by Morris West
“I promise you it will be a good dinner.”
“I never doubted that.” She gave me a long speculative look and a small crooked grin. “I know you’re playing some kind of game with me—or with yourself perhaps. I can’t quite figure what the rules are.”
“There are no rules. I don’t have the right to make them, for you or for anyone else. I accept what is at face value until it’s necessary to know more.”
“When you were drawing the Can Grande sculpture, when you were sketching me a moment ago, you were questioning every stroke before you made it.”
“I look at a watch to know the time. Unless I’m a watchmaker, I don’t have to count the pieces and put them together. Right now, Ellie, my love, I have a great need to be very simple. I don’t want to waste time raking over the past or predicting the future. Enough that you are an agreeable and beautiful woman, sitting at this table with me. I see you, feel you, smell you. God damn it, I’ve just made an image of you which you can pass on to your children. But I do need to know your last name after all, because I have to make a reservation at the hotel and it has to match the name on your passport.”
“I thought you’d never ask. It’s Milland. Eight-thirty at the Due Torri, check?”
“Check.”
She got up, came swiftly around the table, kissed me, and left without another word. I knew I was committing myself to a folly, but in the floating world follies are like petals scattered on the water. The moment they fall, the current carries them away.
When I got back to the hotel I went immediately to reception. I told them an old friend, a lady, had just come into town. She was staying at a quite unsuitable hotel. I had invited her to transfer to the Due Torri. Could they offer her a room, preferably on my floor? After a brief interval, they decided that, yes, it would be possible. I took the room and asked them to put the charges on my account. With that good news in hand they were able to tell me what I knew already, that the room adjoining my suite was vacant and that housekeeping would prepare it for immediate occupancy.
I asked them to send up flowers and champagne in time for an eight-thirty arrival; then I rode upstairs to prepare myself for the happy event.
8
AS USUAL, WHEN I MADE my evening calls, I spoke to my father first. He sounded weary and indifferent. He asked where I was. I told him. Without waiting for the rest of my story, he said, “It’s over, Carl. It’s not worth spending any more time or money. To hell with Larry. Go back to France and get on with your life.”
“What’s happened, for God’s sake?”
“I’ve got two letters in front of me. One is addressed to me, the other is a photocopy of what Madi received this morning. Both were sent by courier from Rome. Both are in Larry’s handwriting. There is no doubt about their authenticity. This is his letter to me:
“Dear Mr. Strassberger,
“This is a farewell letter. It is written with much respect. I trust you will believe that. Tonight I begin what I know will be a very different life and, I pray vainly, a happier one. I know that my abrupt departure from New York has caused everybody a great deal of concern. I was insulted when you decided, as a very first step, to audit my dealings in Paris. With hindsight I recognize that it was completely in character. You were always a faithful custodian of your clients’ interests. I hope you will now concede that I was a faithful custodian of yours and that I have left Strassberger somewhat richer than before. For this you owe me nothing. There are no debts outstanding between us.
“I have, however, one request. I have written today to Madi asking her to divorce me. She has ample cause. There will be no dispute on my part over property or the custody of the children. I love them but I know they will be safer and better off in Strassberger care than in mine. My only hope is that no bitterness will be injected into their memory of their father. I desire—indeed, I beg you, to advise Madi to start divorce proceedings as soon as possible. It is better for everyone to cut clean. This is what I failed to do in the first place.
“My sincere respects to you and to your wife,
Larry
“P. S. It has been suggested that you might send Carl to pick up my tracks and coax me home. Don’t bother. He’d be wasting his time. I like him but I’ve got more street smarts than he has and my finger is always on the quick-release button.”
My father did not pause after the reading. I heard the rustle of paper as he picked up the next page and continued with a monotone recitation of Larry’s letter to Madi.
“My dear Madi,
“I started this letter full of bitterness and anger, but now the bitterness has all boiled away and the stew of emotions in which I have lived for too long lies dry and burnt at the bottom of the pot.
“Our marriage is a mess because I’m a mess. I have to live with me, but you don’t and our children don’t. Whatever love you have left for me—and there can’t be much after all this—spend it on them. Let them have good memories of their father, who in his own crazy fashion loved them and still loves them. Just don’t encourage them to believe that I’m coming back. I’m not. I’m leaving here tonight for a place where I propose to live as merrily as I can and die when I get too bored to bear it.
“I only wish I could have made a better exit from your life. That’s the sort of thing I’ve always fouled up. I can’t help it when the black devils take over. You Strassbergers are different. You’ve all been trained—quite ruthlessly trained, I may add—to exhibit grace under pressure. I’m the opposite: no training, no grace. The moment the pressure’s on I explode or deflate. Either way, I’m no fit company for civilized folk. All I can say is that my life from now on has to be a private experience. I can’t risk the agonies of trying to share it. I tried to write to Alma Levy but I couldn’t do it. Just show her this letter and ask her to try to make sense of it for you.
“I wish I could say I love you but I know it would sound like a mockery and it isn’t. It’s just that I don’t feel anything anymore. I’m like the man who lost his shadow. Until it happens to you there’s no way to understand it, no way to describe it. Just file the papers, Madi. Get me out of your lives. Make it fast. The sooner and the cleaner it’s done, the better for us all. You know I’ve always hated long good-byes.
