Exit to Eden

by Anne Rice

  “That’s the crux of it,” I said, but I could hardly hear myself. “Only it’s got like sixty cruxes, and each time we hit on one I think I’m coming apart. What if he wants The Club again, Martin? The way things were before I messed them up for him?”

  “Well, then, he can tell you that. And you can bow out and let them reindoctrinate him. But I don’t think that’s what he wants. I never did think so. If The Club was what he’d really wanted, he would have given you a thousand signals from the start. And things would never have happened the way they did. You would never have gotten so far together.”

  “You believe that?”

  “Think on it. Think on the story the way you’ve told it to me. Every step of the way it was the two of you. I suspect that as far as The Club is concerned, he got his money’s worth.”

  “God . . .” I whispered. “If only that were true.” I just held tight to his hand.

  “But you see, these are things you have to verify with Elliott.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Lisa, nothing is going to happen until you go back there and talk to Elliott.”

  He waited silently for a few moments.

  “Go on,” he said. “Remember he knows more about you than any man has ever known. You’ve told me that yourself.”

  “Yes, that I can’t deny,” I said. My voice sounded tired to me, and very afraid. “But what if . . . What if it’s too late?”

  Too awful to think of that. All the missed opportunities, those last moments, the things not said.

  “I don’t think it’s too late,” he said unobtrusively. “Elliott—and I know he would love to hear me say this—is an awfully tough young man. I think he’s waiting for you. Probably hurt. Probably mad as hell. But most definitely waiting for you. After all, you did promise that you’d come back. Go in there and call for the plane.”

  “Give me a minute.”

  “You’ve had your minute.”

  “It could all be a horrible mistake!”

  “Either way it could. So make that mistake in the direction of Elliott. You know all about the rest. There’s nothing new there.” “Don’t push!” I said.

  “I’m not. I’m simply doing what I do best: helping people to realize their fantasies. You’ve been telling me your fantasy all afternoon long. Now I’m going to help you make it come true.”

  I smiled in spite of myself.

  “That’s why you sent for me, wasn’t it?” he asked. “Go in there and call. And I’ll go with you. I’ll help you. I don’t really want a little vacation in the Caribbean with two dozen naked young men stumbling all over themselves to please me, but I’ll put up with it for you.”

  He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

  “Go on.”

  I snapped on the light and sat down before the bedside telephone. Six o’clock by my watch and the travel clock on the dresser. I picked up the phone and dialed.

  Three minutes and forty-six seconds before the inevitable connections were made.

  Then Richard’s voice.

  “This is Lisa,” I said. “I’m ready to come home. Do you want to send the plane here, or for me to meet it in Miami?”

  “We’ll send it immediately.”

  “I want to meet with the board, and with Mr. Cross. I want to clear up my desk and talk about taking a leave of absence. That is, if you were serious about not firing me.”

  “Give us a break. We’ll do whatever you want us to. I think the leave is a good idea. Mr. Cross will eat out of your hand as long as you come back.”

  “How’s Elliott?”

  “You sound better. You sound like yourself.”

  “How’s Elliott?” I asked again.

  “That’s it, the old impatience, the old air of command.”

  “Knock it off, Richard, and answer the question. How is Elliott! Give me a full report.”

  “Such a sweet girl,” he sighed. “Elliott is in the best of health, I assure you, though reorientation is at something of a standstill. To be more specific, he’s out on one of the yachts at this moment deep sea fishing, and when he’s not deep sea fishing, he’s playing tennis hard enough to decapitate his opponent, and if he’s not playing tennis, he’s swimming laps fast enough to clear the pool. And if he’s not swimming laps, he’s in the lounge dancing with two or three slaves at a time. He won’t drink Chivas Regal Scotch. He has to have single mash or Johnny Walker. He’s given us a list of some twenty films he wants on video disc, and the steaks aren’t good enough for him. He wants us to send to a special cattle ranch in California for the beef. He doesn’t like the library. We should redo the library. People don’t want to fuck and swim and eat every minute. They ought to have good books to read. And he has dreamt up a dazzling addition to the sports arcade called The Hunt in the Maze, which Scott is developing right now. He and Scott have become ‘buddies’ it seems.”

  “Are you telling me that he is balling Scott?”

  “ ‘Buddies’ do not ball each other,” he said. “ ‘Buddies’ play poker, drink beer, and talk with their mouths full of food. What I am telling you is that Mr. Slater knows he has us by the balls. And Scott, his ‘buddy,’ is recommending that we change Mr. Slater’s status from slave to member with all fees waived.”

  I covered the mouth of the phone. I didn’t know whether I was laughing or crying.

  “He’s okay, then.”

  “Okay? I would say that is an understatement. As for the gossip on the island . . .”

  “Yes. . .”

  “It has been effectively shushed by the rumor Mr. Slater is and has always been on the staff, testing The Club’s systems on the sly.”

  “Brilliant!”

  “Yes, he thought so too when he suggested it. And highly probable, I might add! He’d make an excellent staff member. He has an absolutely extraordinary gift for shoving people around. By the way, he has a message for you. In fact, he made me swear I’d give it to you as soon as you called.”

