The Eternal Wonder

by Pearl S. Buck

  “I didn’t think of it,” Rann said truthfully.

  “Well, we have to think of it from now on. You’re a bestselling author but the public is fickle. Can’t let you slip out of sight. No harm done, though. Rita to the rescue. Can you have luncheon with us today?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Good. We will meet at the Pierre at noon. My public relations people will be with me and afterward we may invite the press for a few drinks and see if we can drum up a headline or two. I think we had better play up the playboy angle now that they’ve started it.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about such things, sir.”

  “You will … right after luncheon. Just leave everything to us. I’ve got the best PR in the business.”

  Rann ate the hearty breakfast Sung prepared for him and bathed and dressed leisurely and took a taxi into Manhattan to the Pierre.

  “Well, well, well,” George Pearce greeted him in the lobby of the hotel.

  He was a tall man, stylishly dressed, a shock of blond hair falling across his forehead. Rann judged him to be in his forties, though he appeared ageless.

  “So, this is Rann Colfax. And you are a handsome one too. Your photographs don’t do you justice. Must get some new ones. Margie, make a note of that, new publicity photos right away.”

  The woman with him scribbled frantically in her notebook while he talked. They were seated in the comfortable dining room.

  “I’ve ordered my favorite meal and I hope you will like it.”

  The man’s assurance impressed Rann. He had never met anyone like him and found himself liking him.

  “The PR people will join us in a while, but there are some things we should settle first,” he went on. “Margie, he will need new clothes. These are nice but too traditional for the image. Got a tailor, Rann?”

  Rann shook his head.

  “Mine will take good care of you. Not cheap, but worth it. The best. Margie, make an appointment and tell that Italian to put a rush on everything. Sports clothes, suits, dinner jackets, the works, all the latest styles. And get an appointment with that barber on Fifth Avenue. You know the one. Rann’s haircut looks too much like leftover GI. Oh well, we can change that.”

  “Mr. Pearce—,” Rann began.

  “Call me George,” the publisher interrupted. “We are going to be working closely together. No time for formalities.”

  Rann continued. “All right, George, but I think I should be perfectly honest with you. I have always been just myself. I come from a university town in Ohio. I know nothing about styles and haircuts and press conferences and playboys and all of that, and I don’t know that I really want to learn.”

  The older man studied his face carefully. “Rann, suppose I give it to you straight. You are a very young man, too young, in fact, to have written as good a book as you have. Nevertheless, you did it. We took a big chance on you when we published your book and now we have to make it pay off. Nothing personal, understand. I like you fine. I had thought of building you up as boy genius, intellectual and all of that, but that takes time. Your book will establish your brain—if people read it. That’s where we come in. If people want to read the kind of drivel that was in the papers about you last night and will buy your book as a result of it, then it’s up to us to give ’em lots to read in the papers. It’s as simple as that. You are a property first and a person second so far as I’m concerned. Your sales have risen steadily and you are now number five on the list. Let’s grab the number-one spot and see how long we can hold it. We have to sell you to the smart set in New York. They set the trend, and the smart sets of Wichita and El Paso and hundreds of other places will follow. It’s a matter of promotion.”

  As the luncheon progressed, Rann found himself reluctantly agreeing with what the publisher had to say. The press conference had been set for five o’clock and Margie arranged a barber’s appointment for him beforehand. They were joined for the dessert course by three people from the public relations department. When George Pearce explained his plan, the senior of the three spoke.

  “Well, George, at least this one is going to be a lot easier than the last one you gave us. That was a dog if I ever saw one. When are you seeing Rita Benson again?” The question was directed to Rann.

  “As a matter of fact, I’m having dinner with Mrs. Benson—”

  The public relations man interrupted him. “Call her Rita, especially to the press. She will love it and the press will eat it up. Where do you go afterward?”

  “We had planned the theatre.”

  “Good, then where?”

  “Well, home I guess. I hadn’t planned anything.”

  “That’s good. You don’t plan. We plan. Go to Sardi’s. We will have a columnist there. That should keep us going for a couple of days. Now, there is a movie premier, an important one, on Thursday night. I’ve got some extra celebrity tickets. Do you think Rita will go with you?”

  “I don’t know, I’ll ask her.”

  “Well, if she won’t, we will get someone else important. Now …”

  The conversation continued for an hour and Rann found his evening time taken up with social events at least every other evening for the rest of the month.

  “Gentlemen, I hate to break this up, but we have an appointment with a barber.” It was Margie who spoke. “We will see you at five.”

  George Pearce rose. “I’ll go along with you,” he said. “And we will all meet back here at five.”

  They arrived back at the Pierre at ten minutes before five. Rann’s hair was trimmed into one of the new styles and a new black suit of a stylish cut had replaced his more conservative one. George Pearce had used his influence with a fashionable haberdasher to get the suit altered for him, as well as a dinner jacket for him to wear that evening. He had even had time for a short visit to the tailor for his measurements to be taken and George Pearce assured Rann he should leave everything else to the tailor, and Rann had agreed to do so.

