Trust (7 page)

"Why not like the canals of Mars?" Stefanie inquired delicately.

"Oh, better than that—much better," said William's son.

"'The canals of Mars' sounds more poetic"; and I recognized in this a tribute to the tutoring of Ed McGovern.

"But no one can account for them: they're only a theory. Connelly is far too sharp for theories—he has to account for everything. He's analyzed Mrs. Vand's expenditures and he knows them precisely."

"And then I suppose he confides them to you." I rose and took several turns among the cacti; the music, suffocated by the scarves of sweet wind which slapped against the terrace railing, came out to us funereally. We might have been in the vestibule of a chapel, wondering how much to press on the widow for the sake of her orphans. There was the sick breath of money all upon us; it rushed out dirtily, as from a beggar's foul mouth (that beggar who always waits in the vestibule), full of waste, clogged with sores and boils; and suddenly the chapel shivered with tiny sounds, obscure meek little noises, the cries of small coins—chink, chink—trivial and tedious.

The bow of my sash had come untied (pulled loose, I thought, by a finger of cactus) and a long silken train dragged ignobly behind me, rustling its silver voice.

Chink, chink, it slyly chimed.

"Listen to your dress," said Stefanie; and listened; and William's son listened; and at last I too was compelled to listen; and I heard the smothered call of greed.

William's son was not indifferent to it. "And Connelly is so meticulous," he went on, in his tone of thieves a-plotting in the dark night, "meticulous, you know how accountants are, and now and again this check would turn up, a certain check made out to no one—no cause, mind you, no charge, no invoice, no broker's statement, no charity, no bill of any kind, no reason on earth for it—money for no one in the world. And Connelly went to my father to find out who it was for, to name a category for it at least. He had to account for it, you see—he hates theories, and he has none of his own. But my father wouldn't reply. I was there, you see—I saw it all. 'Never mind,' my father said, and a terrible look came over his face. 'Go ahead and post it anywhere,' I heard him say, 'and never mind.'"

"What sort of terrible look?" Stefanie demanded, leaning close.

"Angry, but more ashamed than angry. My father is never ashamed. He was angry because he was ashamed."

"Ah," our companion murmured, "he's ashamed of Mrs. Vand."

"He's fond of Mrs. Vand," William's son amended, staring over her head at me. "He's engrossed in her affairs."

"I should expect so," I retorted. "Her attorney ought to be."

"But he doesn't think her responsible. I suppose he never thought so—not even long ago. Nevertheless he's fond of Mrs. Vand," he asserted. "I imagine he's forgiven her."

"There was nothing to forgive."

"True: it was all unforgivable," he said.

"They did each other no harm," I declared.

"I'm in the dark!" cried Stefanie. "Were they in love?" she marveled, searching out my reply, "your mother and his father?"

"No," I gave out. "They were married."

"How absolutely crazy!"

"We," William's son supplied rapidly, "were born after the divorce—both of us. Don't get the idea that we're related."

"But in a way—" she began doubtfully.

"Not at all," he vouchsafed her.

"Not at all," I conceded, and reflected how I had once claimed him for a brother.

We sat for a while in the ambiguous air—after rain a mid-August night breaks the heart—and no one cared or dared to speak. The little orchestra› worn down by the clamor (or my mother's program worn out beyond its last Valse Militaire), was playing a samba too quickly, in somewhat clandestine style, as though trying to get through each bar as unobtrusively (although contrariwise as loudly) as possible. The saxophonist had rid himself of his instrument and was now plying a shining brass horn. Perhaps it was our distance from the dancers that charged them uncannily, like charmed snakes emerging from baskets: from afar they seemed miniature but dangerous: if too clever for snakes, then clever enough for leaping swords. They thrust toward one another and away, dueling, while the horn, choked off by the wind in our ears, rose and rose. It towered finally, and I thought of the bugle that did not sound again while I waited for it in the washed grass; but it was not the same. The horn was no more holy than the workaday lips, pressed to the tongue of the brass, of its shallow-jowled master—it did its duty merely, and screamed as well as it could, and promised nothing. The stiff high note broke off eventually, and the ball-room sent out applause like ululations of the leaves of countless paper forests; it was, as celebration, counterfeit and sad. Nothing in the world can be sustained, neither bugles nor hope nor woe nor desire nor common well-being nor horns, and even redemption, that suspect covenant, can be revised by the bitter and loveless Christ to whom alone nothing, not even life, is irretrievable. Relief is our reward for recognizing this truth, that the note cannot be sustained forever and the irretrievable can never be returned to us; and there is no alternative but to go on with the facts exactly as they are.

