Princess Daisy (48 page)

“Shoot the Piazza San Marco and the pigeons and gondolas in France or Switzerland?” Daisy asked sweetly.

“But, damn it to hell, call New York! You know that the agency can rewrite the story board in an hour if they have to—”

“The strike,” said Daisy slowing, lingering delightedly on every word, “has most unfortunately spread to the telephone system and the telegraph system. If some of those birds outside are carrier pigeons … Otherwise we’re stuck here.”

“That’s insane! Daisy, you’re not trying! Call up and rent a car. We’ll take a motorboat to dry land and drive to the nearest border and call New York from there. Let them pick out an alternative location—Pan Am goes everywhere. Why the hell did you have to wait for me to get back to figure out something as simple as that? Why aren’t you packed? What’s the matter with you—you’re slipping badly!”

“The car-rental people are out on strike. So is the gondoliers cooperative, and the
vaporettos
as well,” Daisy said, her black eyes so dark that the dance of joy and amusement in the depths of her pupils was almost concealed.

“Shit! Daisy, they can’t
do
this to
me!
”

“I’ll tell them you said so,” Daisy said, “when they’ve gone back to work.”

“It’s … it’s … uncivilized!” shouted North, waving his arms around the princely lobby of the hotel which had been the residence of a doge in the sixteenth century.

“Why don’t we try to be philosophical, North? It’s not as if we can do anything about it,” Daisy suggested calmly.

Daisy had been thoroughly enchanted by the events of the day. As each avenue of escape closed, as, finding her phone useless, she went down to the lobby to keep in touch with news of the spreading strikes that the reception desk relayed from the radio, every moment became more pleasurable. She felt something invading her which she had difficulty in recognizing until she finally identified it as a sense of leisure … she remembered how leisure felt from college vacations. The charmingly attentive hotel employees, of whom there were two to every one of the hotel’s hundred guests, joined in her holiday mood—for tomorrow, who knew, might they not be out on strike too? It was just the right weather for a strike, one of them had pointed out to Daisy. She agreed with him completely. If there was one thing in the world she could have wished for in Venice it would be a few days outside of time. And the hall porter assured her that no guests at the Gritti Palace had ever starved. Even if they had to eat buffet style, the management was prepared. At the worst, the
principessa
might have to make her own bed.

“Philosophical?” North was outraged. Events did not do things to him, he did things to them. “We’re locked up here as if this were the Middle Ages and you talk
philosophical?
”

“There is still one way out,” Daisy said faintly.

“
What
, for Christ’s sake!” he roared.

“We could … swim.”

North swung around wrathfully and looked at his demented producer. At his gaze Daisy squeaked with suppressed laughter until she sounded like a whistling teapot about to come to a boil.

“Arnie’s …” she sputtered before she was shaken by great outright howls of mirth, “Arnie’s … 
face!
”

The vision of Arnie Greene’s mournful visage prophesying his inevitable hepatitis appeared before North’s eyes and his face splintered slowly, reluctantly, but unconditionally, with laughter.

The hall porter and the doorman looked at the two Americans, shaken by spasms of hilarity, and shrugged smilingly at each other. The young
principessa
, the concierge thought, dressed rather unsuitably for the daughter of Prince Stash Valensky, who had been a faithful guest before his death, always coming to Venice for a week or two in September after the polo was over in Deauville. Only this morning she had come downstairs in man’s white
pants and a striped purple-and-white soccer jersey. But perhaps it was a new fashion?

“You planned this whole thing, didn’t you?” North gasped, getting control of himself.

“It wasn’t easy,” Daisy admitted modestly.

“A whole country shut down so you could get a day off—nothing to it.”

“I’m efficient, I grant you, but I couldn’t have pulled it off in New York—too many gypsy cabs.”

“Have you checked our gypsy gondolas?”

“A boy in a rowboat is the best I could find.”

“Where to? I’ve got to have a drink before the bartenders go on strike.” North felt giddy. The combination of a day in Venice with the complete collapse of the support system he took for granted, made him feel like a kid let out of school just before an exam.

“Harry’s Bar?” Daisy suggested.

“You mean like tourists?”

