Another Country (21 page)

“I’m fine, Richard. And it’s wonderful to see
you
. Especially now that you’re such a success.”

“Ah, you mustn’t listen to my wife,” he said. He went behind the bar. “Everybody’s got a drink except me, I guess. And
I
” — he looked very boyish, very secure and happy— “am going to have a dry martini on the rocks.” He opened the ice bucket. “Only, there aren’t any rocks.”

“I’ll get you some ice,” Cass said. She put her drink on the bar and picked up the ice bucket. “You know, I think we’re going to have to buy some ice from the delicatessen.”

“Well, I’ll go down and do that later, chicken.” He pinched her cheek. “Don’t worry.”

Cass left the room. Richard grinned at Vivaldo. “If you hadn’t got here today, I swore I was just going to cut you out of my heart forever.”

“You knew I’d be here.” He raised his glass. “Congratulations.” Then, “What’s this I hear about all the TV networks just crying for you?”

“Don’t exaggerate. There’s just
one
producer who’s got some project he wants to talk to me about, I don’t even know what it is. But my agent thinks I should see him.”

Vivaldo laughed. “Don’t sound so defensive. I
like
TV.”

“You’re a liar. You haven’t even got a TV set.”

“Well, that’s just because I’m
poor
. When I get to be a success like you, I’ll go out and buy me the biggest screen on the market.” He watched Richard’s face and laughed again. “I’m just teasing you.”

“Yeah. Ida, see what you can do to civilize this character. He’s a barbarian.”

“I know,” Ida said, sadly, “but I hardly know what to do about it. Of course,” she added, “if you were to offer me an autographed copy of your book, I might come up with an inspiration.”

“It’s a deal,” Richard said. Cass came back with the ice bucket and Richard took it from her and set it on the bar. He mixed his drink. Then he joined them on the other side of the bar and put his arm around Cass’ shoulders. “To the best Saturday we’ve ever had,” he said, and raised his glass. “May there be many more.” He took a large swallow of his drink. “I love you all,” he said.

“We love you, too,” said Vivaldo.

Cass kissed Richard on the cheek. “Before I go and try to salvage lunch— tell me, just what kind of arrangement
did
you make with Michael? Just so I’ll know.”

“He’s taking a nap. I promised to wake him in time for cocktails. We have to buy him some ginger ale.”

“And Paul?”

“Oh, Paul. He’ll tear himself away from his cronies in time to come upstairs and get washed and meet the people. Wild horses wouldn’t keep him away.” He turned to Vivaldo. “He’s been bragging about me all over the house.”

Cass watched him for a moment. “Very well managed. And now I leave you.”

Ida picked up her glass. “Wait a minute. I’m coming with you.”

“You don’t have to, Ida. I can do it.”

“These men can get drunk, too, if we keep them waiting too long. I’ll help you, we can get it done in no time.” She followed Cass to the doorway. With one foot on the step, she turned. “Now, I’m going to hold you to your promise, Richard. About that book, I mean.”

“I’m going to hold you to yours. You’re the one who got the dirty end of
this
deal.”

She looked at Vivaldo. “Oh, I don’t know. I might think of something.”

“I hope you know what you’re getting into,” Cass said. “I don’t like that look on Vivaldo’s face at
all
.”

Ida laughed. “He
is
kind of simple-looking, I declare. Come on. I’ll tell you about it in the kitchen.”

“Don’t believe a word Cass says about me,” Vivaldo called.

“Oh, you mean she
knows
something about you? Come on, Cass, honey, we going to get down to the knitty-gritty
this
afternoon.” And they disappeared.

“You’ve always had a thing about colored girls, haven’t you?” Richard asked, after a moment. There was something curiously wistful in his voice.

Vivaldo looked at him. “No. I’ve never been involved with a colored girl.”

“No. But you used to do a lot of tomcatting up in Harlem. And it’s so logical, somehow, that you should be trying to make it with a colored girl now— you certainly scraped the bottom of the white barrel.”

Against his will, Vivaldo was forced to laugh. “Well. I don’t think Ida’s color has a damn thing to do with it, one way or the other.”

“Are you sure? Isn’t she just another in your long line of waifs and strays and unfortunates?”

