were improving it in any way. If this was going to be the first release by Sierra Productions, it looked like a poor place to stick your money.
The only other time I wasn’t totally ignored was on Monday morning at about eleven. I had swum and I was baking on the platform above the beach. Frank Race came gingerly down the steps, his pallid, narrow body gleaming with oil. He carried a beach towel and a script.
After a casual greeting, he stretched out and worked on the script for about a half hour. When he put it aside, I said, “Is that thing really as bad as I think it is?”
He looked at me, slightly startled, and then smiled. “They can read bad, old boy, and play well. We’re all happy with it. And, forgive me, we have the benefit of professional judgment.The people who will release it are happy with it too. And they’re quite shrewd about these things.”
“There seems to be a hell of a lot of talk in it.”
“We’re taking a little out, here and there.”
“Kathy will play the lead?”
“That’s the idea. The old dear is a little long in the tooth for the part. But that’s a camera and lighting problem. It’s worth that gamble to have John.”
“John or his money?”
He looked at me intently. “You are a very brash young man. You seem to like to talk about things you know nothing about.”
“I’m just asking questions. People haven’t been falling over themselves to hire him. So all of a sudden he’s wonderful?”
“I’ll tell you a little more than you need to know, old boy. John Pinelli is a director of the first grade, sensitive, creative. A director must have one additional talent. He must be able to control his stars, keep them from acting like petulant children, keep them from blurring him. John used to have that. When he lost some of his confidence, he lost that first. The rest is intact. Sonninger will produce. I will be unit manager. We will work closely with John, and we’ll control the talent. He can do the rest. Once we wrap this one up, and it’s good, then all the confidence will be back. And he’ll be an enormous asset to us on the other pictures we’ve scheduled. I expect him to make me rich, old boy. The feds cleaned me last year. I miss the money.”
“So this first one has to be tops?”
“It will be.”
“I hope it is,” I said. I didn’t see how it could be. The story seemed silly to me. But maybe they knew what they were doing. Then I thought of all the brilliant, confident people who use up a whole year out of their lives to bring something to Broadway which lasts three performances. It seems like a mutual hypnosis deal. They all tell each other the material is great until they finally believe it.
Anyway, I took them to the airport on Tuesday, and Kathy and I were left alone in the house with the three servants. Nadina, the maid, was a round, brown girl with broad, bare feet. When you addressed her directly, she would put one of her black braids in her mouth, bite down upon it, try to turn her head all the way around on her shoulders, and giggle. When working, she sang softly to herself in a clear, true voice.
There was a sense of isolation about that house. It was as if the concrete steps were a rope ladder, and when you were up there, they were pulled up and you were alone.
I saw more of Kathy than I expected. We ate together. This seemed to please Rosalinda. There were always fresh flowers on the table. Kathy was casual and remote. She spent a lot of time on the beach and on the sun platform. And she spent a lot of time grooming herself, exercising. I did not mention my plans. At the time I made an accounting and gave her the balance from the two thousand pesos, she gave me the hundred dollars I had been promised. But she did not ask me what I would do. It seemed agreeable to her for me to stay on. She gave me errands to do. I drove her to and from town when she wanted to shop. It annoyed me that she preferred to sit in the back.
Things changed between us on the following weekend, late on Sunday afternoon. We were down on the sun platform. Rosalinda called her to the phone. She had been expecting John, and had been growing more irritated when there was no word from him. When she came back down, her face was pale under the new copper-gold of her tan, and she was so furious her hand shook visibly.
“Was that John?” I asked.
“Be still!” She stretched out with her back toward me. Her hip in gay nylon was mounded high. The nape of her neck looked tender and touching and defenseless, like the neck of a child. The strap of the halter top bit into the slender softness of her back.
She rolled up onto her knees abruptly, turning to face me. “Come on,” she said, a whisper almost lost in the sound of the ocean. It had come up under the platform. She looked at me over a gun sight. She got to her feet. “Come on,” she said. It was a command that needed no explanation. She went quickly and lightly up the steps without looking back. I followed her.
We went to the master bedroom. She adjusted the heavy wooden shutters so that narrow strands of the late sun lay against the far wall, filling the room with a luminous golden light. As she fixed the shutters I could hear the shallow quickness of her breathing and the whispery sound of her bare feet on the blue-green tiles. She turned, tiny and imperative, and held her arms out toward me, and it was as if reality had merged with my own erotic imaginings, making the present moment dreamlike.
I believe it would be ridiculous for me to waste any of this imprisoned tag end of my life in description of the mechanics of copulation, in the more intimate devices of this particular pair of adulterers. Go to any loan library. Select a novel with a reputation for naughtiness. Open it to the section where the pages are most smudged. Substitute Kathy and Kirby for the names in the text. Our novelists seem to write of physical love as though they were under some obligation either to acquaint a herd of Martians with the fleshy facts, or to compose a handbook for the inexperienced.
Now that I am so far away from it, I can coldly chart the short history of our physical affair. In the beginning, as is always the case, pleasure was handicapped by the awkwardnesses of new lovers. As we learned each other, on the physical level, in the way the tricks of performance of a new sailboat or sports car must be learned through use, pleasure was heightened. As with all lovers since the origins of mankind, as pleasure was heightened, we indulged ourselves more often. Such intensity invariably creates a hy
pnotic aura which dims all the other aspects of existence.
And now I must account for the change in Kathy, a change which astonished her. She tried to explain it to me many times. When John had phoned her from Mexico City he had taunted her with an account of Sonninger’s continual pressure to sign a younger actress for the lead in their first production, and he had tried to make her feel insecure by telling her he might back down and let Sonninger have his way. Kathy, furious at John, had sought the handiest weapon of revenge, to take a boy who meant nothing to her into the bed of her husband. It was to have been a meaningless and destructive act, a service she would require of me which would lead to no emotional involvement.
But to her surprise, and her mixed joy and consternation, she did become emotionally involved, and far more quickly than she would have believed possible. I now know that it was not some uniqueness in me—it was her vulnerable condition.
Her marriage had turned so bad she could not be sure John Pinelli cared whether she lived or died. She had fought the ravages of age to a precarious draw for several years, but now the other side was growing dangerously strong. She had let herself slip into an emotional pattern dangerous to any woman—telling herself she did not need anyone and did not want to be needed by anyone.
She had sought a quick, dirty little revenge, not sensing the depth of her own vulnerability, and suddenly found in the circle of her arms a young man who adored her. There had been too many men who had tried to use her to their own advantage. Here was one whose only humble desire was to be close to her, serve her, love her.
There was, in addition, a physical aspect to her vulnerability. She was a woman with a strong sexual drive, and except for those rare times in her past when she had not been working at her profession, she had sublimated that drive, used the force of it to refine her actress art. She was not working. John had not touched her—she said—since we had left New York. She was strongly ready to be used. And I had a youthful vigor she was soon able to surpass.
The End of the Night Page 10
