The Mentor (6 page)

“What’s that line at the end of
Gatsby
, when Nick talks about leaving the East? ‘So when the blue smoke of leaves …’ ” Charles says, shutting his eyes as he searches for the words.

Portia is right there: “ ‘When the blue smoke of brittle leaves was in the air and the wind blew the laundry stiff on the line—’ ”

“ ‘I decided to come back home.’ That’s it. That’s the kind of simple, clear poetry I want,” Charles says. “Nothing extra, every word exact. Not one comma out of place: ‘The blue smoke of brittle leaves …’ ”

Fitzgerald’s words hang in the air. Charles sinks into a chair and feels the last years—the fearsome task of dredging up yet another book, the tightening vise of expectation, the bitter disap pointment, the seductive call of cynicism—coming home to roost on his tired bones. He’s at ground zero, defenseless.

“I’ve lost it, Portia. My inspiration. My will. The kid who wrote that story is dead.”

The weight of their history, their love, bears down on Charles. Portia is the closest thing to a parent, a real parent, that he has ever had. He can feel something like tears coming up inside him. He fights down the queasy feeling in his chest, the burning behind his eyes. He wants to turn and look at her, but doesn’t think he could hold her gaze. He lets his head roll back on the chair and closes his eyes.

From across the room, Portia studies him carefully.

Out in the moonless night the water, the forest, and the sky are endless and implacable. Portia’s living room window casts a soft yellow glow into the vastness.

How different the world looks in the morning. What seemed like hell the night before turns out to be merely purgatory, as if the dark’s demons are unable to survive the infusion of light. Portia is up and about long before Charles wakes from a profound sleep, feeling rested for the first time in recent memory. For a long time he lies on the narrow single bed in Portia’s cluttered spare room, listening to the dense quiet of the woods.

Something happened the night before: his logjam broke, and he
can feel the cooling waters of hope flow through him. Maybe it was just admitting—to Portia, yes, but more important, to himself—how scared he is. He has begun to take measure of himself; just coming up here has been a first step.

After a quiet breakfast of blueberry corncakes, eggs laid ten minutes earlier and fried crisp around the edges, and strong coffee spiked with chicory, Portia and Charles head outside, out to the lake, to fish. And to talk. They make their way slowly down the rickety wooden steps that lead down the steep, rocky cliff to the water. The deserted lake is glorious in the morning sun. They climb into Portia’s battered rowboat, and she takes the oars while Charles readies the fishing rods.

“The little shits are down there laughing at us,” Portia says as they head out to the middle of the lake.

“Let’s hope they’re laughing with their mouths open.”

Portia pulls up the oars and takes her rod from Charles. They both cast off, breaking the still water with soft splashes. They fish in silence, a sympathetic calm settling over them.

“Portia, I need to make a lot of money. I’m in over my head,” Charles says finally.

“Write as if you have a hundred million in the bank,” Portia says dismissively.

“It’s awfully easy for you to say that, up here with nothing to lose.”

“I have
you
to lose, Charles, and I don’t want to.… Or have I already?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Was coming up here just a little game to play with yourself, a cut-rate therapy session, a way to prove you really are an artist, to pay your psychic dues? Because if it was, I have better things to do with my time.”

Charles closes his eyes for a moment, examining his own motives. His actions in the months ahead will determine what kind of man he really is. He needs to prove himself again, to Portia, to Anne, to Nina—and to himself.

“You know how important you are to me, Portia. You know how much of
Life and Liberty
is yours. Remember those glorious, grueling months up in Hanover? You took the raw material and molded it into that book.”

“I did. But you wrote it.”

“I need your help again. I’m lost. I have no idea what to write about.”

A blue heron, majestic and prehistoric, rises up from the shore and flies away over the treetops. Portia shades her eyes to watch its ascent. She keeps her eyes on the sky long after the bird is out of sight.

“Sometimes inspiration comes to us. Sometimes we have to go searching for it,” she says.

“Where?”

“Only you can answer that question. There’s a lot at stake here, Charles. Of course I’ll help you. But you’ve got to be willing to work, to break out of that velvet-lined rut you’re in.”

And then Portia gets a bite. Bracing herself, she deftly reels in her line until a large, thrashing trout breaks the water. She grabs the fish with one hand, the hook gleaming as it pierces the scaly flesh, the animal’s body whipping wildly in her grasp.

