Nothing That Meets the Eye (47 page)

“All yours,” Jeff said, nodding toward the bathroom. “You can even borrow my dressing gown.”

In the doorway the girl hesitated, as if it were a big decision, then said, “I'd like to borrow it, if I may, even though I've got one.” She held out her hand.

Smiling, Jeff untied his belt, and handed the dressing gown to her. Ah, youth! Troubles! Rebellion! Eileen didn't know yet what troubles were! Apparently she wasn't even in love with the young man. Or was she? Jeff looked into the long mirror between the windows, reassured himself that he was presentable in his pajamas, then something occurred to him that had to do with the word rebellion. Phyl had rebelled against her fiancé Guy. Almost for the sake of rebelling, it seemed to Jeff in retrospect—and it was a horrible thought for him. She'd fairly jilted Guy and run off with him, Jeff, for more than a year. Then convention or “sanity” had returned to Phyl, according to her lights. And at what pain to him! He still had the pain, and it was still sharp—after nineteen years. The girl Eileen needed a lecture, Jeff thought, from someone. He wasn't going to give it to her.

He looked at his watch again, as if to drag himself back to his job, his search for the elusive Kyrogin. Before long, they'd be serving breakfast in the hotel. That was what he and the girl needed, a seven
A.M.
breakfast with strong coffee.

Jeff laughed out loud. Here he was, a forty-four-year-old man in a Paris hotel suite with a good-looking girl he hadn't made the slightest pass at, longing for breakfast at seven
A.M.
, or even earlier if possible. Jeff stared into his own smiling eyes in the long mirror, then the smile left his eyes as it had left his lips. He thought his dark hair had a bit more gray in it than the last time he had taken a look. He touched his cheek. He could use a shave.

The girl was coming in, barefoot, carrying her clothes over her arm. Now she looked even lovelier with her hair slightly dampened. “What were you laughing at?”

Jeff shook his head. “Can't tell you.”

“You were laughing at me,” she said.

“No!—What does your father say about your marriage?”

“Oh—Dad.” She collapsed on the sofa again, dumped her clothes beside her, then took a cigarette and lit it. “Well, basically he takes an ‘I'll keep out' attitude, but he definitely wants me to get married. Now, I mean. After all, I quit college because I fell in love, I thought—and because I thought I preferred to get married rather than spend another nearly three years in college. You see?”

Jeff was sitting in an upholstered chair. “I suppose I see. In other words, your mother and father are in agreement—that you ought to get married.”

“Yes. But Phyl—that's my mother, and half the time I call her Phyl—she's more insistent about it. I mean, she tries to exert more control over me than Dad.—What's the matter?”

Jeff felt weak, a little dizzy. He sat up and leaned forward, like a man trying to pull out of a faint. “Nothing. Suddenly tired. I think I'll have another snort. I need it.” He got up and poured some scotch, straight, into his empty glass. He sipped it, letting it burn his tongue and his throat back to life.

“You look pale. I bet you've been working like mad lately. . . .”

Now she was just like Phyl, comforting in a crisis, ready to minister—providing it was a minor crisis like this one. Jeff slowly felt stronger. The sips of scotch did him good, and quickly.

“. . . tell you how much I admire you. You're doing something important. You're a man of the world. You've achieved something.”

Jeff exploded in a laugh.

“Don't laugh,” the girl said, frowning. “How many men—and you're not even old. My Dad's important, maybe, but he just inherited his job and I bet you didn't. And I frankly can't imagine Malc getting very far in life. He's had it too easy.”

Malc, Malcolm was doubtless the fiancé. Had Phyl ever mentioned his own name? Jeff wondered. Maybe once or twice? But if only once or twice, the girl wouldn't remember, probably. He hoped she didn't know, or hadn't heard his name. Suddenly the girl stood close in front of him, her hands on his shoulders. She put her arms around his neck.

“Do you mind,” she whispered, “if I put my arms around you?”

Jeff's hands lifted also, he pulled the girl toward him, for seconds closed his eyes and felt her hair against his forehead. She was the same height as Phyl. How well he remembered! Then he released her and stepped back.

“You're annoyed?” she asked. “I'll tell you something—straight—if I may. I'd like to go to bed with you.” The last words were so soft, he barely heard them.

But he had heard them.

“Are you afraid of me? I'm not going to tell anybody. And I'm not feeling my drinks, if I may say so. I'm quite sober.” Her eyes, Phyl's eyes, looked straight at him, steady, and with a smile in them.

