Beggarman, Thief (46 page)

“You’re a bitter, aging woman.” Months of resentment grated in his voice. “What you need is a good fuck. Which nobody is polite enough to give you.”

Gretchen rubbed her eyes before replying. “You’re a talented, unpleasant young man. You will be less unpleasant, and I’m afraid, less talented as you grow older.”

“You don’t have to insult me, Gretchen,” he said.

“In our profession,” Gretchen said, “insults are beside the point. You weary me. And I suppose I weary you, too. Also beside the point. But, my dear Richard—” she touched his cheek lightly, half a caress, half a threat of manicured long nails—“I promise to serve you well. Don’t ask for more. I promise you all the close-ups you can use and all the emotion anybody can stand. The problem with that girl is not too little, it’s too much.”

“You’ve always got an answer to everything,” Sanford said. “I never win an argument with you. Kinsella warned me …”

“How is dear Evans?” Gretchen asked.

“He’s okay.” Sanford shifted his feet uneasily. “He’s asked me to do his next picture.”

“And you’re on your way to Hollywood.”

“Actually … yes.”

“Goody for you,” Gretchen said. “And goody for him. I know you’ll be happy together. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I see my brother waiting to talk to me.”

As Gretchen walked toward Rudolph, he saw Sanford shake his head despairingly. Rudolph was chuckling as Gretchen came up to him.

“What’re you laughing about?” she asked.

“The expression on that young man’s face when you left him,” he said.

Gretchen grimaced. “We were engaging in that most creative of occupations—wounding each other. One picture and he thinks he’s the editor of
Cahiers du Cinéma.
A lost soul. No great tragedy. America is full of one-shot talents. I was worried about you. Where’ve you been all this time?”

Rudolph shook his head. “We’ve run into a holy mess in Connecticut. Donnelly’s ready to slit his throat. The whole project looks as though it’s going to come apart.”

“Why?” Gretchen asked. “What’s happened?”

“Some damned society for the preservation of the environment or something like that is suing us for an injunction to stop us from building,” Rudolph said. “We spent the whole day with lawyers.”

“I thought it was all set,” Gretchen said.

“So did I,” said Rudolph. “Until yesterday. We thought we had bought a tract of abandoned farmland. Now it turns out we have bought a precious piece of Connecticut wilderness, full of rare birds, herds of darling deer, lovely snakes. Three lynx have also been sighted there in recent years. Instead of being semiphilanthropic benefactors of aging humanity, it seems we are grasping city slickers out to pollute the pure air of the sovereign state of Connecticut, besides being the enemy of the lynx.” He shook his head again, half-humorously.

“What do the lawyers say?”

“It will take years, even if we finally win. Donnelly almost wept with remorse when he realized how long our money was going to be tied up.”

“Where is he?” Gretchen asked. “Donnelly?”

“I put him to bed. Dead drunk. He’ll feel even worse tomorrow.”

“I’m so sorry,” Gretchen said.

“The roll of the dice,” said Rudolph. “Don’t let it spoil your big night. Another thing. I got a call from California yesterday. From a man I know, an agent called Bowen.”

“I know him, too,” Gretchen said. “He’s got a good office.”

Rudolph nodded. “He says the word has gotten around about Wesley. He says he can get him a fat contract. If Wesley’s going to continue as an actor he’ll need an agent and Bowen’s as honest as any of them. I have to talk to the young man.”

“He was holding up the bar the last I saw of him,” Gretchen said, “smeared with lipstick.”

“I saw him. I’ll give him some sage, avuncular advice.” Rudolph leaned over and kissed Gretchen on the cheek. “Congratulations for everything. You’ve done a wonderful job. And it isn’t only your brother who thinks so.”

“Things went smoothly. I was afraid it was going to be amateur night from beginning to end.”

“Don’t be so modest, Sister,” Rudolph said and squeezed her hand. “You’re in the major leagues now.”

“We’ll see. Let’s keep our fingers crossed,” Gretchen said, but she couldn’t keep back a pleased smile.

“Now for the young man,” Rudolph said. “Save me a dance for when I’ve finished with him.”

“I haven’t danced in years.”

“Neither have I,” Rudolph said. “I’ll ask the boys to play a waltz.”

Then he went back to the bar, but Wesley was no longer there. The bartender said that he had left five minutes ago.

«  »

Alice was sitting reading in the living room when Wesley got to the apartment. He had stopped at two bars on the way home. The bars had been too dark for anyone to ask him for proof of his age. Walking on the city streets had proved something of a problem, as the sidewalks seemed to be sliding away from him at different angles and he had stumbled twice at the curbs at corners.

“Good evening,” he said gravely to Alice.