“Of course … but I have to change first. And you need a bath. I’ll meet you down here in an hour. Actually, I think we can walk there—I’ve got a map.”

“I’ve been walking all day. Tell the rowboat boy to wait.”

“Yes, boss.” North found himself smiling at Daisy. He supposed there really wasn’t anything
specific
he could fault her with … at least not until he found out more about this strike for himself.

Back in her room, Daisy hesitated among the dresses she had packed, just in case something came up that she couldn’t do in her work clothes. She felt entirely feckless, as weightless as an astronaut. She picked the most elaborate dress she owned, a Vionnet gown from the mid-1920s. Kiki had insisted that she take the bare-armed chemise, skimpier than a slip, cut on the bias from black velvet. It had the deepest possible rounded neckline held up only by shoulder straps of crystal beads. The same beads were embroidered on the velvet in wide, fantastic circles, in a descending oval, so that it looked like a long necklace and the hem hung in two rippling points on either side of Daisy’s body, showing a flick of knees in front. It was a dress that must once have caused a major scandal. Black velvet in September? Why not? thought Daisy as she unbraided her hair. The style of the dress indicated a sophisticated hairdo, but she didn’t have sophisticated hair, Daisy realized, as the Venetian light tangled in the blonde
strands. She lifted it in both hands, extended her arms at full length still holding onto her hair and whirled around and around. What to do, what to do? She wasn’t in a chignon mood or in a braid mood—she was in a crystal mood. Finally she parted her hair in the middle, took several yards of silver ribbon she’d saved from a Hallmark commercial and twined it around so that some of the most flighty locks were held back from her face, the rest flowing loose. She flung on the cape of green and silver-shot lamé made in the same period as the dress by a now unknown firm called Cheruit and went down to the lobby, more romantic than any heroine ever painted by Tiepolo or Giovanni Bellini.

North was waiting, ready to leave. Not much of a drinker, he was unusually anxious for a drink. Alcohol was supposed to be a depressant, wasn’t it? A depressant might help counteract the dangerously free-floating feeling in the atmosphere tonight. He needed to be brought back to earth, and there was no damn earth here—only the rippling reflections on the canal which made everything tipsy to start with. Where the hell was Daisy? Why was she keeping him waiting? He couldn’t remember ever having to wait for Daisy since he’d started employing her.

“Dio! Che bellissima! Bellissima!”
the hall porter said behind him.

“Bellissima!”
echoed the doorman and the passing waiter and two men lounging about the lobby.

“Well,” said North, looking at Daisy. Now he really needed a drink.

“A Mimosa, Signorina, or perhaps a Bellini?” the waiter suggested. North looked around at the long, narrow, famous room.

“Do you make a martini? I mean a
dry
martini?” he asked, dubiously.

“Fifteen to one, Sir. On the rocks?”

“A double. Daisy?”

“What’s a Mimosa?” she asked the waiter.

“Champagne and fresh orange juice, Signorina.”

“Oh, yes, please.” The waiter showed no signs of leaving. He simply stood there looking at Daisy, expressing the most pure admiration with every inch of his wrinkled face.

“We’ll have our drinks now,” North said flatly, breaking the spell and sending the waiter hurrying off.

“So,” North said in a voice which invested the syllable with discovery, mistrust and surprise and belligerence.

“ ‘So’?” asked Daisy with slightly fake innocence. “What does that mean? Do you think just because it looks as if nobody in Venice is worried, there isn’t really any strike?”

“
So
this is what you look like when you’re not working, and
so
you must be putting on quite an act at the studio, and
so
I really don’t know a hell of a lot about you, and
so
this is what you get up as soon as you have a chance.”

“So?” Daisy shrugged blithely. “What’s wrong with that?”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to figure out. I know there’s
something.
”

“North, North, go with the flow.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not sure, but it sounds just right for this time and this place. How’s your martini?”

“Adequate,” he said grudgingly. It was the best martini he’d ever had in his life. “How’s your orange juice?”

“Pure heaven, absolute bliss, total delight, a dream, a vision, a revelation …”

“You mean you’d like another?”

“How could you tell?”

“There was something … just a touch … almost but not quite a hint … an intimation.”

