I'm Dying Laughing (47 page)

The three of them sat down to work out a list of interesting people who would not talk about the food situation, nor had suffered in the Resistance. They were all laughing, Stephen insisted gaily, ‘And not a single poor person, not a single honest person, no one who is suffering because he is honest or dumb. When I’m with the lousy corrupt subsidized rich and other such depraved humans, I feel safer, they’re not criticizing me and I can think, I’m better than you, or at least, not worse.’

‘Stephen, Stephen! You’re loyal and pure. You know that.’

‘Oh, to hell with that. You and Suzanne work out a list of lively, likely, lousy coots in your French lesson and I’ll go and do some work. And remember that Uncle Maurice and Mamma will probably be in on this party. So do some modest high-stepping, too.’

In his room, Stephen began the calculations, which he did daily, weekly, monthly, yearly: what Emily had earned, his allowances and advance, and all the rest. He also consulted his expectations: tickets in the French lottery, the French sweepstake, a ticket in the Belgian lottery got for him regularly by Monsieur Wauters, and the Swiss lottery, a full ticket of five Swiss francs got from Monsieur Savany. He bought a full ticket in each lottery and when there were special lotteries as at Easter, in France, he bought the expensive or double ticket. His own money was in family property, respectable industrials and a few warbonds. He also ran the accounts and investments for the two rich children living with him. He was appalled at the amounts they had already spent, were now spending.

P
REPARING FOR HIS MOTHER’S
arrival, Stephen spent the whole afternoon and evening casting up their accounts, and several times was on the point of calling off their ‘Evening in Cold War Society’ which he himself had proposed. Yet he thought that his mother would like this company, that he had better get a job in Europe, say correspondent; and for this he had better move in the best circles. When he came down after the children were in bed and Christy was upstairs studying his Latin and ancient history, Suzanne was just leaving and Emily was full of beans.

The list for the reception now lay on the table. She had something to tell him about Christy. She was bubbling for a reason he did not yet know. She had asked Suzanne many questions about Vittorio. They had both agreed that it would be safe to ask such a polished, keen man to meet Anna Howard. Needless to say, by now, Suzanne knew all their affairs.

Emily said, ‘At least you can write to dear Anna about this lot. These are the
crème de la crème
of cold war society and she will see you are living like the very parfitt
bourgeois gentilhomme
?’

‘Don’t you know he was absurd, the
bourgeois gentilhomme
?’

‘Oh, what does it matter? We’re absurd.’

Stephen saw Suzanne across the courtyard and came back to have coffee with Emily. He was sulky because of the accounts, because of the
bourgeois gentilhomme,
and he pushed the list of guests aside crossly.

‘What I want to know is not their names, but what is the cost; and what profit any damn one of them is going to give us. What do we expect to get out of it?’

However, in the inevitable way of their parties, the lists were checked and rechecked, invitations were telephoned and written. As well as Wauters and Vittorio, they had asked the Communist Party chiefs, whom they did not know but for whom they had been angling. Emily had not spoken to Vittorio about it, but expected them. Stephen counted upon the ‘Resistance types’ as refusers.

Stephen said irritably to Suzanne the next day, ‘But how can Wauters himself meet the “Enemies of the People Union?”

Suzanne smiled, ‘Well, aren’t you meeting them? You will be surprised at the number of “Resistance types” you will meet at parties. You didn’t have to wear a torn shirt to be in the Resistance.’

‘Of course,’ thought Stephen, looking at Emily hastily. Of course, Emily had already told everything to Suzanne; for instance that he called them ‘Resistance types’. He groaned.

‘You will be surprised,’ said Suzanne sardonically.