“Look at this fish, Charles. It’s fighting, it’s fighting for its life.” In a swift, practiced move she pulls out the hook and holds up the struggling fish. “As long as we breathe, that’s what we have to do. We have to fight. We have no choice. There’s a price tag on every gift.”

Portia tosses the fish back into the water. Spared, it plunges down to the depths, shimmery and alive.

“Now get back down to that city and get to work.”

Charles tosses his bag on a bench in the foyer and walks through the kitchen and down the long hallway that leads to his two-room office. He’s brought up short by the sight of a young woman sitting at the desk in the outer office. Plain as toast, she’s wearing a gray flannel skirt, a cream blouse, and a navy sweater-vest. Her wavy brown hair is pulled back with a small band and she has on no makeup at all, as far as Charles can tell. She looks up from a copy of
Bleak House
, startled by his abrupt arrival. She stands quickly, flustered and awkward, smoothing out her skirt.

“That’s the one Dickens I’ve never read,” Charles says.

“I have this stupid rule about finishing every book I start,” the young woman says.

“I suppose that’s honorable. Let me guess—you’re that whiz of a temp who’s going to whip my office into shape and turn my life around.”

A furious blush flies up the girl’s pale neck and Charles feels a familiar surge of power. She’s so harmless, so hopeless, no doubt
incredibly efficient. And she has a certain clumsy charm. It’s so like Anne to do this without getting his okay. For a moment, Charles considers sending the girl home.

“Your wife called my agency. She told me to wait for you to get home, that you’d arrive sometime this afternoon.”

Charles glances around him. The room is strewn with tottering piles of unanswered mail, unfiled contracts, unread manuscripts, newspapers and magazines filled with articles he never gotten around to clipping. “Well, as a matter of fact, I do want to get this mess organized,” he says.

“I think I could be of some help with that.”

“Would you like to see the rest of the operation?” he asks.

The young woman nods and Charles unlocks his inner office. He’s proud of this room, even in its current disheveled condition. There are the framed posters of his book jackets; the photographs of Charles with everyone from Jack Nicholson, who starred in the movie of
Life and Liberty
, to François Mitterrand, who made him a member of the French Legion of Honor; the Eames bookshelves filled with foreign-language editions of his work; the Frank Lloyd Wright desk. Two windows look out over the treetops of Central Park.

“What a beautiful place to write,” the young woman says with undisguised awe.

“I wrote my first book in a freezing trailer outside of Hanover, New Hampshire.”

“
Life and Liberty
?”

“Yes.”

“I loved that book.”

“It must have seemed like ancient history to you.”

“No,” she says, suddenly very serious and resolute. “It seemed timeless.” And then, as if taken aback by the confidence in her own voice, she looks down, running a fingertip over her thumbnail, frowning. When she looks up she manages a wan, haunted smile. “I should start on the outer office. I don’t want to disturb you.”

Charles studies her a moment before answering. “I’m not a shrinking violet. If you’re disturbing me, I’ll let you know. Basically, I work from seven to four. Aside from that, I like my coffee black, when I smoke I smoke Marlboros, when I drink I drink Chivas, and when I’m on a roll I crave hot dogs and stacks of french fries slathered with mayonnaise. Come on, I’ll show you the filing system. Oh, by the way, I didn’t get your name.”

The young woman looks at Charles and he’s taken aback by her arresting eyes. Up close, he can see that they’re an iridescent green, lightly flecked with brown. They meet his gaze and hold it.

“It’s Emma. Emma Bowles.”

Charles stands by the bar in the living room mixing himself a Scotch and water and looking out at the autumn glory of Central Park. There’s something about the girl, Emma, that intrigues him. Those eyes. The nervous habit she has of rubbing her thumbnails with her fingertips. He finds her touching. It’ll be nice having her around for a while.

The front door opens and Anne glides in, breathless, wearing a green suit with navy trim. She goes to Charles and gives him a kiss, avoids looking him in the eye.

“Welcome home, stranger,” she says.

“It’s good to be back.”

“Am I interrupting something?”

“Of course not. Drink?”

“Yes, please—ginger ale.”

“You look terrific,” he says. She doesn’t really; she looks tense and there are dark circles under her eyes.