“Richard,” Vivaldo said, and he put his glass down on the bar, “are you trying to bug me? What is it?”

“Of course I’m not trying to bug you,” Richard said. “I just think that maybe it’s time you straightened out— settled down— time you figured out what you want to do and started doing it instead of bouncing around like a kid. You’re not a kid.”

“Well, I think it’s time you stopped treating me like one. I know what I want to do and I
am
doing it. All right? And I’ve got to do it my own way. So get off my back.” He smiled, but it was too late.

“I didn’t think I was on your back,” said Richard. “I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t mean it the way it sounded, you know that.”

“Let’s just forget it, okay?”

“Well, hell, I don’t want you mad at me.”

“I’m
not
mad at you.” He walked to the window and stood there, looking out. With his back to Vivaldo, he said, “You didn’t really like my book much, did you?”

“So that’s it.”

“What?” Richard turned, the sunlight full on his face, revealing the lines in his forehead, around and under his eyes, and around his mouth and chin. The face was full of lines; it was a tough face, a good face, and Vivaldo had loved it for a long time. Yet, the face lacked something, he could not have said what the something was, and he knew his helpless judgment was unjust.

He felt tears spring to his eyes. “Richard, we talked about the book and I told you what I thought, I told you that it was a brilliant idea and wonderfully organized and beautifully written and—” He stopped. He had not liked the book. He could not take it seriously. It was an able, intelligent, mildly perceptive
tour de force
and it would never mean anything to anyone. In the place in Vivaldo’s mind in which books lived, whether they were great, mangled, mutilated, or mad, Richard’s book did not exist. There was nothing he could do about it. “And you yourself said that the next book would be better.”

“What are you crying about?”

“What?” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Nothing.” He walked over to the bar and leaned on it. Some deep and curious cunning made him add, “You talk as though you didn’t want us to be friends any more.”

“Oh, crap. Is that what you think? Of course were friends, we’ll be friends till we die.” He walked to the bar and put his hand on Vivaldo’s shoulder, leaning down to look into his face. “Honest. Okay?”

They shook hands. “Okay. Don’t bug me any more.”

Richard laughed. “I
won’t
bug you any more, you stupid bastard.”

Ida came to the doorway. “Lunch is on the table. Come on, now, hurry, before it gets cold.”

They were all a little drunk by the time lunch was over, having drunk with it two bottles of champagne; and eventually they sat in the living room again as the sun began to grow fiery, preparing to go down. Paul arrived, dirty, breathless, and cheerful. His mother sent him into the bathroom to wash and change his clothes. Richard remembered the ice that had to be bought for the party and the ginger ale that he had promised Michael, and he went downstairs to buy them. Cass decided that she had better change her clothes and put up her hair.

Ida and Vivaldo had the living room to themselves for a short time. Ida put on an old Billie Holiday record and she and Vivaldo danced.

There was a hammer knocking in his throat as she stepped into his arms with a friendly smile, one hand in his hand, one hand resting lightly on his arm. He held her lightly at the waist. His fingers, at her waist, seemed to have become abnormally and dangerously sensitive, and he prayed that his face did not show the enormous, illicit pleasure which entered him through his fingertips. He seemed to feel, beneath the heavy fabric of the suit she wore, the texture of the cloth of her blouse, the delicate obstruction which was the fastening of her skirt, the slick material of her slip which seemed to purr and crackle under his fingers, against her smooth, warm skin. She seemed to be unaware of the liberties being taken by his stiff, unmoving fingers. She moved with him, both guiding and being guided by him, effortlessly keeping her feet out of the path of his great shoes. Their bodies barely touched but her hair tickled his chin and gave off a sweet, dry odor and suggested, as did everything about this girl, a deep, slow-burning, carnal heat. He wanted to hold her closer to him. Perhaps, now, at this very moment, as she looked up at him, smiling, he would lower his head and wipe that smile from her face, placing his unsmiling mouth on hers.

“Your hands are cold,” he said, for the hand which held his was very dry, and the fingertips were cool.

“That’s supposed to mean that I’ve got a warm heart,” said Ida, “but what it really means is poor circulation.”

“I prefer,” he said, “to believe that you’ve got a warm heart.”

