Rann was glad for the new dinner jacket when Rita Benson entered the cocktail lounge a few minutes later. Every head in the room turned to her as she came to the table. She looked to be perhaps thirty-five, though Rann suspected she was nearer fifty-five. Her long gown of wine-colored silk clung to her slender frame with the easy grace of a dress made for the one who wears it. Her closely cropped hair fit smoothly to her head, framing her face dramatically and accentuating her long, graceful neck and slender shoulders.
“Rita, you’re beautiful.” Rann complimented her frankly, rising to hold her chair.
“But of course I am, dear boy. God knows I work hard enough at it. Nice of you to notice, though. But you’re the one. How handsome you look. Who cut your hair? Maybe I’ll give him a go at mine.”
They finished their cocktails quickly and moved to the dining room.
“Rann, I now want to say that your book is absolutely marvelous. I ordered it the moment I got to the hotel and was unable to put it down until I finished it, and I’ve begun it again. I’ve toyed all day with the idea of putting it on Broadway but I think perhaps the stage is not right for it. I think maybe film, though I’ve not done anything with film. We will have to talk about it when we have more time. Right now we are running late.”
She rose from the table and Rann helped her with her stole. “Add twenty percent to our check and put it on my bill, Maurice,” she said as they passed the headwaiter.
Rann could scarcely keep his mind on the play they were watching. His mind kept drifting to what Rita had said over dinner about his book. He was flattered, of course, but the idea was strange to him. He had never considered the old man’s story as anything other than a book and had barely had time to get used to it as a book.
“Did you enjoy the play?” Rita asked as he helped her into her limousine afterward.
“I did very much, though I confess I had difficulty concentrating on it after the remark you made at dinner.”
“You mean about your book? I mean it, but I’ll have to read it again and then we will talk.”
The ride to Sardi’s was short. “Mrs. Benson, Mr. Colfax,” the headwaiter announced clearly. “We’ve been expecting you. Your table is right over here. Mr. Caldwell has already arrived.”
Emmet Caldwell’s column was syndicated in every major newspaper in the world, Rann had long known, but he was not prepared for the man he met when they arrived at the table. He was tall and outgoing, an intelligent look in his wide-set eyes, his brow a little high for him to be considered handsome. He looked like a college professor. He rose.
“Rita, it’s always a pleasure.” He extended his hand. “And you are Rann Colfax. I must say that yesterday’s news photo wouldn’t have let me know it.”
Rann shook hands. The man’s grip was strong and firm and Rann liked him. There was the air of one long accustomed to his profession in all that he did.
They settled comfortably into their chairs at the round corner table and ordered a supper of the well-known Sardi steak sandwich and a tossed green salad.
Emmet Caldwell led the conversation. “Rita, is the rumor I’ve heard true that you are considering purchasing the dramatic rights to Rann’s book?”
Rita looked thoughtful and delayed her answer until the waiter had served their drinks and left the table.
“Yes, I think you can truthfully say I am considering it. I have not decided and I am unable to do so without some very good advice. It is an excellent book, in my opinion, a moving story, beautifully told. Whether or not it will fit on a stage and do justice to the stage and the story, I do not know. Perhaps it needs film. About that I shall have to get advice. I have an appointment with a Hal Grey on Monday morning and I have asked him to read the book before then.”
Rann knew of Hal Grey as the head of the most successful independent production company in the country and winner of many awards for documentary films.
She continued, “I think if Hal is interested then he could do the right job with the book. It is a very historical novel.”
Emmet Caldwell unobtrusively made notes in a small pocket-size notebook. “And what do you think of it, Rann?”
“I haven’t, frankly, had time to think of it.” Rann was quiet for a moment. “Margie Billows of my publisher’s office mentioned I should have an agent to handle subsidiary rights, and she has made an appointment with me to introduce me to one. If Rita is interested, however, I am sure she would do well with the material.”
Caldwell smiled. “I know Margie well, Rann, and if she is interested in you then you will do well to follow her advice. She is an old hand at this business and there is none better. George Pearce is lucky to have her. She really knows her way around.”
The conversation continued through supper and Rann enjoyed the easy exchange between Rita Benson and Emmet Caldwell. Yes, a world within a world, he thought to himself, and its discovery fascinated him.
Sung was waiting for him when he arrived home and brought a drink to him in the library.
“Sung, you must not wait up for me when I am out late,” Rann told him. “It seems I shall be late often for a while.”
After a hot shower, Rann put on fresh pajamas and lay in the huge old bed in the darkened master bedroom, the night noises of the city beneath him giving a faint background for his thoughts as he remembered the events of the day and reflected on his life that had brought him here. He could almost hear his father’s voice speaking to his mother many years ago.
“Give our boy freedom, Susan,” his father often said. “Give him freedom and he will find himself.”
Had he found himself, he thought? Was this then Rann Colfax? he wondered as sleep came to him.