She had gradually, and now suddenly, acquired power over them. For instance, Emily had in principle agreed, yesterday, to the following: Madame Suzanne was to move from her mean room and take an apartment, in which apartment she would accommodate Christy, who was to have study, bedroom, bath of his own. Suzanne was to have her own living-room, bedroom and bath as well as kitchen; and if he could not have separate bath, Christy would use the one bathroom. Suzanne would supervise him, feed him, teach him, see that he led the life of a French youth of his age, not too free, not too circumscribed. Christy himself, now that he was reaching eighteen, would pay for all this. It was a fine arrangement for Suzanne. She promised that she would find the necessary accommodation within a week. It could be unfurnished; Christy would buy his own furniture, the Howards would advance her the money for hers. Stephen, anxious to have Christy settled when his mother arrived, accepted this entire arrangement with little cavilling. It suited Christy very well too. Stephen had a talk with his foster-son about his responsibilities now that he was about to come into his first inheritance. Christy, never exorbitant, was rejoiced to hear that as a rich youth he had duties to society and to his family and his own fortune and at once said that he would keep accounts and save money. In fact, he showed a small savings account which he had started as soon as he came to France. His question was only, whether it was better to walk and save bus-fares; or ride and save shoe-leather. Stephen said privately to Emily, ‘My God, Emily: he’s the dead spit and image of his grandfather John Tanner. The same ways. He’ll starve to death at eighty-five.’

‘Goody, dear Anna will like that. Let’s get him settled in with Suzanne as soon as ever we can,’ said Emily.

Stephen said, ‘You’re looking very well!’

‘Oh, the weather’s wonderful and I feel I can work. The work’s going well.’

‘Have you done any work for a week? Haven’t you been spending your time on the books Vittorio told you to read and working up that damned
L’Enfermé
? There’s not a cent in it.’

‘Oh, Stephen! It makes me so happy. I feel simply rosy.’

‘We have children. We can’t afford to be rosy. Do you know how much we have made since we got here? The money for your last book was spent coming over here; and we didn’t pay over two thousand dollars in outstanding debts over there, on the grounds, our credit is good. Since we came here, another two thousand dollars, say, in unpaid debts, our credit still being good; thank God for the Howards’ reputation; and your book has run into another edition but we won’t collect for six months—well maybe we can, but spent is spent and when it’s spent, we’re bone dry, unless they take it for Broadway. Of course, we’ve got old Doc Hack working on it. Besides this, there’s the promise of five hundred dollars for one story for
The Gothamite,
but you’re obliged to take out anything about your uncle Henry since he was a Henry George addict and who knows what that is? And just leave in the hens and the neighbours’ cats; and maybe a thousand dollars for two articles on Paris 1948 for
American Summer
; no promises and they’ve taken just one so far.’

Emily said huskily, turning a cheerful, red face, ‘It’s very promising. When you think we’re exiles and our name stinks, it’s wonderful. That’s a wonderful in, the
American
Summer series about Europe. We’ll make them an offer. We’ll travel around, do Europe, go to Belgium, I’m longing to go to Belgium to taste those 107 ways of doing mussels and everything Mernie Wauters tells me is good to eat. Ledane and everyone says the food is superb. And who knows? It’s a revelation. Little Belgium. Fancy! Then there’s Switzerland, they’ve never even seen the war, the food must be good and there are the mountains and the ski-slopes. Then Italy—they’re claiming they want Americans; and I’m sure they do—h’m. Well, anyhow five or six countries, taking in England. It won’t pay for the hotels and car-fare and minding the children but it’s a beginning. Why not
The Howards Abroad
and turn out a sort of Baedeker for Americans, all they want to know, not the old three-star stuff. Call us the Wilkeses. H’m, not good enough. Anyway, I feel it in my bones. I’m on the right track. And you will either get a good job in the Louvre or with the Party or write that wonderful novel about your early struggles or about our family—it’s so charming and wonderful when you tell it and who ever did? A scion in the USA. In Europe they still think we’re cowpunchers: they’ll be fascinated; or you’ll become a famous European correspondent, or someone will take you as private secretary, a diplomat or deputy—’

Stephen declared, ‘Never! I’ve had a secretary myself and nothing doing.’

Bubbling still, Emily went up to her room. Stephen called after her, ‘Work, goddamn it, work! Don’t write letters, your journal, ideas for new books or thumbnail sketches. Write what your agent’s waiting for.’

‘OK! OK!’ she laughed.