I came away from the cactus plants and stood against the railing, as in a ship on the high seas, and because William's son had done so before, I looked down into the meditative river. But there was little to see, only a moon-shaped excursion boat with its hundred lights and its hidden cargo of contraband lovers, and I moved instead to the other side of the terrace to watch the city churn inaccessibly below. The wind was strong in that corner; I turned my back against it and clasped my arms and felt the little hairs spring up on balls of flesh; and the wind blew through my dress, and caught up the silver of its loosened train and flew it like a ship's standard, freely, over the city. It was a banner of presence and identity, a sign to Gustave Nicholas Tilbeck that I knew him to be not far; it was a money-flag, and the chink of money went rattling through it.

It made me reckless as a pirate. "William needn't wear his terrible look," I burst out. "It's impertinent of him to be ashamed for my mother."

"No; no," he murmured, smiling and smiling, "you don't follow. It's simply a question of where the money goes. It's simply a question," he repeated steadily, "of the terms of the trust." He bent forward, vivid with interest. "He's got to know everything."

"I suppose it isn't the function of a trustee to trust anyone."

"It's his job to protect the fund. And Mrs. Vand."

"Mrs. Vand protects herself," I countered, growing tired of it all.

"By giving away her money?"

"There must be some left over, isn't there?" Stefanie consoled.

"Connelly had to post the check under Miscellaneous Expenses," William's son informed me ominously.

"Poor chap," I said. "What a blow."

"Who d'you suppose it's for?" Stefanie wondered. "I mean the check."

"I don't know," I said.

"Don't you want to find out?"

"I'm not a spy."

"But you must think about it sometimes," she pressed. "Don't you have any ideas? You know—theories."

"I'm like Connelly," I revealed. "I'm too meticulous for theories."

"She doesn't need any," William's son confidently perceived. "She knows."

"She knows and won't tell," Stefanie improved. She stretched appealingly; she yawned. "Maybe the money's for something wicked."

"Or something good," William's son suggested. "A poor but respectable family, hoping someday to repay the bountiful lady, wishes to receive its disbursements anonymously."

"But then your father would approve," she promptly recollected. "No, it's for something wicked. What can you think of that's bad?"

They went on teasing and speculating in this fashion for some minutes. It soon became plain that it had nothing to do with me. All along it had had nothing to do with me. It was a flirtation, and I their plaything; and now, at its climax, I was in fact quickly excluded, and occupied myself with retrieving my sash and tying it behind me. It was difficult to do; it rustled and slipped away and tinkled and whispered; and for a time my hands were entangled in silver and gold. At last I contrived to finish the knot, and drew the ends before me in two full loops; and through the circle of silk I held in the air just then—it might have been the gesture of a panhandler who puts out his hat with both hands—I saw the two of them leaning across the little space between their chairs, susurrant, kissing.

They laughed because I had glimpsed them.

"Encore un peu," William's son demanded flawlessly, and grasped her small bare complaisant wrists.

She admonished him remotely: "Is that
all
you can think of that's bad?"—kissing him.

But they did not mind my standing there; perhaps they thought me benevolent. They entwined, at any rate, their two bright shadows, with a fuss of shoe-soles on flagstones and much scraping, before they settled into immobility, of sleeves and voices and thighs thickly swathed. But still I did not go. The illusion of their pleasure captivated me: they had the desirable grace of seeming not to plunder the moment but to charm it, as though it were really the moment itself which took the spoils of their long, long kiss.

