Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (60 page)

“But he’s such a
child.
Uptight, wouldn’t you say?”

“Definitely.”

Steve was roaming. “See this?” he said. “A Coromandel screen. Look at these Tang dynasty vases. There’s a fortune in this room. I wonder — ”

There was suddenly the sound of approaching footsteps. The man who came through the doorway, hand outstretched, was of medium height but with a large, senatorial head whose brow was massive, and the thick hair that sprang from it added to its impression of bigness. He was probably in his late fifties, and graying. His nose was aquiline and his lips thin, but his eyes were alert and soft in their expression. He was almost ugly, but his magnetism was immediately apparent. He was the kind of man of whom women would say, “He has something. I’m not sure what … but my God, it’s
there.
”

That, in fact, was Kelly’s instant impression. That this man, in spite of his lack of beauty, was in some strange way enormously interesting … and attractive.

“So these are Richard’s friends,” he said. “This is
such
a pleasure. I just said good-night to the boy. Obviously he had a delightful time with you. I can’t thank you enough for your thoughtfulness and generosity. I’m Richard’s uncle, Constant Comstock.” He was all charm. “You’re Kelly? I’ve heard a great deal about you. And Steve? You must forgive me. Richard only mentioned first names.”

He sat them down. “But it doesn’t matter, does it? Why, that boy thinks the world of both of you.” He pulled a cord and the little Spanish maid came into the room. “Maria, please. Something for us to drink.”

The tiny little girl went out again, quietly.

“I understand you went to Botin’s,” Constant Comstock said. “Richard admitted that he wolfed down a huge dinner. How nice of you!”

“We enjoyed it,” Steve said.

“But isn’t he an interesting child? I think he’s rather unusual. It means a great deal to me, you know, to have my nephew here. You see, I’ve no children of my own. My son was a victim of osteomyelitis. Donald died when he was only eight.”

He smiled painfully. “There were no more. So I suppose you can understand how precious my brother’s son is to me.”

The little maidservant came in again, this time with a tray of liqueurs. “Oh, no,” Kelly said, but her host insisted on pouring out some brandy for her. “You’ll have scotch?” he said to Steve, who said that would be just fine. When the girl went out again there was a short but faintly uneasy silence. Kelly put an end to it. “You have a wonderful library,” she said quickly.

“Yes. Do you like books?”

“Of course.”

“So do I. They mean … oh, sometimes I think almost everything.” His face came alive. “Words … they’re deathless as long as libraries exist. Only the extinction of an entire civilization can blot them out forever.”

He got up. “That’s why I love this room,” he said. “Well, for an example.” He went over to the shelves and, at random, pulled out a slim volume.

Coming back to them, he held out the book, tapping his fingers on its cover.

“I made a haphazard choice,” he said, smiling. “I see that I’ve picked a book of letters from sweethearts whose lives were far from tranquil.” He held the book out. “Communications from Heloise to Abelard,” he said. “Beautiful letters from agonized souls. Those two lustful, gifted human beings, whom life treated so shabbily. I adore them; I love the color of their time, all scarlet and gold. Their romance is one of the most potent love stories imaginable. Deeply physical, sensual and wildly abandoned, it was far from simply an engagement of the senses even from its beginning. Two marvellous minds came together by the merest accident and flamed into a passion that lit an imperishable blaze.”

He sat down, holding the book in his hands as if he never wanted to let it go. “The letters of Heloise to Abelard,” he said softly, “are a priceless legacy. The steadfast communion of these two fabled human beings from another time has stayed alive, an almost tangible thing, through the eight centuries that followed their span on earth.”

He opened the book, leafed through it, and then closed it again. When he spoke once more his voice was even more hushed. “Separated in life by an obscene and senseless act of violence, this man and woman of the Moyen Age — no longer even dust — have remained joined in the annals of history and literature, their names forever united, a shining testimony to the transcendental power of love.”

There was silence in the room. The light was fitful, coming from only one or two lamps. Shadows leaned across the carpet. There was no sound from beyond.

Then, astonishingly, Constant Comstock laughed. “I get carried away,” he apologized. “You see, I’m a romantic, in love with history and the thrilling events of the past.”

He laughed again. “You’ll think me an eccentric. But I am!”