“Very good, North,” Daisy approved. “When you start with intimations you’re getting there.”

“Where, getting where?”

“Into the flow.”

“I see.”

“I thought you would. I’ve always considered you a fairly quick study,” Daisy said airily, whirling her champagne glass between her fingers.

“Calm affrontery—that’s your game after hours. Damning with faint praise.”

“I think flattery is tacky.”

“I’m just surprised that you didn’t say that when other people said I was stupid, you defended me.”

“Wrong. When other people say you’re an absolute shit, I defend you.” Daisy smiled angelically.

“Christ! Wait till we get back to the mainland! Waiter, a butterfly net for the lady please, and two more drinks.”

“I’m having fun,” Daisy announced.

“So am I,” said North, startled and newly suspicious.

“Feels odd, doesn’t it?”

“Very. But I don’t think it will do any permanent damage. Unless we got used to it, of course,” North said thoughtfully.

“You mean that fun’s fun but real life isn’t supposed to be fun, at least not this much?”

“Absolutely. You’re not utterly devoid of a sense of values. That’s what I tell people when I defend you. They say that Daisy Valensky is nothing but a hard-working drone who never has any fun, and I defend you. I say that for all they know you may have fun sometimes—they shouldn’t judge by appearances.”

“You really
are
a shit, North,” Daisy said, in a lilting voice.

“I
knew
you were shining me on.”

“Why don’t you fire me?” Daisy suggested.

“I’m too lazy. And anyway I am a shit, sort of. I mean, I’m not your ordinary good-natured slob.”

“You’re not even an ordinary bad-natured slob.”

“No use trying to provoke me … you said to be philosophical so I’m being philosophical.”

“How long can this last?”

“Go with the flow, Daisy.”

“That’s my line,” Daisy said possessively.

“I’m a creative borrower,” North loftily proclaimed.

“Get your own line,” Daisy insisted.

“That’s stingy. You must be hungry. Should we eat?”

“I didn’t have lunch,” said Daisy plaintively.

“Why not?”

“I was too busy finding out about the strike.” She looked at him virtuously.

“Which strike?” wondered North.

“We
should
eat.”

“That’s my line,” said North. “But I’ll let you have it I’m feeling generous. Where shall we go?”

“We can stay and eat here,” Daisy suggested.

“Thank God. I can’t get up. Waiter, bring us everything.”

“Everything, Signor?”

“Everything.” North gestured broadly.

“Certainly, Signor.” The waiter appreciated the signor’s dilemma. How could he order sensibly in the presence of such glorious, fresh, young beauty? How could he even eat? Still, they must be properly nourished. To begin, naturally the famous
filetto Carpaccio
and then the green
tagliarni gratinati
, the noodles blended so suavely with cream and cheese and after, perhaps the calves liver in tiny strips
alla veneziana
served of course with polenta and for dessert—he would wait to decide on their dessert until after they had started on the liver. Sometimes tourists skipped dessert

“Thank you so much for a lovely evening,” said Daisy in a small, precise voice, outside the door to her room at the Gritti Palace.

“Ah … I enjoyed it too,” North answered. “That’s the right response, isn’t it?” He willed her to look directly at him, to meet his gaze, but she kept her eyes demurely downcast

“No, you should have said that you hoped you’d see me again and asked if you might telephone when we get back to the city.”

“Can I?”

“
May
I,” Daisy corrected him.

“May I come in?” asked North.

“No, you may call me.”

“But I said, ‘May I come in?’ ” North repeated.

“Oh, well, yes, in that case do call.”

Impatiently, he put one finger under her chin and tipped her head up toward him, but she lowered her lids and continued to avoid his glance. “There’s a phone strike—so how can I call you?” North asked.

“True. But you could knock on my door,” Daisy said, vamping for time.

“I said, ‘May I come in?’ ” he repeated urgently.

“Why?”

“Just because …” His face had lost its sharpness in the dim light of the corridor. His stance retained its swagger, his toughness still proclaimed itself in the set of his shoulders, but the familiar North air of indomitable willfulness, of battle readiness had softened, as if the moonlight had begun to wash it away.