  Now that his first press conference was so near taking place, Rann expressed some shyness. “I’ve never done anything like this before,” he repeated.

  George Pearce seemed prepared for anything. “Margie, you take Rann in for a drink and settle him down. Wait about thirty minutes, then come on up. I’ll go on and be sure everything is ready.”

  “You must trust him, Rann,” Margie said to him when they were settled into a comfortable booth in the rear of the cocktail lounge. “You are very lucky, George Pearce is the best in the business. No one in the world knows publishing as well as he does, and with the start you’ve already got, you are off and running. What are you working on now?”

  “I really hadn’t thought about it yet, and from the looks of the schedule I’ve been handed I won’t have much chance to think about it for a while.”

  “They will ask you upstairs, and it shows lack of promise for an author not to be writing, so just say you are not ready to comment on it yet. That should hold them for a while—till you can get something started.”

  Rann began to relax with Margie. “I really have no idea what I will write or even if I will write anything publishable again. There is a compulsion to put things down on paper, but not necessarily a compulsion to write things to publish. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Certainly, I know exactly what you mean.” Margie was matter-­of-fact as she went on. “The best thing to do is not to worry about it. You will write again and there is no way to prevent it if you wanted to. You are a writer. From my experience in this business, I would say that writers fall into two categories. The first is one who studies his crafts of expression and description, knows his word tools perfectly, studies what comprises a novel or a story, devises a plot from beginning to end, and then sits down and applies his knowledge and does his work. He is frequently very good. This kind of writer can be trained. The other type is one who is ha
unted by an idea or a situation in existence and who cannot rid himself of it until he puts it down on paper. He may only write down the situation and present no solution, for there may not be one in existence. He may not know grammar or punctuation or even spelling, but that doesn’t matter. Someone can be hired to punctuate and spell or correct these, but no one can be hired or trained to do what he does. He writes only out of existence, and his stories are made up of the situations of which life is made, the constant sights and sounds and smells and emotions of which every day is made. His work is alive, it breathes. This man must write. He cannot help it. He is a writer. The first one can write news or advertisements or manuals or not write at all, if he chooses. Not true for our second man. He writes only out of himself. He cannot have a writing task assigned to him, or even assign one to himself, and sit down and perform it as a duty. You are this second type. They are not always genius, but here is where genius comes along. You may not be a genius. It is too soon to know. You are a writer, however, it’s not too soon to know that, and you are a darned good one too!” She glanced at her watch. “Oops! Drink up. God will be angry if we are late.”

  Rann left his drink unfinished and followed her to the elevator. He could not control a chuckle when he recalled her reference to George Pearce as “God.” He felt he was entering into yet another new world with an entirely different kind of people than he had ever known. It was exciting to him and he felt the excitement throughout his being. They were alone in the elevator.

  “Incidentally,” he said, “thank you for what you had to say. It was not only a compliment but quite a vote of confidence.”

  “Don’t even think about that angle.” She gave him a broad smile. “I tell only the truth in my life. Not that I’m moralistic, either, but it’s simpler if you only tell the truth. That way you don’t always have to keep up with yourself. I told the truth. Know it, and now let’s let the press know it. George Pearce is talking to them now about what a great guy you are and how smart you are and all that, which is why he wanted you to be a few minutes late. He has also given them a biographical sketch we drew up for this purpose. Just relax and be yourself. You’ve nothing to worry about.”

  Rann looked at her while she spoke. An attractive woman, thirty to thirty-five, difficult to judge, smart, pearl-gray business suit, matching shoes, an interesting oval face with lines of mirth at the corners of her eyes, her dark hair gathered on the back of her head neatly into a bun, the ever-present notebook and pencil in her hand.

  Rann also smiled at her instruction to relax and be himself after all the talk at luncheon about his image and the new clothes and haircut and his schedule for the rest of the month.

  The elevator door opened and they stepped into a red-carpeted hall, an open door at one end. George Pearce came down the hall to greet them.

  “I didn’t expect this good a turnout.” His face crinkled into a grin. “Yesterday’s blurb must have helped. This is going to be easy for you, Rann. Just remember that most of these are top people and they are friends.”

  There were about forty men and women with their backs to the door when they entered the room, besides the public relations men Rann had met at luncheon. A table had been set up as a bar on the left wall of the room and the senior public relations man stood there. Another table had been set up facing the door. Behind the table were floor-to-ceiling French windows draped in crimson velvet exactly matching the carpets. It was to this table Rann, Margie, and George Pearce made their way. The man from the bar came over with three drinks and everyone watched them in expectant silence while George Pearce referred to his notes. He cleared his throat and rose.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, you all have your biographical notes, which should eliminate a lot of questions except that I will tell you they were written by Mr. Colfax’s mother while he was out of the country and his information may very well differ from hers on some points. So don’t hesitate to ask any questions you may have.”

  The reporters responded to this with a laugh.