“I was counting on that,” she said, with a laugh, “but when you get to know me better you’ll find out that I’m the one who’s right. I’m afraid,” she said, with a teasing, frowning smile, “that I’m usually right.” She added, “About me.”

“I wish I knew you better,” he said.

“So,” she said, with a short, light laugh, “do I!”

Richard returned. Michael, grave and shy, came out of his exile and he and Paul were given ginger ales on the rocks. Cass appeared in a high-necked, old-fashioned, burgundy-colored dress, and with her hair up. Richard put on a sport shirt and a more respectable-looking sweater, and Ida vanished to put on her face. The people began to arrive.

The first to arrive was Richard’s editor, Loring Montgomery, a chunky, spectacled, man, with smooth, graying hair, who was younger than he looked— nearly ten years younger, in fact, than Richard. He had a diffident manner and a nervous giggle. With him was Richard’s agent, a dark-haired, dark-eyed young woman, who wore much silver and a little gold, and whose name was Barbara Wales. She, too, had a giggle but it was not nervous, and a great deal of manner but it was not diffident. She apparently felt that her status as Richard’s agent created a bond of intimacy between herself and Cass; who, helplessly and miserably mesmerized, and handicapped by the volume of Miss Wales’ voice and the razorlike distinctness of her syllables, trotted obediently behind her into the bedroom where coats and hats were to be deposited and where the women could repair their makeup.

“The bar is over here,” Richard called, “whatever you’re drinking, come and get it.”

“I could stand another drink,” Vivaldo said. “I’ve been drinking all day and I can’t get drunk.”

“Are you trying to?” asked Ida.

He looked at her and smiled. “No,” he said, “no, I’m not trying to. But if I were, I couldn’t make it, not today.” They stood facing the window. “You’re going to have supper with me, aren’t you?”

“You’re not hungry, al
ready
?”

“No. But I’m going to be hungry around suppertime.”

“Well,” she said, “ask me around suppertime.”

“You’re not suddenly going to decide you have to go home, or anything? You’re not going to run out on me?”

“No,” she said, “I’m going to stick with you until the bitter end. You’ve got to talk to that agent, you know.”

“Do I have to?” He looked in the direction of the glittering Miss Wales.

“Of course you do. I’m sure it’s one of the reasons Richard wanted you here this afternoon. And you have to talk to the editor, too.”

“Why? I haven’t got anything to show him.”

“Well, you
will
. I’m sure Richard arranged all this partly for you. Now, you’ve got to cooperate.”

“And what are you going to be doing while I’m having all these conferences?”

“I’ll talk to Cass. Nobody’s really interested in us; we don’t write.”

He kissed her hair. “You
are
the cutest thing,” he said.

The doorbell rang. This time it was Steve Ellis, who had come with his wife. Ellis was a short, square man with curly hair and a boyish face. The face was just beginning, as is the way with boyish faces, not so much to harden as to congeal. He had a reputation as the champion of doomed causes, reaction’s intrepid foe; and he walked into the drawing rooms of the world as though he expected to find the enemy ambushed there. His wife wore a mink coat and a flowered hat, seemed somewhat older than he, and was inclined to be talkative.

“Great meeting you, Silenski,” he said. Though he was compelled to look up to Richard, he did so with his head at an odd and belligerent angle, as though he were looking up in order more clearly to sight down. The hand he extended to Richard with a bulletlike directness suggested also the arrogant limpness of hands which have the power to make or break: only custom prevented the hand from being kissed. “I’ve been hearing tremendous things about you. Maybe we can have a chat a little later.”

And his smile was good-natured, open, and boyish. When he was introduced to Ida, he stood stock-still, throwing out his arms as though he were a little boy.

“You’re an actress,” he said. “You’ve
got
to be an actress.”

“No,” said Ida, “I’m not.”

“But you
must
be. I’ve been looking for you for years. You’re sensational!”

“Thank you, Mr. Ellis,” she said, laughing, “but I am not an actress.” Her laugh was a little strained but Vivaldo could not know whether this was due to nerves or displeasure. People stood in smiling groups around them. Cass stood behind the bar, watching.

Ellis smiled conspiratorially and pushed his head a little forward. “What do you
do,
then? Come on, tell me.”

“Well, at the moment,” Ida said, rather pulling herself together, “I work as a waitress.”