Steve said, “I wonder if that
extinction
of an entire civilization will come … one of these days.”

“No.”

“You don’t think it will?”

“It won’t.” The voice was flat, authoritative. “I promise you that. Beauty and truth will be preserved. Forever. I know it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I know. Because there are those of us who care so deeply about beauty, and the preservation of beauty, that they will do anything,
anything
, to check the advance of the barbarians.”

“Well, good,” Steve said, and Constant Comstock laughed again, looked delighted. “You’re someone I like very much,” he said, and apologized again. “Yes, I’m afraid I have a tendency to pontificate. Forgive me, this is not parlor talk. Tell me, have you been to Madrid before?”

“No.”

“And you?” He looked at Kelly.

“I’ve been just about everywhere,” she said. “I’m an airline employee. I’ve been working for ITA for four years and I know almost every corner of the globe.”

“Wonderful.” He turned to Steve again. “And you, sir?”

“The reason I bypassed Spain was political.”

“But why now?”

“Because Spain was here long before Franco. As Germany and Austria were before the Anschluss. So you grow up a little.”

“Yes, you do. I remember a time when I swore I’d never set foot on German soil. I got over it. One of the best fortnights I ever had was on a Rhine journey. And I never once thought of Hitler or the Storm Troopers.”

“Sic transit,” Steve murmured.

“Yes, sic transit. Well, I must say, I’m enjoying your company. And I hope, Mr. Connaught, that you will come to like this city. Of course it’s not old. That is, in its present state. Like Lisbon, it’s a modern metropolis. Why, today’s Madrid is younger than St. Petersburg, Florida. It’s younger than Boston.”

“I didn’t realize that,” Kelly said.

“After all, this city was merely established as a bulkhead, in the form of a fortress to Toledo, and it wasn’t until the sixteenth century that Philip the Second founded what was then a village as its capital. Compared to the eighth and ninth century cities, that’s today’s times.”

He leaned forward to light a cigarette for Kelly, pushed an ashtray toward her. “And yet,” he said, “there’s something extraordinarily old-world about Madrid. To me, it’s an exquisite city, with an ancient look. Go to the Plaza Mayor and you’ll see a sign reading Canada. It means sheepwalk. Sheepwalks, here in Madrid and elsewhere, were established by royal decree centuries ago. And the law has never been countermanded. Sheep may legally be driven through the city, that is, if they keep to the official route.”

It was obvious that Constant Comstock was playing to the galleries. Also that he was very aware of his young female guest; he was playing to her in particular. His eyes flattered her, told her she was a desirable creature. This was a man who liked women, as he liked admiration and respect. Yet he didn’t sound unpleasantly pompous. He was learned, worldly and suave. Any woman of whatever age would respond to a man like this. No wonder he had shed a first wife for a second. Possibly there would be a third wife … and a fourth.

And then Steve got up, signaling Kelly with his eyes, after perhaps an hour’s conversation. “We mustn’t keep you any longer,” he said. “I’ve enjoyed this, but it’s getting late.”

“I’ve enjoyed it too.”

“Thanks for the drinks.”

“My thanks to you. For taking my nephew out on the town.”

“It was our pleasure.”

“Perhaps. But I would like to reciprocate. I mean, for my own sake. I want you to meet my wife. Won’t you take dinner with us tomorrow evening?”

The question was addressed mainly to Kelly.

“That’s very nice, but — ”

“That is, if it would be convenient for you.”

She glanced up at Steve.

“It sounds fine,” he said.

And so Steve accepted for both of them. “My wife will be very pleased,” Comstock said. “Shall we make it at, let’s say, eight o’clock?”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it. I’m sorry you have to leave now. It really isn’t very late, is it?”

“I’ve been doing some asking around,” Steve said. “There’s a place with flamenco dancing. In the old quarter. The Corral de la Moreria. I thought I’d like to take Miss Jones there to finish off the evening.”

“A good place,” their host said approvingly. “I think you’ll like it. It’s quite authentic.”

He saw them to the door. “Have fun.”

“Good night.”

They went out again into the scented courtyard and a few steps away Steve latched on to a cab. He never asked Kelly if she was willing to go; he simply arranged everything and she went along with his plans.

He was that kind of man.