  “I’m going to ask that Mr. Colfax remain seated throughout the interview and that you do the same and that the waiter keep everyone’s glass filled. Hands? Yes, Miss Brown.” George Pearce took his seat and sipped his highball.

  “Mr. Colfax, I have for some time wondered how one so young could write a book such as Choi. Now I notice in our notes that you were ready for college at twelve. Could you elaborate on this for us, please?”

  Their questions for the next forty-five minutes dealt mostly with his background and his reference work regarding his book, and Rann answered them all as completely but as briefly as possible.

  A young woman in the back row who had not spoken before raised her hand. George Pearce consulted Margie before he spoke.

  “Yes, Miss Adams. I’m sorry, I don’t believe I’ve met you before.”

  “No.” The woman’s voice was well modulated. “I’m just in from the West Coast. I’m Nancy Adams from the Trib. Mr. Colfax, how is it you know so much detail about the black market in Korea?”

  Rann felt his neck redden. “Miss Adams, I don’t know anything about the black market in Korea.”

  “But you wrote of it so realistically. How could you do so if you do not know anything about it.”

  “I have been asked not to discuss that.”

  George Pearce cleared his throat and pinched his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger, about to speak.

  “Asked by whom, Mr. Colfax?” Nancy Adams went on, hurriedly.

  “One of the officers in charge.”

  “In charge of what, Mr. Colfax? Were you tried for involvement in the black market?”

  “No, I was cleared of any involvement.”

  “But cleared by whom, Mr. Colfax, if not by trial?”

  “By a group of officers in charge.”

  “Not a court-martial?”

  “No.”

  “Just a group of officers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Colfax, in your book there are some ranking officers involved in the black market. Couldn’t it be possible that the ones who gave you a clean bill were those you wrote about?”

  “No.”

  “But how do we know, Mr. Colfax, if, as you say, you don’t know? What was the name of the officer in charge?”

  “He was not involved.”

  “Then if you were not involved and he was not involved, why not give his name?”

  “It was General Appleby.” Rann wished he hadn’t spoken the name, but the woman had made him nervous with her persistence.

  George Pearce rose. “Ladies and gentlemen, I hate to break this up but I know Mr. Colfax has to dress for dinner. Thank you very much and I hope that this has been helpful.”

  “Mr. Colfax, one more short question, please.” It was the first woman who had questioned him. “I think my readers would be interested in knowing what a young serviceman would choose to do on his first night out in New York after being away for so long. Do you mind?”

  “Simple for me. Dinner and the theatre.”

  “With anyone special?”

  “Rita, Rita Benson.”

  “Oh, I see. Very special! Thank you, Mr. Colfax.”

  George Pearce and Margie seemed pleased with the afternoon and parted from Rann in the lobby and Rann took a taxi home to change for dinner.

  “Why, young sir, you look so different.” Sung’s smile showed his enthusiasm. “You so all new from morning. Looks nice like, different but nice.” He took the package Rann was carrying.

  “Thank you, Sung. I’ll be dressing right away and I’ll wear the jacket in that box.”

  “Your mother called, young sir. She sound upset. She ask you call.”

  “All right, I’ll call her now, but I’ll have to make it quick. I don’t have any time to spare. Turn the water on in the bathtub, will you, and not too hot.”


  Rann sat at the desk in the library.

  “How are you, Mother? Is anything wrong?” His call went through quickly.

  “Oh Rann, I’m so glad you called. I don’t know if anything’s wrong or not until you tell me. There was this very insinuating article in this morning’s paper. Rann, who is Rita Benson?” His mother sounded anxious.

  Rann laughed. “No one you need to worry about. She’s just a lady I met on the plane.”

  “Not according to this article.”

  “Mother, I can only tell you what I have been told, which is pay no attention to stuff like that you read in the papers. She is a nice lady, that’s all.”

  “As long as you are sure you haven’t been added to someone’s stable, though I suppose that’s all right too, if that’s what you want.”

  “I’m not in anyone’s stable and I’m not going to be. There is nothing to worry about. Now, Mother, I have to run or I’ll be late for a dinner date.”

  “With her?”

  “Yes, Mother,” Rann laughed again. “With Mrs. Benson.”

  “Well, all right. We’ll talk again soon.”

  “And I’ll see you soon, Mother, and you will enjoy Mrs. Benson when you meet her.”

  Rann sat, thoughtful, for a moment after he hung up. He could not resent her concern. She was not actually prying. It was honest, natural concern. It was a comfort to him, in a way, to have her there in the background of his life, always concerned for his happiness.

  “MY DEAR BOY, you are not late,” Rita Benson said when he telephoned her room at the St. Regis forty-five minutes later.

  “And never apologize. In this world anything under a half hour is on time. Do you want to come to my suite for cocktails or, in view of the papers, shall I meet you in the lounge? I must say, however, that if this is a stable, I’m paying dearly for it.”

  “I’ll meet you in the lounge, Rita,” Rann laughed. “And I’m not worried about the stable.”

  “Oh dear, I must be slipping.” Rita Benson laughed too. “See you in a minute.”