Ballroom of the Skies (5 page)

Or perhaps it is all merely our own stupidity. Our blindnesses. Our inability to see and comprehend the obvious. Perhaps we are all like Darwin Branson. Able for a time—even for a sustained length of time—to influence our environment for good, yet always failing somehow in that last crucial moment. As Branson had failed when the blindness came over him.

He wondered what Patrice would say. He dreaded seeing her. Her love was a contradiction. She seemed capable of loving every aspect of him as a human being except his final, innermost motivation.

Unscathed Philadelphia had its standard joke about itself. When, during the war, many of the executive branches of government had to be evacuated to Philadelphia,
and when the city itself was not bombed, the Philadelphians proclaimed that the enemy had been smart enough to realize that by obliterating all the red tape, they would be helping the U. S. instead of hurting it. The air of immunity had carried over into the present time of fear. There was less underground construction here than elsewhere. It was a prim, old-lady city, walking through the mud with its skirts carefully held up, not too daringly, and with a wise and knowing air as though that old lady, in her almost forgotten youth, had raised a bit of forbidden hell.

Deceleration thrust him forward against the straps, and ten minutes later he was in a wheezing, clattering taxi headed toward Patrice’s unexpectedly modest home near Upper Darby. Patrice’s father had died in ’71 just one week and two days before the passage of the hundred percent inheritance tax bill. His fortune had its beginnings back when the original Gundar Togelson had been pirating oil land from Mellon. Each Togelson since then had increased it until the late sixties when the capital gains tax was revised to take seventy percent of all capital gains. After inheritance taxes, Patrice, in addition to maximum gifts each year her father was alive, inherited about five and a half millions. At the present time it was nearly the last fortune left relatively intact, inside the country. Under the impact of the confiscatory taxes many people had managed to emigrate with their funds to economically sunnier lands, just as the socialist government in England had driven many private fortunes to Bermuda and elsewhere.

Patrice Togelson, a tall, warmly built Viking girl, had brought to Dake a deep, earthy, physical need. Yet he knew that in the management of her money she was like flint, and like quicksilver. Like flint in her calculating hardness. Like quicksilver in her ability to detect the tiniest loopholes, slide through them. They had met after he had taken a casual swipe at her in his column, criticizing her for buying into an Indian land deal to take advantage of the tax concessions Washington had given the investment of Indian capital.

Patrice had appeared in his office at the
Bulletin
the next morning, blue eyes like ice, jaw set, hair a bright flow
of autumn barley. She had leaned both fists on his desk, breasts lifting with the deep breathing of her controlled anger.

“You, my friend, are out of your depth this time,” she said.

“And you, lady, are an anachronism. You are a female pirate. You are a con artist.”

“You cost me more money yesterday than you’ll make in your whole life.”

“Then the least I can do is buy your lunch.”

They glared at each other, grinned suddenly, laughed aloud and went out together. It had been at first a good friendship, even though their personal philosophies were poles apart. For two basically aloof people, it had been a warmth of friendship that had quite astonished them. They found they laughed more often when they were together. One night, in front of the November fireplace in her small home, he had kissed her, expecting it to be casual, finding it to be shockingly hungry.

They were friends, and they became lovers without losing all of friendship. She was almost six feet tall, yet built in perfect feminine scale. They laughed about being in a world too small for them. They did not use the word “love” or the word “marriage.” They were faithful to each other without perceptible effort. They were discreet in an age that jeered at discretion. For a time their physical preoccupation with each other became obsessive, but when they recognized the danger of that, recognized the weakness of it, they fought free of it into a relationship which was rather like that of two semi-alcoholics who would excuse themselves for an infrequent three-day bender.

Together they acquired a sixth sense about what subjects to avoid. They knew that they were two proud, strong, dominant people, who happened to believe in different things. There was too much artillery they could bring to bear on each other. It was enough for him to see the morning sun in the warmth of her hair, hear fond laughter in her throat, hold her through her quickened times of completion.

The inevitable blowup came when he told her why he was taking a “leave of absence.” It had been an unpleasant scene. Even as they fought, neither of them retreating a step, he guessed that she too was aware of the loneliness to come, the empty aching nights.

