The Young Lions (14 page)

"Please," Laura said. "I'm dying to play badminton. Darling…" She touched Michael's arm. "The poles and the net and stuff are on the back porch."

Michael sighed and pushed himself heavily up from the ground. Still, Laura was probably right; it would be better than talking this afternoon.

"I'll help," Miss Freemantle said, standing up and starting after Michael.

"Johnson…" Michael couldn't resist a parting defiant shot.

"Johnson, has the possibility ever occurred to you that you might be wrong?"

"Of course," Johnson said with dignity. "But I'm not wrong now."

"Somewhere," Michael said, "there's got to be a little hope."

Johnson laughed. "Where do you shop for your hope these days?" he asked. "Have you got any to spare?"

"Yes," Michael said.

"What do you hope for?"

"I hope," Michael said, "that America gets into the war and…" He saw the two Frenchwomen staring at him, seriously, tremulously.

"The rackets," Laura said nervously, "are in that green wooden box, Michael…"

"You want Americans to get killed, too, in this swindle," Johnson said derisively. "Is that it?"

"If necessary," Michael said.

"That something new for you," Johnson said. "War-mongering."

"It's the first time I've thought of it," said Michael, coldly, standing over Johnson. "This minute."

"I get it," said Johnson. "A reader of the New York Times. Crazy to save civilization as we know it, and all that."

"Yes," said Michael. "I'm crazy to save civilization as we know it and all that."

"Come on, now," Laura pleaded. "Don't be ugly."

"If you're so, eager," Johnson said, "why don't you just go over and join the British Army? Why wait?"

"Maybe I will," said Michael, "maybe I will."

"Oh, no." Michael turned, surprised. It was Miss Freemantle who had said it, and she was standing now, with her hand over her mouth, as though the words had been surprised out of her.

"Did you want to say something?" Michael asked.

"I… I shouldn't have," the girl said. "I didn't want to interfere, but…" She spoke very earnestly. "You mustn't keep saying we should fight." A female member of the Party, Michael thought heavily; that's where Johnson picked her up. You'd never guess it, though, she was so pretty.

"I suppose," Michael said, "if Russia got into it, you'd change your mind."

"Oh, no," said Miss Freemantle. "It doesn't make any difference." Wrong again, Michael thought, I'm going to stop making these brilliant one-second judgments.

"It doesn't do any good," the girl went on hesitantly. "It never does. And all the young men go off and get killed. All my friends, my cousins… Maybe I'm selfish, but… I hate to hear people talking the way you do. I was in Europe, and that's the way they were talking there. Now, probably, a lot of the boys I knew then, that I used to go dancing with, and on skiing trips… They're probably dead. What for? They just talked and talked, until finally they'd got themselves to a point where the only thing they could do was kill each other. Forgive me," she said, very seriously. "I hadn't meant to shoot my mouth off. It's probably a silly female way of looking at the world…"

"Miss Boullard…" Michael turned to the two Frenchwomen. "As women, what's your position?"

"Oh, Michael!" Laura sounded very irritated.

"Our position…" The younger one spoke, softly, her voice controlled and polite. "I'm afraid we do not have the luxury of choosing our position."

"Michael," Laura said, "for God's sake, go get that stuff."

"Sure." Michael shook his head.

" Roy," Laura said to Johnson, "you shut up, too."

"Yes, Ma'am," said Johnson, smiling. "Should I tell you the latest gossip?"

"Can't wait," said Laura, in a good approximation of a completely light, untroubled, garden-party voice. Michael and Miss Freemantle started out towards the back of the house.

"Josephine's got a new one," Johnson said. "That tall blond boy with the Expression. The movie actor. Moran." Michael stopped when he heard the name and Miss Freemantle nearly bumped into him. "Picked him up at an art gallery, according to her. Weren't you in a picture with him last year, Laura?"

"Yes," Laura said. Michael looked at her appraisingly, trying to see if the expression on her face changed as she talked about Moran. Laura's expression hadn't changed. "He's quite a promising actor," she said. "A little light, but quite intelligent."