The room was still darkened when Rann opened his eyes the next morning and he had to think for a moment to recall where he was. His dreams had been a mixture of Lady Mary in England and Stephanie in Paris and his mother in Ohio. How would these women react to the changes taking place in his life? The now familiar surroundings brought him back into the present. He rose and opened the draperies and the French doors leading to the terrace. The warm sunshine fell into the room. Rann put on a pair of shorts and walked out into the sun and glanced at the angle of his shadow. About ten o’clock, he judged, and time for some sun before the afternoon shadows engulfed the terrace. He settled himself comfortably on a long chair, the sun warming his lean frame.
“I got all papers like you say, young sir,” Sung told him when he brought Rann’s coffee to the terrace. It still amazed and pleased Rann the way his servant watched him and anticipated his wants. “They are on your desk when you ready. Shall I bring here?”
“No, let them wait. I’ll enjoy the sun first.”
Margie’s phone call interrupted his thoughts.
“Rann, have you read the papers yet?”
Rann confessed that he had not.
“Well, I didn’t think anyone would make his deadline for today, but one did—Nancy Adams of the Trib. I’m afraid she is nasty, Rann. It will sell books, which is good, but her overall tone is nasty. You must pay no attention. What are you doing for luncheon? We have an appointment with the agent at three o’clock and I thought we might have luncheon beforehand.”
Rann agreed to meet her at noon, replaced the receiver, and began sorting through the papers for the Tribune. The article was on the bottom of the front page. black market boy hits bright lights. There was a photograph of him and Rita getting out of the limousine in front of the theatre. Rann read the article in which Nancy Adams explained that he, Rann Colfax—who had made a fortune on the black market in Korea, either through personal involvement or by writing about it—had been seen in the right places last night with wealthy widow Rita Benson, living high on his profits. Rann smiled bitterly as he remembered he had been Rita’s guest for dinner and his publisher had arranged ahead of time to pay for everything else.
; The closing line in the article disturbed Rann deeply: “It would seem that someone should care enough to check with General Appleby in Korea to see exactly how it is that Mr. Colfax was so easily cleared of involvement with the black market. One has only to read his book to see he obviously must have firsthand knowledge of the entire sickening operation.”
“But she had no right to say the things she said,” Rann protested to Margie as they sat over luncheon later.
“Oh, but yes she has.” Margie’s voice was gentle but firm. “That is the price we pay for freedom of the press,” she went on. “She can write anything she wishes as long as she covers herself, which she did. She said you made a fortune off the black market—either by being involved personally, or by writing about it. That’s true. You did write about it in your book, and you are making a fortune. You will make even more after her article. But you can’t let it get to you.”
They continued the discussion throughout luncheon and later at the office of the agent.
“You are hot, Rann,” Ralph Burnett, the head of the agency, said to him. “We have plenty of clients already but we will take you on. Anything anybody wants to discuss with you about your work, refer them to us. That’s all there is to it. But you have to stay hot. If you do that, we’ll all make a bundle. After today’s article, your book will jump to number one within a week, you’ll see.”
And it did. Rann sat at his desk, the book-review section of the newspaper open before him. A long, thoughtful review of his book was on the page opposite the bestseller list. George Pearce, Margie, and Ralph Burnett should be very pleased, he thought to himself.
This review pleased him also. The reviewer had understood so well everything he had tried to convey that Rann, himself, was surprised. Not all of the articles that had appeared—and there had been many—were as thoughtful or as carefully written. They had all been good and factual, except that Nancy Adams had followed up with two more articles in the Tribune, one in which she told of a person-to-person phone call to General Appleby in Korea. General Appleby had not accepted her call, telling the operator merely that he had no comment to make, but reporting the phone call gave her the opportunity to write her nasty insinuations all over again. Two days later she had written of a meeting she had with Sen. John Easton, a young presidential hopeful from a New England state and a member of a committee investigating military affairs, who had promised to read the book and meet with her again. She vowed that her readers would have a full report on what the senator had to say and again used the opportunity to repeat her former remarks.
In the two weeks since Rann came to New York, all that he did was reported. He wondered that the public could actually be interested in his every move. He went to the premiere with Rita on Thursday, and on Saturday they attended a charity ball. On Friday, he had dined with George Pearce and Margie, a busy but simple routine, and all was written in the gossip columns. His mother had dutifully called him several times regarding the articles and he was truly sorry for the way he had affected her life. All he could do was continue to assure her all was well with him. The telephone on his desk interrupted his thought. It was Donald Sharpe.
“Professor Sharpe, you must forgive me for not writing to thank you for introducing me to George Pearce. I’ve only been back for two weeks and they have been so busy. …”
“I know.” Donald Sharpe laughed. “I read the papers. You surely do get around. Who is Rita Benson? She must be something to take up so much of your time.”
Now Rann laughed. “She is a very nice lady I met on the plane from San Francisco and now she is interested in making a movie of my book. In fact, her attorneys are working to come to terms with my agent now. The newspapers blow everything up.”
“I know.” Donald Sharpe was silent for a moment. “What are you working on now, Rann?”
“I’m not. In fact, I can’t even think of anything I want to write. I’m sure I will but this newspaper business takes all of my energy going from rage to fits of laughter.”