The taxi driver examined the tip, grunting something that could have been thanks, and clattered off. Dake went up the walk, knowing that no fortress was ever as well protected as this house, this small tidy house, knowing that by breaking the infra-red beams he had become target. He stood on the porch, waiting. The door was suddenly opened by the pretty Japanese maid, who gave him a gold-toothed smile and said, as though he had visited there yesterday, “Good evening, Mr. Lorin.”

“Evening. Does …”

“She knows you are here, sir. She will be right down. A brandy, sir? I’ll bring it to you in the study.”

He was amused. The study was for business transactions. The lounge-living room was for friends. He wondered if Patrice were prescient. Simpler than that, perhaps. She knew him well. She knew his inflexibility. And so she would know that this was not a personal call. He sat in one of the deep leather chairs. The maid brought the brandy, an ancient bottle, and two bell glasses on a black tray. She put them on the small table beside his chair, and left without a sound.

When he heard Patrice’s distinctive step he stood up quickly and smiled at her as she came into the study. Her smile was warmer than he expected. As always, she had that remembered look of being larger than life size, more vital. She wore dark red tailored slacks, a matching halter.

“Quite a tan, Patrice,” he said.

“I got back from Acapulco yesterday.”

“Pleasure trip?” he asked wryly, her hands warm and firm in his.

She made a face. “A good buy. Hotel property.”

“With your Indian pals?”

“Uh uh. Some Brazilian pals this time.”

“Both ends against the middle, Patrice?”

“Of course. How else does a girl get along?” She inspected
him, her head tilted to one side. “You look gaunter, darling. Hollow-eyed. I bet your ribs show.”

“The strain of being a do-gooder.”

“Aren’t we being just a little bit too nasty nice to each other?” She held her hand up, thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “Just that much brandy, please. Would I look too severe if I sat at the desk?”

“Not if it’s where your checkbook is.”

She bit her lip. “This could be interesting, couldn’t it?” She seated herself behind the desk. He took her the brandy, went back to the deep chair.

She sipped, watching him over the rim. She set the glass down and said, “I have a feeling we’re going to spar, and it might be nasty, and before we spoil each other’s dispositions, I want to say something. I’ve had a year to plan just exactly how I should say it. Just this, Dake. I’ve missed you. Quite horribly. I wanted, and tried, to buy you and put you in stock. It didn’t work. I’ve been going around rationalizing it, telling myself that if you
could
be purchased, I wouldn’t want you. But I’m not that way. I wish you
could
be. I wish you had sense enough to be. Life has plenty of meaning without you. It had more when you were around. I miss that increment. I’m a selfish, hard-fisted, dominating woman, and if there’s any way I can acquire you permanently, I’m going to do it.”

“Okay, Patrice. Equal candor. I’ve missed you. I’ve wished that either you or I could bend a little without breaking. But I know that’s like wishing for the moon. We were fine until we got into a scrap about pretty basic things. Things like selfishness, like human dignity.”

“My world, Dake, is a pig pen. The smartest greediest pig gets the most corn.”

“My world is a place where there’s hope.”

“But we both seem to be living in my world, don’t we? Now tell me why you look haunted, and miserable, and … sick at heart, Dake.”

He told her. She had the knack of listening with an absolute stillness, of applying her intense awareness to the problem at hand. He told her all of it, up to and including Kelly.

“And so you came to me.”

“Asking for sixty thousand dollars. Maybe you can write it off as a charity.”

“I don’t believe in what you’re trying to do.”

“I don’t expect you to. I’m begging.”

“For old time’s sake. Isn’t that the tritest phrase in the world?” She opened a drawer, selected a checkbook, scrawled a check, tore it out. She sat, her chin balanced on her fist, waving the check slowly back and forth.

“I don’t make gifts, Dake. I make deals.”

“I had a hunch it wasn’t going to be that simple.”

“You can have this check. Once that stuff hits the streets, you’re going to think a building fell on you. It is going to cost me half as much again to argue the Board into letting you run around loose. Then I’ll give you thirty days’ wait for the impact of what you write. If nothing happens, and I am certain nothing will, you will be the one to bend a little. You will try to accept the world on its own terms. And accept me along with it, Dake.”

“Then it is a purchase, after all?”