You never knew with women, Michael thought, they would lie their way into heaven without the flicker of an eyelash.

"He's coming over here," Johnson said. "Moran. He's up here for the first production of the summer theatre and I invited him over. I hope you don't mind."

"No," said Laura, "of course not." But Michael was watching her closely and he could see, for a fleeting instant, a swift tremor cross her face. Then she turned her head and Michael couldn't tell any more.

Marriage, he thought.

"Mr. John Moran," the younger Miss Boullard said. Her voice was lively and pleased. "Oh, I'm so excited! I think he's so wonderful. So masculine," she said, "such an important thing for an actor."

"Come on, Miss Freemantle, before my wife nags me again," Michael said. "We have work to do."

They walked side by side towards the back of the house. The girl was wearing a fresh perfume, and she walked in an easy, unaffected way that made Michael feel suddenly how young she was.

"When were you in Europe?" he asked. He didn't really care, but he wanted to hear her talk.

"A year ago," she said. "A little more than a year ago."

"How was it?"

"Beautiful," she said. "And terrible. We'll never be able to help them. No matter what we do."

"You agree with Johnson," Michael said. "Is that it?"

"No," she said. "Johnson just repeats what people tell him to say. He hasn't got a thought in his head."

Michael couldn't help smiling to himself, maliciously.

"He's very nice," her voice was rushed a little now and apologetic. Michael thought: Europe has done her a lot of good, she talks so much more softly and agreeably than most American women. "He's very decent and generous and deep down he means so well… But everything's so simple for him. If you've seen Europe at all, it doesn't seem that simple. It's like a person suffering from two diseases. The treatment for one is poison for the other." She spoke modestly and a little hesitantly. "Johnson thinks all you have to do is prescribe fresh air and public nurseries and strong labour unions and the patient will automatically recover," Miss Freemantle went on. "He says I'm confused."

"Everybody who doesn't agree with the Communists," Michael said, "is confused. That's their great strength. They're so sure of themselves. They always know what they want to do. They may be all wrong, but they act."

"I'm not so fond of action," Miss Freemantle said. "I saw a little of it in Austria."

"You're living in the wrong year, lady," Michael said, "you and me, both." They were at the back of the house now and Miss Freemantle picked up the net and rackets while Michael hoisted the two poles to his shoulders. They started back to the garden. They walked slowly. Michael felt a tingle of intimacy alone there on the shady side of the house, screened by the rustling tall maples from the rest of the world.

"I have an idea," he said, "for a new political party, to cure all the ills of the world."

"I can't wait to hear," Miss Freemantle said gravely.

"The Party of the Absolute Truth," said Michael. "Every time a question comes up… any question… Munich, what to do with left-handed children, the freedom of Madagascar, the price of theatre tickets in New York… the leaders of the party say exactly what they think on that subject. Instead of the way it is now, when everybody knows that nobody ever says what he means on any subject."

"How big is the membership?"

"One," Michael said. "Me."

"Make it two."

"Joining up?"

"If I may." Margaret grinned at him.

"Delighted," Michael said. "Do you think the party'd work?"

"Not for a minute," she said.

"That's what I think, too," Michael said. "Maybe I'll wait a couple of years."

They were almost at the corner of the house now, and Michael suddenly hated the thought of going out among all those people, turning the girl over to the distant world of guests and hosts and polite conversation.

"Margaret," he said.

"Yes?" She stopped and looked at him.

She knows what I'm going to say, Michael thought. Good.

"Margaret," he said, "may I see you in New York?"

They looked at each other in silence for a moment. She has freckles on her nose, Michael thought.

"Yes," she said.

"I won't say anything else," Michael said softly, "now."

"The telephone book," the girl said. "My name's in the telephone book."

She turned and walked round the corner of the house, in that precise, straight, graceful walk, carrying the net and the rackets, her legs brown and slender under the swaying full skirt. Michael stood there for a moment, trying to make sure his face had fallen back into repose. Then he walked out into the garden after her.