The Corral was a cellar dive, dark, candle-lit, with a faintly musty smell. They were given a table in the corner, where there was privacy, a little enclave of quiet in the noisy room. “How’s this?” Steve asked.

“Wonderful.”

“Would you rather have done something else?”

“No. This is nice, Steve.”

“There’s something fascinating about a country that comes alive only in the night hours,” he said, and they watched the dancing. The flounced, tiered skirts of the woman flared and swirled. The male performer, lithe and slim-hipped, his high heels stamping, circled his partner in a primitive dance of lust.

It was wild, elemental, almost unbearably exciting.
“Ole,”
the spectators murmured at a particularly intricate turn or twist, and at the end, as the spotlights played dazzlingly over the dancers, they shouted, some getting to their feet.
“Brava … bravo … brava …”

They left after an hour. In the taxi on the way back to the hotel, Steve said he was sorry if she was tired, but that he was too. “Yet there will never be a day much better than this one,” he told her, and took her hand. He held it for a moment, then raised it to his lips. In a man like that, who looked so hard and self-sustaining, the unexpected gentleness of his mouth on the back of her hand was like a blessing. He could have grabbed her, kissed her, asked for something. But he didn’t.

The elevator shuddered to a stop at her floor.

“Good night,” Steve said. “Sleep well.”

“You too.”

She got out and the elevator door closed. She went to her room and the beat of the Catalan music was still in her heart and mind. I had a nice day, she thought and, exhausted, got into bed.

He could have done a selling job, she thought, and I might have given in. But he hadn’t. She fell asleep thinking of his mouth, and the hard jut of his jaw.

A man named Steve …

The sunlight pricked through the blinds. The telephone was ringing. I don’t have to answer that, Kelly told herself, but she sprang out of bed.

It wasn’t Steve. It was Richard.

“Did I call too early?” he asked.

“I don’t even know what time it is.”

“Oh, then I woke you up.”

“It doesn’t matter. I had to get up anyway, to answer the phone.”

“Oh.” Then he burst out laughing. “Ha ha,” he said. “That’s a good one.” And he laughed some more.

“What is it you want, Richard?”

“Oh. It’s just that … nobody said anything about today. Does that mean I’m on my own from now on?”

“What are you talking about?”

She was irritable. She had hoped to hear that dark voice, that hard, cool voice. I wanted it to be Steve, she thought.

“Oh, nothing,” he said quickly. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry if I’m getting in your hair, Kelly.”

Instantly contrite, she apologized. “Honey, it’s not that. I was up very late last night, that’s all.”

“Okay, good-bye.”

“Just a minute, Richard.” He sounded so woebegone, so abandoned. “Listen, do you want to do some sightseeing today? I’d be glad to take you.”

“Super,” he said, relieved, “Is Steve coming too?”

“Steve? I have no idea.”

“Oh,” he said, surprised. “I thought you were a couple.”

She turned on her back and laughed. “Richard, I just — ”

“In fact, I thought we were a trio. You know, like Athos, Porthos and — ”

“We’ll see. But for now, I’d like to get a little more shut-eye. I’ll call you back in an hour. I promise.”

“Groovy. I’ll show you around this crazy house. It’s spooky. I can find my way now, but at first — ”

“Good-bye, Richard. In an hour,” she said, and hung up the phone.

She was just drifting off to sleep again when the phone rang once more.

“Damn and double damn,” she muttered, but raced for it just the same. This time it was Steve.

“Had breakfast?”

“No.”

“Neither have I. Let’s have it out on the terrace.”

“All right.”

“Tennish? Then we can go places and see things. The sheepwalks and all that.”

“That sounds nice. Except that I’m obligated again.”

“Richard?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I’m to call him back in an hour, and then I guess I’ll have to make a stop off at his uncle’s house.”

“So what? See you at ten o’clock. Ask for Steve Connaught’s table.”

He rang off and she got into bed again. But only for a moment. Better get up, she thought. Look your best. You might never meet a man like that again.

• • •

It was when she opened a drawer in the heavy Spanish chest that she knew someone had been in her room. Why? Because, used as she was to traveling light and neat, half in and half out of suitcases, she was meticulous about every item. And her lingerie was always arranged just so; for example, slips to the right, nightwear to the left, and in the center bras and pantyhose.