Larry.”
My father’s voice broke a little as he read the last words. He recovered enough to add a terse postscript of his own.
“I’ve seen Madi. I’ve told her she should do exactly what Larry asks. She told me she wanted to talk to Dr. Levy first.”
“Before you hand out any further advice, Father, I want you to do something for me. Fax a copy of each letter, together with the name of the courier and the time of collection in Rome, to Sergio Carlino at the Corsec office in Milan. Please do that as soon as you get off the line.”
“I’ll do it, of course. However, my view is that you should back out now.”
“I’m not at all sure of that.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t like the idea that we take our sailing directions from a sick man. Look at it another way: We’ve got a lot of money out on our deal with Corsec, on all the arrangements I’ve made and you’ve made for me. Nobody’s going to hand that back to us. I’d like to see some results—I’d like at least to know where Larry is headed and what he’s going to do when he gets there. Remember he knows everything there is to know about Strassberger, its organization and its activities. He holds a substantial parcel of voting stock. We have to keep tabs on him. As far as Madi is concerned, she’ll have to make her own decisions and she has Alma Levy to help her. The family, you especially, shouldn’t intrude. Just listen and offer comfort.”
“Meantime, what will you do?”
“I’m here in Verona, painting and amusing myself until Sergio Carlino can point me to Larry’s destination.”
“Well, I’ve told you what I think.”
“You have, Father. I’ve taken it under advisement.”
“Will you talk to M
adi?”
“In due course, yes.”
“You know, Carl, I feel very angry about this man. He’s caused us all so much grief.”
“I know. You should step back now from the whole affair and let me deal with the rest of it. Give my love to Mother, and remember I love you too.”
“It helps to know that, son. Keep in touch.”
My next call was to Alma Levy. Madi had just left her office. She had read Larry’s letters. Somewhat to my surprise she had advised Madi to begin divorce proceedings. Her reasoning was simple and practical. Larry was out of contact. The action would take time. It would, however, serve to define Madi’s own position and affirm her liberty to act. For me, Alma Levy had other counsel.
“The letters are mirror writing, Carl. Everything is the reverse of what it seems. The letters are a cry for help but he puts himself beyond help. He is desperately afraid yet he becomes destructive and burns the bridges he needs for his return. He affects to despise you because you are not smart enough to find him, but he hopes against hope that you will not abandon the search even when he makes it more difficult—as he will.”
“Frankly, my dear Alma, I’d like to break his damn neck.”
“That’s exactly what he wants, Carl.” There was real humor in her laugh. “He wants to know that you are strong enough to subdue not Larry Lucas but the demons who plague him. He’s challenging you to combat. If you don’t answer the challenge, he is left a battered clown, flailing in an empty ring. The moment that happens he’ll kill himself.”
“Why has he written to Madi and my father and not to you?”
“The mirror writing again. It is precisely because he knows that I can treat him, because he knows he cannot bluff me, because I am the last anchor to his self-respect. Therefore—this is the mad logic of his life—therefore he will not face me.”
“If you were prepared to travel, Doctor, once I know where he is I could arrange—”
“Impossible, I’m afraid.” She was very firm. “I have many others who depend on me. I cannot leave the many for the one.”
“I understand. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Try to understand something else, too. If I were talking to Larry at this moment I would be giving him the same message: ‘If you need me you must walk toward me.’”
“But you’re telling me exactly the opposite. You’re urging me to keep up the search.”
“Because that’s your role, Carl. You are the messenger. You carry the news of available salvation.”
“Don’t they sometimes shoot the messenger?”
“Sometimes they do,” said Alma Levy somberly. “It’s a thankless job at best.”
I had two more calls to make. The first was to Carlino in Milan to tell him to expect faxed copies of Larry’s farewell letters. The date of their writing and Larry’s small slip of the pen—I leave tonight—might help to narrow the area of our final search. Flight schedules from Fiumicino Airport for the night in question would at least define the range of destinations. Carlino, condescending as ever, gave me a qualified approval. “You’re a clever fellow, my friend. If you were a little younger I’d recruit you into the company. Now tell me, what are you doing with yourself?”
“I’m entertaining a lady.”
“A Veronese lady?” I could almost see his eyebrows lift as he asked the question.
“No, an American. An academic.”
“Always an interesting choice. Study is an isolating occupation. We all chafe under the discipline and welcome a lover’s soothing hands. I wish you luck. What are your movements in case we want to get in touch with you?”
“I’ll keep this hotel as my base. During the day I’m going to be out and about in the countryside between here and Venice.”
“With the lady?”
“Possibly.”
“If you decide to change location, don’t fail to let me know. Meantime, enjoy yourself. Let me worry about our wandering friend.”
I told him I would take his advice and I meant it. Like my father, I found no joy in the thought of Larry leading me around the world like the Pied Piper. My motives for continuing the search were very mixed. Some indeed were trivial. I hated the jibe that I didn’t have enough street smarts to find the bastard. We had spent an unconscionable amount of effort and money on him; I wanted to see some return, however illusory. Added to that, I had to admit a sneaking sympathy for his plight—a fragile psyche chained to the millstone of money and commerce as I had once been. I had escaped without scars. He was harried by other demons as well.