“Good evening,” she said. She did not look up from her book. He noticed that the sofa was not made up as usual with sheets and blankets. He had the curious feeling that it was not Alice he was seeing, but a reflection of her in rippling water.

He misjudged the distance when he tried to sit down and just barely made the edge of the chair. He stared intently at Alice, who was still rippling.

“I’m no good,” he said. “You’re wasting your time worrying about me.”

“You’re drunk,” she said. “And I’m not worrying about you.”

“Tomorrow,” he said, his voice sounding strange and faraway in his ears, “I will pay you every cent I owe you and I will de—de—depart.”

“None too soon,” Alice said, still looking down at her book. “I’m sure you’ll be able to find another place to sleep. And don’t talk about money to me. You don’t owe me a cent. What I’ve done for you I didn’t do for money.”

He looked at her, focusing with difficulty. “Do you mind if I say thanks?” he said.

“I mind everything you say,” she said fiercely. “Hollywood bum.”

“I’ve never been to Hollywood. Not even to California,” he said foolishly.

“You and your tarts.” She threw the book to the floor. “What am I reading this damned book for? It’s a terrible book.”

“I thought you were my … well …” He spoke confusedly. “Well—my sister.”

“I’m not your sister.”

He groped for what he wanted to say, feeling his brain and tongue misted over. “You say I die,” he said. “In your book. You want me to be noble and die. You’re asking for too much …”

“Oh, my God,” she said. She rose from her chair and came over to him and took his head into her hands and pressed him to her body. “I’m so sorry. I don’t want you to die, Wesley. You’ve got to believe that.”

“Everybody wants something from me I can’t give,” Wesley said, his mouth muffled against the stuff of her dress. “I don’t know where I am. Tomorrow ask for me in the Lost and Found Department.”

“Please, Wesley,” she whispered, “don’t say things like that.”

“You said once you were stealing a piece of my soul …” He moaned as he spoke. “I hear you typing at night and I say to myself, There goes another bit of my soul.”

“Please, please, Sweet …” She held his head tighter to her as though to keep him from saying another word. “You’re killing me.”

“Everybody shames me.” He pulled his head sidewise, so he could speak. “What I went through tonight … Now you … I haven’t lived up to you, I know that, but …”

“Sssh, sssh, baby,” she crooned.

“I love you,” he said.

She pulled him, hard, against herself. Then, amazingly, she laughed. “Why the hell did it take you so long to say that?” She dropped to her knees and kissed him, briefly. Then she moved her head back so that she could look at him. “Say it again,” she said.

“I love you,” he said.

“You look awful,” she said.

“I
feel
awful. This is the second time in my life I’ve been drank. Excuse me, please, I have to puke.” He stood up, unsteadily, and reeled into the bathroom and there all the whiskey of the night came up. He felt no healthier, still weak and wobbly. He undressed carefully, brushed his teeth for two whole minutes, then took a cold shower. He felt a little better as he dried himself, although when he turned his head he had to do it with great care and his stomach felt as though he had swallowed nails. He put on a robe that Alice had picked out for him and went back, his hair wet, steadying himself with his hand against the wall, into the living room.

The living room was empty and the sofa was still not made up for sleeping.

From the bedroom, he heard Alice’s voice. “I’m in here. You don’t have to find any other place to sleep tonight.”

Still weak and with his head feeling as though a carousel were going around in it, with the calliope playing, he stumbled into the bedroom. There was only one small lamp on and the bedroom was dim, but he saw Alice, still rippling, under the covers of the big bed.

“Come here,” she said. “Get in.”

He started to climb into the bed with his robe still on.

“Take that damned thing off,” she said.

“Turn out the light.” The idea of Alice Larkin, that shy and most ladylike girl, seeing him naked was shocking to him.

She chuckled as she turned the lamp off. He stumbled as he dropped the robe on the floor and he barked his shins against a dressing table as he felt his way to the bed. She was small and her skin soft and fragrant as he put his arms around her, but he still felt terrible.

“I can’t do anything,” he whispered. “I love you and I can’t do anything. You should have told me earlier tonight, before I drank all that booze.”

“I didn’t know earlier,” she said. “No matter.” She kissed his ear as she pulled closer to him. “You’ll be all right in the morning.”

And he was.

CHAPTER 8

F
ROM
B
ILLY
A
BBOTT’S
N
OTEBOOK—

SHE
IS
STILL
HERE.