The other guests had come, Tony and Moran and a girl who wore red slacks and a straw hat with a brim nearly two feet wide.

Moran was tall and willowy and had on a dark blue shirt, open at the collar. He was a glowing brown from the sun and his hair fell boyishly over his eye when he smiled and shook hands with Michael. Why the hell can't I look like that? Michael thought dully as he felt the firm, manly grip. Actors, he thought.

"Yes," he heard himself saying, "we've met before. I remember. New Year's Eve. The night Arney did his window act."

Tony looked strange. When Michael introduced him to Miss Freemantle he barely smiled, and he sat all hunched up, as though he were in pain, his face pale and troubled, his lank, dark hair tumbled uneasily on his high forehead. Tony taught French literature at Rutgers. He was an Italian, although his face was paler and more austere than one expects of Italian faces. Michael had gone to school with him and had grown increasingly fond of him through the years. He spoke in a shy, delicate voice, hushed and bookish, as though he were always whispering in a library. He was a good friend of the Boullard sisters, and had tea with them two or three times a week, formal and bilingual, but today they didn't even look at each other.

Michael started to put up one of the poles. He pushed it into the lawn as the girl in the red slacks was saying in her high, fashionable voice, "That hotel is just ghastly. One bathroom to the floor and beds you could use for ship-planking and a lot of idiotic cretonne with hordes, really hordes of bugs. And the prices!"

Michael looked at Margaret and shook his head in a loose, mocking movement, and Margaret smiled briefly at him, then dropped her eyes. Michael glanced at Laura. Laura was staring stonily at him. How the hell does she manage it? Michael thought. Never misses anything. If that talent were only put to some useful purpose.

"You're not doing it right," Laura said; "the tree'll interfere."

"Please," said Michael, "I'm doing this."

"All wrong," said Laura stubbornly.

Michael ignored her and continued working on the pole.

Suddenly the two Misses Boullard stood up, pulling at their gloves, with crisp, identical movements.

"We have had a lovely time," the younger one said. "Thank you very much. We regret, but we have to leave now."

Michael stopped work in surprise. "But you just came," he said.

"It is unfortunate," the younger Miss Boullard said crisply, "but my sister is suffering from a disastrous headache."

The two sisters went from person to person, shaking hands. They didn't shake hands with Tony. They didn't even look at him, but passed him as though he were not there. Tony looked at them with a strange, quivering expression, incongruous and somehow naked.

"Never mind," he said, picking up the old-fashioned straw hat he had carried into the garden with him. "Never mind. You don't have to go. I'll leave."

There was a moment of nervous silence and nobody looked at Tony or the two sisters.

"We have enjoyed meeting you so much," the younger Miss Boullard said coolly to Moran. "We have admired your pictures again and again."

"Thank you," Moran said, boyish and charming. "It's kind of you…"

Actors, Michael thought.

"Stop it!" Tony shouted. His face was white. "For the love of God, Helene, don't behave this way!"

"There is no need," the younger Miss Boullard said, "to see us to the gate. We know the way."

"An explanation is necessary," Tony said, his voice trembling.

"We can't treat our friends this way." He turned to Michael, standing embarrassedly next to the flimsy pole for the badminton net. "It's inconceivable," Tony said. "Two women I've known for ten years. Two supposedly sensible, intelligent women…" The two sisters finally turned and faced Tony, their eyes and mouths frozen in contempt and hatred. "It's the war, this damned war," Tony said. "Helene. Rochelle. Please. Be reasonable. Don't do this to me. I am not entering Paris. I am not killing Frenchmen. I am an American and I love France and I hate Mussolini and I'm your friend…"

"We do not wish to talk to you," the younger Miss Boullard said, "or to any Italians." She took her sister's hand. The two of them bowed slightly to the rest of them, and walked, rustling and elegant in their gloves and garden hats and stiff black dresses, towards the gate at the end of the garden.

The crows were making a lot of noise in the big tree fifty yards away and their cawing struck the ear, harsh and clamorous.

"Come on, Tony," Michael said, "I'm going to give you a drink."