  “Well, why the fuck didn’t you say so? What message!” I demanded.

  “He insists that you will understand what it means.”

  “So tell me.”

  “He says that he should have put the roach down your shirt.”

  Silence.

  “Do you understand what it means? He seems to think it is very important.”

  “Yes,” I said. It means he still loves me. “I want to come back now.”

  LISA

  Chapter 32

  Final Report to the Board

  The plane didn’t reach New Orleans till three in the morning. It landed at The Club at 8 A.M. And I went directly to work.

  Mr. Cross, Richard, and Scott were in my office when I got there, and over a round of Bloody Marys for breakfast we began clearing everything up.

  Yes, we would take on trial fifteen of the pony slaves from the stables in Switzerland. And we would use them here exclusively as draught animals, and we would house, feed, and punish them in keeping with this highly specialized sense of themselves. All terms acceptable. Scott and Deena: work up list of possibilities.

  Yes, we’d do business with Ari Hassler in New York again, as it had been proven beyond doubt that the teeny bopper we’d bumped had actually been the younger sister of the slave Ari trained and recommended in good faith to us. Better photo checks on board the cargo yacht recommended. Avoid fingerprinting for the present. Slaves don’t want to be fingerprinted and who can blame them?

  Yes, on the new saltwater swimming pool, the coast view apartments on the south side of the island.

  Polite but absolute No on the requested “official” interview with reporters from CBS. Permission denied to CBS to bring their boat to any point within our waters.

  Full concurrence of all board members, however, that official interviews cannot be avoided forever. Going public with a well-prepared statement, very possibly a full brochure, is preferable to continued pressure from outside reporters to breach The Club’s security. Begin preparation o
f such a public statement. Consult or hire outright Martin Halifax to do this. He just happens to be here.

  Yes, on the insistence of the female slaves that they be allowed into the sports arcade. But use only those who request it. Watch carefully! All women must work as servers of drinks in the arcade to become familiar with its particular masculine ambience before being used there. Study ambience after inclusion of the women to see if it changes for the men. Advise. Yes, on the new roller rink games, and development and construction of the jungle maze for slave hunt adjacent to the arcade.

  Yes, on the indefinite leave of absence for Lisa Kelly with full pay though she is not requesting full pay. And yes, she will be within reach by phone of The Club wherever she is on a twenty-four-hour basis. (Private note to file by Mr. Cross: Try not to disturb Lisa Kelly during her leave unless absolutely necessary.)

  Yes, on the plane to take Lisa Kelly alone or accompanied on a direct flight to Venice, as soon as clearance can be arranged for that. Please book the Royal Danieli Excelsior, a suite facing the lagoon.

  Yes, I will talk to Diana, the slave I have had for four years, before I leave the island and I will explain everything. My rooms, in one hour.

  Yes, one full Club membership for Elliott Slater. Investigative processes already more than adequate. All fees for the first year waived. Retirement of Elliott Slater as slave.

  Consider strong possibility of staff position for Elliott Slater, part time, advisory, etc. The idea for the jungle maze, and the crude drawings presented to the board for same, originated in conversation between Elliott Slater and Scott.

  Present location of Slater?

  Unknown.

  “Unknown?”

  LISA

  Chapter 33

  In Sickness and in Health

  “He split an hour before you arrived.”

  “You told him I was on my way in?”

  “Yeah, we did.” Scott glanced at Richard. I wanted to hit both of them.

  “Goddamn you. And you didn’t tell me this, you let me believe he was still here!”

  “Look, Lisa, what were you going to do, chase him to Port au Prince? You went right into the boardroom. I didn’t even have a chance to tell you. He was so damned anxious to get off the island he wouldn’t even wait for the Cessna. He had to have the copter take him to Haiti and from there he went to Miami and then on to the West Coast.”

  “But why did he go? Did he leave any message for me?”

  Disgusting exchange of glances between the two of them.

  “Lisa, we didn’t do anything bad here,” Scott said. “I swear to God. I went into his room this morning and told him you’d left New Orleans. He’d been drinking all night. He was in a real mean mood. He was watching that Road Warrior movie. He’s nuts about that movie. And he just turned off the screen and started pacing the floor. And then he said, ‘I have to get out of here. I want to get out of here.’ I tried to talk him out of it, to get him to stick around for an hour, for Chrissakes. But it wasn’t any good. He called the Time-Life office back there. They gave him some assignment in Hong Kong. He said he’d be there day after tomorrow, had to go home for his equipment. He called some guy to bring his car to the San Francisco Airport and open up his house.”

  “The Berkeley house.”

  I hit the intercom. “Send Diana to my room immediately. And change the flight plan to San Francisco. And get me the file on Elliott Slater. I want the address of his Berkeley house.”

  “It’s here,” Scott said. “He left it with me. Just in case anyone should want to reach him, he said.”

  “Well, why the fucking shit didn’t you say so?” I grabbed the paper out of his hand.

  “Lisa, I’m sorry . . .”

  “The hell you are,” I said, heading for the door. “And to hell with you, and to hell with The Club.”

  “Lisa . . .”

  “What?”

  “Good luck.”