SHE HASN’T MADE A SIGN THAT SHE KNOWS ME. SHE AND HER FROZEN-FOOD MANUFACTURER FROM DUSSELDORF SPEAK, AS FAR AS I CAN TELL, TO NO ONE. I NEVER SEE THEM WITH ANYONE ELSE. HE PLAYS GOLF EVERY DAY. THEY ARE NOT AT ANY OF THE PARTIES TO WHICH I AM INVITED. I HAVE FOUND OUT THAT SHE IS REGISTERED AT THE HOTEL AS “SENORITA” MONIKA HITZMAN, WHICH WAS NOT HER NAME WHEN I KNEW HER BEFORE. WHEN WE PASS EACH OTHER BY ACCIDENT, WHETHER SHE IS ALONE OR WITH HER FRIEND, WE PASS AS STRANGERS, ALTHOUGH I FEEL A GLACIAL CURRENT OF AIR, VERY MUCH LIKE THE CHILL YOU MIGHT FEEL SAILING PAST AN ICEBERG.

OCCASIONALLY, SOMETIMES ALONE, SOMETIMES WITH HER FRIEND, SHE PASSES BY THE TENNIS COURTS. MORE OFTEN THAN NOT SHE STOPS FOR A MOMENT OR TWO TO WATCH THE SPORT, AS DO MANY OTHER OF THE GUESTS.

MY GAME IS DETERIORATING DAILY.

THERE IS ANOTHER COMPLICATION. I AM BEING WOOED, IF THAT IS THE WORD, BY A YOUNG SPANISH GIRL, BY NAME CARMEN (IS THERE NO ESCAPING THAT MELODIC ECHO?) FROM BARCELONA, WHO PLAYS A FIERCE, TIRELESS GAME OF TENNIS, AND WHOSE FATHER, I HAVE LEARNED, WAS IN A HIGH POSITION IN THE FRANCO GOVERNMENT IN BARCELONA. HE IS SOMETIMES WITH HER AND SOMETIMES NOT, AN ERECT, GRAY-HAIRED GENTLEMAN, WITH AN UNFORGIVING FACE.

HIS DAUGHTER IS TWENTY YEARS OLD, WITH DANGEROUS DARK EYES, BLOND HAIR AND A TIGERISH MANNER OF MOVING, OFF THE COURT AND ON, AS THOUGH SHE FEELS IT INCUMBENT UPON HER TO LIVE UP TO THE LIBRETTO OF THE OPERA. SHE EXTENDS ME IN SINGLES. SHE ALSO FINDS OPPORTUNITIES TO OFFER ME A DRINK WHEN WE HAVE FINISHED PLAYING OR AT OTHER MOMENTS, AND ENTRUSTS ME WITH CONFIDENCES THAT I DO NOT WISH TO HEAR. SHE HAS BEEN TO SCHOOL IN ENGLAND AND SPEAKS THE LANGUAGE WELL, ALTHOUGH WITH A STRONG ACCENT. WITH HER I RETREAT INTO MY STUPID ATHLETE ROLE, ALTHOUGH SHE SAYS SHE SEES THROUGH ME, WHICH I’M AFRAID SHE DOES. AMONG THE THINGS SHE HAS TOLD ME IS THAT HER FATHER, ALTHOUGH CATALAN, FOUGHT IN FRANCO’S ARMIES, AND HAS THE OUTLOOK ON LIFE OF THE CAPTAINS OF FERDINAND AND ISABELLA WHO DROVE THE MOORS AND THE JEWS FROM SPAIN. SHE INFURIATES HER FATHER BY SPEAKING CATALAN TO HIM AND SHE LOVES HIM PROFOUNDLY. SHE WILL NOT BE HAPPY, SHE SAYS, UNTIL THE CATALONIAN FLAG FLIES OVER BARCELONA AND THE POETS OF WHAT SHE CALLS HER COUNTRY WRITE IN THAT LANGUAGE. SHE AND MONIKA, WHO ALSO SETS STORE ON THE LINGUISTIC DIVISION OF EUROPE, WOULD HAVE A GREAT DEAL TO SAY TO EACH OTHER, ALTHOUGH I DOUBT THAT CARMEN HAS AS YET THROWN HER FIRST BOMB. SHE DISTRIBUTES PAMPHLETS THAT MAY OR MAY NOT BE AGAINST THE LAW. SHE HAS A MARVELOUS, LITHE BODY AND I DO NOT KNOW HOW LONG I CAN CONTINUE TO RESIST HER, ALTHOUGH I FEAR HER FATHER, WHO WHEN HE LOOKS AT ME, WHICH IS SELDOM, DOES SO WITH THE COLDEST SUSPICION. CARMEN TELLS ME HE LOOKS AT ALL FOREIGNERS, ESPECIALLY AMERICANS, WITH THE SAME SUSPICION, BUT I CANNOT HELP BUT FEEL THAT THERE IS A REPUGNANCE THERE THAT IS NOT PURELY CHAUVINISTIC.