Emily went into her room and sat down in a pleasant day-dream. She had fallen in love with Vittorio, who thought her magnificent and who was the toast of society women. While Stephen was upstairs with the accounts, she had nagged, amiably pestered, buffeted Suzanne about the ears with questions about Vittorio. Suzanne had only consented to answer if the conversation was held in French. Thus Emily had heard, but as through a swarm of bluebottles, stories of Vittorio’s love affairs, all with unexplained, unexpected women, not at all as you might think with ‘haughty, gorgeous, society belles’ as Emily said. No. Since early days he had had an affair with the beautiful daughter of a Brussels financier. She had had many lovers since, married twice, it was not only men she loved—‘Then who? Then who?’ said Emily puzzled—but she often went to see Vittorio even now, though he was so changed and so poor. ‘Women can’t forget him,’ said Suzanne, in a fault-finding tone. Now Vittorio was in love with a girl twenty years younger than himself, ‘Not at all suitable,’ said Suzanne. ‘Did he say anything about us here?’ ‘Ah, he admired you as we all do; and then he said, about the child, “Oh, what a delicious little woman.”’

There was more of this; but Emily had not understood that Vittorio had said about Olivia, ‘what a delicious little woman’: she thought that Vittorio had said it about herself; and her strong inclination turned to passion. She was glad. She sat, looked out at the old gardens behind stone walls across the street and felt at peace.

She thought, ‘At last I know what love is; I’m a woman now. I’m not foolish any more. I know he’s been in love, I know men must love; and I feel such a deep, new, creative viewpoint. I understand. If I had stayed in America I should never have understood Vittorio. What shall I do? I don’t want to do anything. Only to love him. Of course, I can see he loves me; he’s fallen for me; it’s my energy and strangeness. I bring him something; and the money, the luxury doesn’t hurt. Men are weak. They like success. But oh, what am I saying? What a beautiful nature he has, what a deep soul always in motion, full of pity, humane understanding. And think what is required of him! Oh, Stephen is good to me but I have always felt deprived; some kind of block—and I always knew that love ought to be the crown of life. Now I have the crown, flowers, leaves, laurels, golden apples—I am covered with garlands—beloved, Vittorio, beautiful, rich, loving Vittorio!’

She lay down on her couch, put her arms over her face and fell into a waking dream, ecstatic and tender. Perhaps Vittorio too had waited for a woman like her, for her, to deliver him from the far past, the recent past, his nervous affairs with unsuitable women. She was sure he loved her. Stephen, unfortunately, seemed ordinary and bloodless compared with Vittorio. She said to herself, ‘Just like me. Emily Wilkes, in
Double or Nothing
.’

Emily had an open secret, her journal,
Journal of Days under the Sun
she called it. It went everywhere with her. It had now reached its twelfth volume. She had the irresistible duty imposed by her nature, her verbal excess and her genius, to record all her life in her great diary. In this she first wrote all that had happened to her; she recorded not only the flattering letters she had written to the rich, to kind and complimentary reviewers, the loving and generous letters to friends, sarcastic revelatory letters, tender and tough letters to editors and agents; she not only wrote all this in her journal but at times she made extracts from it and sent them to persons appropriate or not with a good deal of recklessness, devil-may-care or innocent freedom; her views of this and that; and the outcries of her passion, disappointments, their anticipations, follies and venalities.

Stephen feared this journal as nothing else. He was not allowed into her study when she was working, so he could not control her. He never knew whether his golden goose was laying golden eggs or merely reading to catch up with the children or to please Vittorio, sporting with her journal, writing letters to a hundred different people, old and new, or reading novels voraciously.

The morning mail the next day was unusually rich. All the letters produced some disturbance. Maurice wrote to say that Anna had something very special to say to them; he wanted to warn them. Another letter said that Billy and Grace Haydon, radical friends, whose paper had been closed down, were coming over at the same time as Anna and hoped to stay with them. They were two of their closest friends. They could not turn them down. Hollywood had refused one of Emily’s stories. She had been a radical and it was time she made a plain statement about her change of heart; she ought to say, to reassure editors and public, that she was finished with the reds and was ready to laugh at them, that is, in her popular writings. Another popular magazine which had paid her a lot of money at various times, refused a ‘surefire’ story. It had dug up from its files a nasty, heady letter Emily had once written to them; and regurgitated it for her to read. Letters from friends in Washington assured them that their names were on the black list with the leftists because they had deserted the Party. They would end up as ‘the fools of time’.