I called Vianney in Paris. I wanted to get his reading on another phrase of Larry’s in his letter to my father: It has been suggested that you might get Carl to pick up my tracks and coax me home.
“We know that Larry was in Paris just before my arrival,” I said. “We know that he was staying with Liliane Prévost from the Simonetta Agency. We know that he had at least one contact with Claudine Parmentier during the same period. Claudine is now the acknowledged lover of Liliane Prévost. Question one: Did she tell Larry of my impending arrival? Question two, much more important: Has Claudine fed any more information to Liliane Prévost since my departure? I have a note in which she swears that she has not given away any company secrets; however, she has lied before. Is she lying now? If she is, I could be in deep trouble.”
“I see that.” Vianney was his usual reluctant self. “I don’t see how I can approach the question at all. If Claudine is lying, she’ll lie again. If she’s telling the truth, then she’s insulted and we lose a very good member of the staff. However, let me give it some thought. How are things with you?”
“Well enough. I’m waiting on the results of some current investigations.”
“Then you musn’t tell me what they are. I would not wish to fall under suspicion of leaking information.”
“Vianney, you’re a good banker, but really you are a horse’s ass! Good night.”
And that, it seemed to me, was enough for one day. I had been nursing the thought that I should call Arlette. Then I had a second thought. I didn’t want to lie to her, but I most certainly did not want to account to her for my nights and days with another woman in the Veneto.
That decision, I told myself, was a liberating act. I was not required to hang suspended between dome and pavement like the prophet in his coffin while Arlette made up her mind about marrying me. As far as Larry was concerned, the family had released me from my obligations. My continued acceptance of them was the free act of a free man. I had paid out money and effort. I had appointed a competent delegate in the person of Sergio Carlino. Until he summoned me why not enjoy myself? When I looked into the bathroom mirror, I saw the clear eyes of a just man—and a stubbled face that almost, but not quite, made me lose courage over the project to grow a beard. Once again, my liberated conscience assured me that it was my face, my beard. I could manage them any way I chose. A wave of elation took hold of me and lifted me high. I was surprised to find myself in quite tolerable voice singing in the shower the triumphant finale of Nessun dorma: At dawn I shall triumph.
In point of fact, I did not have to wait until dawn for my triumph. Punctually at eight-thirty Ellie Milland arrived, with a suitcase and hand luggage and the clear intention of installing herself with me at the Due Torri. She was dressed with understated art: a black cocktail dress with an old-fashioned cameo brooch pinned to the breast, a gold bracelet, and a bezel ring, both in the old Florentine style. Her dark hair was bound by a narrow filet of black velvet from the center of which a small gold ornament gleamed in the light. She looked good and she knew it. She made me feel good and she knew that too. This was no longer the boisterous hoyden from Pantalone. This was a very assured woman who was prepared to ritz it with the best at the ritziest hotel Verona offered.
She signed in at the desk. We had the luggage sent up to the room and went straight into the bar to drink champagne before dinner. There was no hurry now. This was only the prelude to the mating ritual, t
he slow pavane to let the lovers display themselves before they sat together at table, long, long before they retired to their bedchamber.
We were partway through the champagne when Ellie remarked, “You were right about this place. It does impose itself upon you; but I feel we fit, don’t you, Mr. Benson?”
“We most certainly do, Ms. Milland.”
“It must cost the earth to stay here.”
“It does—and a slice of the moon as well.”
“Well, I’m prepared to enjoy it as long as your money holds out.”
“I assure you it will, but if it doesn’t we can always take to the road.”
“That’s fine with me too.” She reached out to touch my cheek in a caress, then withdrew her hand swiftly. “You haven’t shaved.”
“I’ve decided to grow a beard. My barber gave it the first shaping this morning. He tells me it will be very handsome—like a Venetian doge. He also told me that in the old days Verona signed on as a vassal with the Venetian Republic and thus guaranteed herself prosperity and protection.”
“What’s that got to do with growing a beard?”
“Nothing, I guess. The history’s recorded fact. The beard is still my whim.”
“Won’t it be uncomfortable?”
“For me, a little in the beginning. For you, I hope not. There’s an old saying: ‘A kiss without a beard is like an egg without salt.’ In any case, I thought it would make a more interesting self-portrait.”
“Come to think of it”—she drew back a little to study me—“come to think of it, yes, it might. I’ll suspend judgment for a few days and see how the growth turns out.”
I raised my glass to offer the toast.
“Let’s drink to the next few days.”
“Let them be happy ones,” said Ellie Milland.
“They will be. I promise.”
Which was, of course, a foolish and presumptuous thing to say. The old Romans had a couple of warnings on the subject. The milder one was simply that the gods might have something else in mind. The more fearful was that when the gods wanted to destroy someone, they first sent him mad. Of course, when you’re drinking champagne with a lively and willing companion, such warnings sound faint and far away, if indeed you hear them at all.