“It's not that.”

“Not what?”

Why not? Jeff was thinking then. As the girl said, who would know? And what would it matter even if Phyl found out? If Jeff wanted to be vindictive—it would serve Phyl right if she found out. But Jeff really didn't feel vindictive.

“And another thing,” the girl continued in the same soft voice, “I'd like to see you again. Maybe again and again. Do you travel a lot? So could I. I'm in the mood for traveling a lot.” She still held to Jeff's right hand, and her fingers tightened on his.

His desire was there, and so was a thought, and the thought was that he'd be taking advantage of the girl when she was in an upset state (as nearly every man would, he realized, too), and he was also thinking that he didn't want to lose his memory of Phyl, Phyl as she had been with him, not as this girl would be, a nearly identical copy of Phyl, but not quite identical. Even her face wasn't quite identical. Jeff smiled, and tugged his hand from hers. “Take it easy. You're upset.”

She wasn't hurt. She looked at him mischievously. “You're an odd one.”

He didn't rise to the bait. He lit another cigarette. “You know you're going to marry your Mister Right, so why do you fool around with other people?”

“Do you think I'm in the habit of—”

“Oh, stop the crap!”

This time it sank in. “Now you sound like an American.”

“I said I was an American.” He was angry, and now he knew why, exactly why. This girl would lead him on, might lead other younger men on, exactly as Phyl had, lead them into misery if they were dumb enough to fall in love. The very harshness of his thoughts made him feel a sudden pity for the girl, as if he had said out loud what he was thinking, and had wounded her. “It doesn't mean . . . I'm your enemy,” he said. But of course it did. “Why not leave things the way they are? Simple.”

Now she looked puzzled.

The telephone rang, and Jeff for a second relaxed, as if he had been a boxer, saved, and in the next second thought, who could it be except Kyrogin, then thought that was too good to be true. He lifted the telephone.

“Allo?” said a deep voice.

“Hello. Cormack here.”

“Ha-ha. Kyrogin here. What time is it?”

Kyrogin sounded a bit drunk. “I dunno. Four, maybe. Mr. Kyrogin, I'd like very much to see you. And thank you for ringing me. You're at the Inter-Continentale?”

“Yes, and I am very sleepy. But I know—I know—you are an American engineer.”

“Yes. Look, can I see you early tomorrow morning? I mean this morning? After you've had some sleep?”

Silence. Deep breathing. Was Kyrogin lighting a cigarette or passing out?

“Mr. Kyrogin—Semyon,” Jeff said.

“Semyon here,” said Kyrogin.

“It's about the White Sea thing, you know,” Jeff persisted, thinking if anyone were listening at this hour, they deserved a medal. “Have you—have you done anything about the deal, or can we still discuss it?” Long pause. “Have you spoken with anybody else about it tonight?”

“I was with my French girlfriend tonight,” said Kyrogin.

Jeff smiled. “I see.” He sat down in the chair behind him. “In that case, after you've slept—can I phone you around ten? I'll phone you around ten. Your first appointment is with me, understand, Mr. Kyrogin? Jeff Cormack.”

“Right you are,” said Kyrogin, as if remembering some of his English lessons. “I have done no work at all tonight,” he added sadly.

It was the sweetest confession Jeff had ever heard. “That's all right, Semyon. Sleep well. Good night.” Jeff hung up and turned to the girl, beaming.

Eileen smiled back at him, with a look of triumph, as if the victory was hers, too. “You're going to be the first to see him.”

“Yes, so it seems.” Jeff slapped his hands together, then stood up. “And I'm going to have another scotch.”

“Good. May I join you?”

Jeff made them both fresh drinks. The Vichy bottle was empty. He filled the third glass in the bathroom and brought it, in case they wanted more water. He could feel the girl's zest and pleasure in his success (the first step to success, anyway) as he had felt Phyl's in the old days. It was the same. The girl had brought him luck, as Phyl had done. It was Phyl who had given Jeff the courage to break away from his boss, and start a company on his own. Phyl who had launched him like a rocket, Phyl who had given him all the confidence in the world and all the happiness. And Jeff knew he could go to bed with the girl now, as he had so often with Phyl, under the same circumstances, in the same mood. Jeff felt the same desire, and he looked at the girl differently now, as if seeing her for the first time.