“How much pride do you leave a lady?”

“How much pride do you leave me?” he asked harshly. “Okay. Accept the fact that I’m a monomaniac. If what I want to do fails, I’ll try something else.”

“Little boy with a tin bugle, waking up all the forces of decency in the world. Look, people! The cow’s in the meadow, the sheep’s in the corn!”

“I don’t know how to say this. A man does … what he has to do.”

“And if it’s an obsession? If it’s something with its roots imbedded in a childhood catastrophe? Should he continue to destroy himself? Or try to effect a cure?”

“That’s almost what Branson said to me.”

“You told me very emphatically that he was a god walking the earth. It looks as if he remained a god to you until he questioned your … sanity. And then he became a monster. Personally I like his angle of snuggling up to Irania. India has been moving too fast. It balances things off a bit.”

“And gives us more tension, a bigger load of fear.”

“Gives mankind as a whole more fear. I’m an individual. I take my own pride in being able to take care of myself.”

“Anarchy?”

“Why not? That is, if you are faster and have bigger teeth than your neighbor?”

“We can’t talk at all. We never could. We never will.”

Her face softened. “Oh, Dake. We
did
talk. Lots.”

He sighed. “I know. Sometimes it seems as if we’re … such a damn miserable waste of each other.”

She put the check on the corner of the desk within his reach. “It’s on a rupee account in a branch of the Bank of India. Need it certified?”

“No. I can cash it. No deal then? No bargain?”

She looked down at her folded hands. A strand of the soft hair swung forward, shining gold in the lamplight. “No deal, Dake. I guess it’s for … old time’s sake.”

He put the check in his wallet. “Thanks, Patrice. I thought you’d be … a lot tougher.”

She lifted her head. “I was going to be.”

“Anyway, I appreciate it.”

She stood up quickly, came to him, sat on the arm of the deep leather chair, leaned against him, her arm around his shoulders.

Her smile was crooked, and looked as though it hurt a bit. “I’m like your Darwin Branson,” she whispered.

He looked up at her. “What do you mean?” She turned away, oddly shy.

“I’m practical. I, too, am willing to settle for … half a loaf.”

He took her shoulders, turned her, pulled her back into his lap. Her hair had a clean spicy scent. Her lips were on holiday, from the long year apart. She kissed him with her eyes wide, blue, and terribly near in the lamplight.

Kelly licked his thumb again, winked at Dake, and continued
to count. “Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. Thirty thousand happy rupees. The page is yours. Got it with you?”

“I want to borrow an office and a typewriter, Kelly. I’ll work the rest of the day and have it for you sometime tomorrow afternoon.”

“It will be in Thursday’s edition, then.”

“I want a proof drawn on it, and a chance to check it before you lock it up.”

“At the moment you are my favorite man in all the world. Anything you say.”

“And I want a receipt, Kelly.”

The man scrubbed his red chin with a big knuckle. “My boy, you bring up a fascinating point. Indeed you do. Now we’re both men of the world. How would it be if I give you a receipt for fifteen thousand? It would ease my tax picture considerable.”

“Thirty thousand.”

“Let’s split the difference. I’ll give you back … say, two thousand, and a receipt for twenty. We both gain that way.”

“Suit yourself,” Dake said wearily. “Just show me where I can work.”

“I knew you were a sensible man when I laid eyes on you. Let me see. I can’t give you Carter’s place. The murals would keep your mind off your work. Come on. I know where I can put you.”

The office was small, and it hadn’t been dusted in a long time. The typewriter looked adequate. Dake tried it, using
his gunfire four-finger technique. Kelly walked out, whistling. Dake shucked his coat, tossed it on the couch. He poked his hat back onto the back of his head, laid his cigarettes beside the machine, and pondered a lead. He tried a few and tore them up. Finally he found one he was satisfied with:

“This week humanity booted the ball again. It was an infield error. The shadows stretch long across the diamond. The long game is drawing to a close. Death is on the mount. He threw one that President Enfield got a piece of. Enfield’s hit put Darwin Branson on third. He had a chance to come home. He ran nicely most of the way to the plate, and then faltered. They put the tag on him. ‘Yer-rout!’ yelled the celestial umpire.