“I can tell you how to cope with that, Rann. It may sound strange to you, but just don’t read them. There is nothing you can do about anything they say and you can go on with your work if you ignore them. If you pay attention to every thing people say about you, then you will never accomplish all that you could and should accomplish otherwise. I’ve known people in your position before and, believe me, the only possible way to go on is to ignore all of it.”
“I suppose you are right. Everyone who knows anything at all about this business says the same thing. I’m sure you understand, however, that it’s a lot easier said than done.”
“Of course it is, dear boy, but it’s something to work for. Try it this way now and it will work. You will arrive at this position eventually—after much heartbreak and soul-searching—but if you can follow advice and begin now to pay no attention to what other people say, and especially the press, you will save yourself a lot of agony. In my own small way, I have had to learn this for myself.”
The reference to him as “dear boy” and the personal overtone to the conversation brought the memory of that night in Donald Sharpe’s home vividly into Rann’s mind and he felt his face flush as he spoke.
“Professor Sharpe, I—”
Donald Sharpe interrupted. “Wait, Rann. Before we go any further in our relationship there are a couple of things we should clear up, and I think I can do it very quickly. In the first place, call me Don. We are not too far apart in age or station for that now, I think. In the second place, I’m sorry for what happened between us years ago but we must not let that stand in the way of our future friendship if we can help it—and we are both intelligent, so I think we can work it out. I reacted to you as any man in my position would have. Perhaps you can understand that now. You reacted to me as any boy in your position would have. Certainly, I can see that. I won’t say I don’t wish things could have been different. There is no need for us to lie, but as long as it’s this way, then let’s be friends on whatever basis we can. I think that’s all there is to say on that subject.”
Rann was relieved that Donald Sharpe had spoken so frankly.
“I think I’d like that, Don. So long as we can both remember the facts of the situation.”
“I shan’t ever forget, dear boy. Now, your mother tells me she is coming to New York in a couple of weeks and I think I might fly in with her. Who knows? Maybe now that I’ve given him you, George Pearce may be willing to publish something of mine. At any rate, hold a little time aside for us and we will see you soon.”
Rann promised he would and sat in thought after the conversation had ended. A great deal had taken place in his own life since that night he had spent in Donald Sharpe’s home and while his personal feeling of physical revulsion remained strong, he was better able to understand the pity his mother had expressed for the man at that time. It must be difficult, indeed, for a man like him to find any satisfying relationships, caught, as he was, between sexes. With his total recall, Rann could hear his father’s voice as it had been during one of their long talks together.
“The world is made up of many different kinds of human beings, son, and while you, yourself, and only you, can be responsible for the kind of person you are to be, you must, however, get to know as many different types as you can, for these are the basic components of life as we know it today. Because there are thieves and because you know does not mean that you must steal. Because there are cannibals and prostitutes does not mean it’s all right for you to eat human flesh or sell your own body, but the fact that it is not right for you need not stop you from knowing those who do or from trying to understand why they do so. You will be many times hurt, for you have a deep appreciation of beauty and order in all that you do and people, alas, are not always beautiful or orderly. They will not always be what you would have them be, so be content if at least they can be honest with you and you can learn to understand them as they are.
You must hold yourself apart and be the kind of person you want to be. In this way, someone—somewhere—will come along to prove to you that all things of beauty must be good, and when that person does come along you will know him, for you will have known many others before, and you will be ready for the lasting relationship that is, in itself, man’s deepest satisfaction.”
Rann knew now that he could accept Donald Sharpe as a friend, whatever else he was, and that this friendship need not in any way affect him and what he knew himself to be, except to broaden his own understanding of yet another of the multitude of facets of human nature. Rann’s thoughts were interrupted again by the telephone on his desk. It was Rita Benson.
“Rann, if I send my car for you, can you come for cocktails and dinner? I’ve had Hal Grey here for the weekend and we’ve talked of nothing but your book and there are a few angles we would like to go over with you. You could stay over and we will ride back to the city together tomorrow.”
He said he would go. Sung prepared a light luncheon for him and packed an overnight bag and Rann was ready when the doorman announced that Mrs. Benson’s car had arrived. Traffic was light on Sunday afternoon and Rann enjoyed the drive through the suburbs onto the parkway and into Connecticut to Rita Benson’s home. It was a large old stone house she had bought and modernized and was well situated on acres of lawns and gardens, all meticulously kept. Cocktails were served to them on the south terrace, and they were enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun. Hal Grey, seated on a long chair facing Rita and Rann, was talking.
“There are problems with the project, Rann,” he was explaining. “It’s an excellent story and will lend itself well to the screen, but the trouble is that there is no role important enough for an American star, which we must have to ensure a box office. I had thought the scriptwriters could write in the role of the author as the star so we would be doing the story of the book, which would include the story in the book and it would give us the role we need.”
The conversation continued through dinner and on into the evening and Rann agreed to work with the scriptwriters to create the needed role.
The Eternal Wonder Page 22