She understood. She put her glass down and embraced him, pressed herself against him. “Yes?” she said.

It was still no. And this time Jeff couldn't explain, didn't want to try to find words to explain to himself or to her. “No,” he said, and extricated himself.

He went into the bedroom, got his battery razor and went to work on his beard. He brushed his teeth. Then he went in to see the girl.

“I'm going to get some sleep till nine-thirty. Don't you want to do the same?—Maybe you'd prefer my bed and I'll take the sofa?”

“No,” she said sleepily, tired at last.

Jeff wasn't going to argue. He was also tired. “Can I ask you one favor?”

“Sure.”

“Don't mention my name to your mother—ever. All right?”

“Why should I? You haven't done anything.”

He smiled. Maybe she wouldn't remember his name, anyway. “Okay, Eileen. Good night.” He closed his door, then rang the desk downstairs and asked to be called at nine-thirty
A.M.
He got into bed, and after one long sigh fell sound asleep.

When the telephone rang the next morning and awakened him, he found the girl already up and dressed, putting on makeup in the salon mirror. Jeff had ordered breakfast for two.

“What time is your mother due?” he asked.

“Oh—her plane comes in at ten, I think.”

Jeff was relieved. He would pack his suitcase, check out this morning and spend—he hoped—most of the morning with Kyrogin. Anyway, Phyl was not due now, or even in the next hour, at the hotel. With his first cup of coffee, Jeff rang up Kyrogin. To Jeff's surprise, Kyrogin answered promptly and sounded wide awake.

“Fine, Mr. Cormack! Come over anytime!”

Jeff packed his suitcase quickly, and when he had closed it, he said to the girl, “You're welcome to stay here till noon, if you like. I'm checking out now, because—”

“Good luck with the Russian,” she interrupted him. She was having her breakfast at the oval table in the salon.

Jeff grinned. “Thanks, Eileen. I've got an optimistic feeling. You brought me luck, I think. I'm due there now, so I'll say good-bye.”

She had lit a cigarette, and now she stood up. “Bye-bye. Thank you—thank you for putting me up.”

“No thanks necessary. Be happy! Bye-bye, Eileen.” Jeff went out with his suitcase and attaché case.

He left his suitcase downstairs with the desk clerk, asked for his bill, and said he would settle it later when he came to pick up the suitcase. He was in a hurry to get to Kyrogin. He took a taxi. The ride was not long.

Kyrogin asked Jeff to come up to his room. Kyrogin was in a silk dressing gown, and there was a demolished breakfast tray and a bottle of vodka, half empty, on his table. They ordered more coffee. Kyrogin added vodka to his. The telephone rang, and Kyrogin spoke in English, telling someone he was sorry, he was busy just now. In less than half an hour, Jeff had Kyrogin's verbal agreement. Jeff used his usual method of persuasion, talking first about the difficulties and expense, then estimating the expense and time that another company might take in comparison with Ander-Mack, leaving Kyrogin to make the decision—a verbal one at that, so Kyrogin would not feel bound. Jeff had six copies of his estimate with him, and he gave Kyrogin what he wanted, four, to show his colleagues.

“Now you'll have a vodka maybe,” said Kyrogin.

“Now maybe I will. With pleasure! I've got good news to take back to New York.”

“Phone them now. Tell them!” said Kyrogin with a wave of his hand toward the telephone.

“I'd like to. You really don't mind?” Jeff was moving toward the telephone. Plainly Kyrogin wouldn't mind. Jeff asked the operator to dial a New York number which was Ed Simmons's home number. It would be around five
A.M.
in New York, but Ed wouldn't mind being awakened with the news Jeff had. The operator said she would ring Jeff back, and then said the call was going through at once, and Jeff could hear Ed's telephone ringing.

Ed answered sleepily, and came awake at the sound of Jeff's voice.

“It's okay at this end!” Jeff said.

“We've got the deal?”

“We've got it. See you soon as pos, old pal.” Jeff hung up.

Kyrogin gave Jeff an excellent cigar. It was like the old days, Jeff thought, when he'd been twenty-three and had concluded a fabulous deal (or so he'd thought then) and would be going home to—to Phyl, Phyl somewhere. It was because of the girl Eileen that Phyl seemed so close now, Phyl with the twinkle in her eyes, her pride in his victory that was like a whole football stadium cheering. And each victory had meant he was closer to her. . . .