“I got a trim today. A first: Marcus came into the office to do
it. I felt so decadent, like Nancy Reagan. Or Madonna.” She slips off her shoes and tucks her feet under her as she sinks down on one of the two enormous white sofas that face each other in front of the fireplace. “Next I’ll be putting in a little private gym, or maybe a whole mini-spa, with one of those tiny pools that churn a current against you.”

Anne’s got the charm machine cranked up to overdrive—one of her diversionary tactics. She still hasn’t looked him in the eye. No doubt she’s angry at him for leaving in the middle of the night, angry and also waiting for him to mention the girl, Emma, to thank her for hiring her. There’s a silence as each waits for the other to make the next move. Charles yields.

“Thank you for hiring that secretary. I think you’re right, it will be easier with things sorted out in there.”

“You’re welcome,” Anne says simply, smart enough not to milk her small triumph. “She’s really quite bright and efficient.”

“She seems to be.”

“She certainly didn’t get where she is on her charm. Although she does have a certain wounded-fawn je ne sais quoi. In any case, I’m glad you think she’ll work out.”

“I do. She’s unobtrusive.”

“I must say though, Charles, I wish you’d woken me. I worry when you disappear like that.”

His work is one issue that isn’t open to compromise. “I had to go. I went.”

“And how’s the great lady?” Portia brings out Anne’s insecurity. She’s convinced his mentor dismisses her as shallow and unworthy, feels Charles would have been better off marrying some bookish trust-fund baby who lived only to nurture his fiery muse, who would create a cozy cocoon in some posh Vermont hollow, complete with a rustic studio out back and two apple-cheeked children.

Charles sits on the arm of the opposite sofa and runs a fingertip along the rim of his glass. “She’s herself.”

“And did she give you what you needed?”

Charles resents that question, as if something as complex and painful and important as his work can be reduced to a yes or no. He crosses to the window. The October dark has arrived and the lights have come on in Central Park. The cars zipping through the park look like mad Tinkertoys. Finally he turns and looks at Anne. There’s genuine concern in her face. “It was a good trip.”

“I’m glad, darling. Phoebe adored
Capitol Offense
, was up all night reading it, now everyone in the office is clamoring for a copy. I said, ‘Absolutely not—go out and buy it.’ ”

Charles sits next to her on the sofa. She reaches out and strokes his cheek. He takes her hand and kisses it. “Next time I go I’ll leave a note.”

“Make it a love note.”

He places her hand on his thigh and runs his fingertips between her fingers. He’s been boorish and self-obsessed lately—it’s time to give Anne something she wants.

“Anne?”

“Yes?”

“About a baby? There’ll always be a thousand reasons to wait.”

She turns away abruptly, withdrawing her hand. She really does look exhausted.

“I didn’t get a great deal of sleep last night. Can we discuss this some other time? Right now I need a nap. You know we have to be at Lincoln Center at eight.”

“I’m not going.” She freezes. “I’m sorry, Anne, I’ve made a decision to cut back on my socializing. It’s for my work.”

“Nice of you to tell me.”

“I really have to focus. It’s important.”

“I understand that, darling, but I think I have a right to be informed of these decisions, maybe even consulted. This is for the Fresh Air Fund, Charles, they do important work. And the tickets were five hundred dollars.”

Low blow. “If you can’t afford them you shouldn’t have bought them.”

Anne concedes the point with an almost imperceptible nod.
She finishes her drink with a long swallow. “Am I supposed to just cancel our entire calendar, or should I find myself a walker? Too bad Jerry Zipkin is dead.”

“There’s that artist—what’s his name? You love his company.”

“I can’t believe this. You’re my husband, Charles.”

“I also happen to be a novelist.”

“Are the two mutually exclusive?”

“They may be for a little while.”

Anne stands up. Something hardens in her face, around the mouth. “Keep me posted,” she says, and walks out of the room.

Charles watches her go. The apartment feels polluted by their exchange. Why the hell did she bring up a piddling five hundred dollars like that, with the money she makes? She has every right to be angry about his backing out of the benefit, but it won’t last. She’ll go by herself, make some excuse for his absence, and have a terrific time. Anne’s a big girl, and she’ll soon see that he’s doing this for both of them. If he can come up with fifty really strong pages, Nina will snare a serious advance and everyone will breathe easier. But fifty pages of what? Does Portia think that some idea is just going to crash through the window and—
pow!
—he’ll have another great book? She sure as hell doesn’t have much respect for his process. That’s unfair. She’s
part
of his process. At least she used to be.