  The limousine was on the Bayshore Freeway fifteen minutes after we landed, burrowing north through a light evening fog into San Francisco and towards the Bay Bridge.

  I don’t think the craziness of it hit me, however, until I saw the ugly urban squalor of University Avenue: that I was back in my own hometown. This little chase, that had begun in another galaxy, was leading me right back into the Berkeley hills where I’d grown up.

  Nice going, Elliott. Only for you.

  The limo swayed awkwardly as we started up the steep, winding streets. It was worse than familiar. The very sight of the overgrown gardens, the houses nestled among the tangled oaks and Monterey cypresses, curdled my soul. No, not just home, this place: rather the landscape of an identity, a period of life that was almost indistinguishable from constant pain.

  I had the terror suddenly that someone would see me in spite of the darkened window glass, and know who I really was. I hadn’t come this time for a wedding or a funeral, or a week of vacation. I was Sir Richard Burton slipping into the Forbidden City of Mecca. And if I got caught I’d be killed.

  I looked at my watch. Elliott was two hours ahead of me. Maybe even not there.

  And in an instant of sheer perversity, I told the driver to turn and take me down my own street. I didn’t know why I was doing it. But I had to just stop for a moment at my own house. We cruised slowly downhill until I saw the lights on in my dad’s library. I told the driver to stop.

  Quiet here under the black acacia. No sound but the lawn sprinkler spinning its shower of light across the dark, glossy grass. Blue-white flicker of a television in my little brother’s upstairs bedroom. A shadow moved against the library shades.

  The panic mellowed out into melancholy, that awful sadness that always came over me when I saw this overgrown corner of the world, the old peeling shingles, dim lamps that meant home.

  No one was going to see me. No one would ever know I’d been here. All the things Martin had said were turning round and round inside me. Not a bad person, Lisa, just a different person, and maybe someday that person would have the courage my father had not merely to live by what he believed, but to talk about it, admit it, challenge the world with it. And maybe when that happened, the pain would stop for reasons that would never be clear. Right now just settle for the fear going away, for the sadness melting, for another private farewell. Elliott was five minutes up the street.

  It was just the kind of house I imagined it would be. One of those little stone cottages with the rounded door and the tower that made it a diminutive castle, hanging on to the edge of a cliff. Garden neglected; chinaberry tree almost blocking the front door; white daisies falling down on the flagstone path.

  Beyond I could see the ink-black water of the bay and the distant skyscrapers of San Francisco rising out of a layer of rose-tinted fog. The two bridges arcing over the darkness, and to the far right the vague outline of the hills of Marin.

  All the familiar things and yet this was so unfamiliar. The real me in the real place. And the real him in there, because the upside-down-bathtub-style Porsche was rammed into the impossibly narrow driveway, and lights were on all over the little house.

  When I touched the knob, the door opened a little.

  Stone floors, big hole of a fireplace in the corner with the fire blazing, a few dim lamps scattered about under the low beam ceilings. And the leaded-glass windows showing the spectacular view of city, water, and night sky.

  Nice place. Beautiful place. Smell of burning wood. Lots and lots of books on the walls.

  And Elliott sitting at the table in the little dining room, with a cigarette on his lip, talking on the phone.

  I pushed the door open just a little wider.

  He was saying something about Kathmandu. That he would probably leave Hong Kong before the end of the week and he wanted a full three days in Kathmandu.

  “Then maybe Tokyo, I don’t know.”

  He had on his bush jacket and a white turtleneck and he was very brown, hair streaked with white, like he’d been swimming and sunning
the whole time we were apart. In fact, I could smell the sun on him almost, and he looked slightly out of place in these dark, wintry rooms.

  “You come up with the assignment, fine,” he was saying. “But if you don’t, I’m going just the same. Call me. You know where I’ll be.” He was loading a camera as best he could, reaching up to steady the phone receiver when it almost slipped. He clicked past the first few frames of exposed film.

  Then he saw me. And he didn’t have time to hide the surprise.

  I tightened my grip on the doorknob as my whole arm started to shake.

  “Yeah, get back to me,” he said, and he hung up the phone. He stood up and he said very softly, “You came.”

  I was shaking all over now. My knees were knocking. And the air from outside felt suddenly cold.

  “Can I come in?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said. Still amazed. He wasn’t even trying to be tough or mean. But then I’d just chased him over two thousand miles. Why should he be, I thought. He was just standing there looking at me, the camera around his neck, as I closed the door. “The place is musty,” he said. “It’s been locked up for a couple of weeks. And the heat’s not working. It’s kind of . . .”

  “Why didn’t you wait for me at The Club?” I asked.

  “Why didn’t you talk to me when you called?” Instant flare of temper. “Why did you talk to Richard instead of me? And then Scott comes in and tells me you called the night before and you were on your way.”

  Red to the roots of his hair.

  “I felt like a goddamn eunuch waiting around there. I didn’t know what I was waiting for.”

  Then the red started to fade a little.

  “Besides, I was finished with The Club,” he said.

  Silence.

  “Aren’t you going to sit down?” he asked.

  “Rather stand,” I said.

  “Well, come in.”