But the prize of pleasure is only an imagining, for there was nothing there to be ensnared but myself—an attendant more bereft than curious—, the air swift as money and the horn's howl.

Crossing the ballroom I was confronted by my mother's editor. I recognized him as the young man who had observed to his friends that Mrs. Vand's daughter was known to no one. It was at once evident, despite his smile (he smelled a great deal of beer), that I was, to be sure, not known to
him.

"Stefanie!" he greeted me. "What a disgrace—where have you been?"

"Stefanie is out on the terrace."

He bowed low at his error, and inadvertently struck his ear with the broomstick. "Should you like to replace her?" he invited, indicating the broom. "The next piece will be a gavotte, and after that, watch and see, a saltarello. Allegra has the latest notions of music. At midnight we'll dance the two-step—twelve o'clock sharp, you see, because it's E.E. Cummings' bedtime."

"Let him sleep," I advised. "Don't wake him."

His colorless eyes disliked me. "You have extremely negative views."

"Your ear is red," I noticed. "Did you hurt it?"

"You're very rude," he remarked, "to look so expensive."

"I'm no more expensive than you."

"Nonsense, I'm as shabby as can be."

"I wasn't speaking of your morals. I was speaking of your keep."

"I am one of the advantages of Mrs. Vand's wealth," he declaimed, turning his implement upside down and articulating into its straw face. "I am an instance of private enterprise. The Edward McGoverns of the world are luxuries which only the very rich can afford."

"You are less a luxury," I said, "than a defect of character."

"Your views," he repeated firmly, "are socialist. I was not bought for my usefulness. I am an objet d'art. I am rare and fragile"—he pointed—"like that little porcelain over there, the one with the lady and the fan. Try to understand that this broom and I are in different categories. My whole purpose," he finished, "is to give pleasure."

"How do you do that?"

"By providing an atmosphere," he said shallowly, "through the exploitation of my talents."

"Aha," I began, "when it comes to exploitation, your talents are considerable. —But I rather prefer the broom."

"You are the worst example of your class," he resumed. "You know nothing of the great. You know nothing of Maecenas, the Medicis, or the Guggenheims. Ford was a crank until he became a Foundation. I have a friend in Salerno, a sculptor and a pederast, who does nothing but the busts of young men—a Roman family of ancient lineage supports him. He lives with his boy lover in a house under a wheat field..." He went on naming the patrons he recalled, from history and from life, and their wards and dependents, all of them in some way freakish, mad, or criminal. His talk was no more than that of a hired man defending his pride by flattering the gentlefolk who give him his bread.

My mother, it seemed, had, directly or indirectly, many such hired men—not only her staff of poets, but William and even William's son, men whose relation to her rested not upon love or duty, but squarely and simply upon the complications of wealth. It was in the nature of things that her servants should be chiefly lawyers and intellectuals of one sort or another, persons with smeared lenses and sleepless eyes beneath them, and apparently no private lives; and it was also entirely natural that these menials, superior to their mistress in taste and brains and conduct, should feel contempt for her. They were all bought, after all, as Ed McGovern had not been afraid to express it (the humiliation inherent in this was hers, not his)—even the incorruptible William, who had put her away as a wife, could take her back again as a client. And the hired role, that of family adviser, was not dissimilar from the earlier one—except, of course, that now he was bought and paid for.

The curious element in this commerce was that nobody pitied her. It is not usual, admittedly, for the rich to be pitied, except in crude jokes and bathetic tales, and Allegra Vand, to be sure, enjoyed her status excessively. She enjoyed it, moreover, with confidence enough to believe that she scorned it, and pointed to her fellow-traveling as proof—but the most stupid reader could perceive at once that Marianna Harlow's passion for the workers was not unlike a former generation's devotion to tatting or playing the piano: it was an "accomplishment" Still, I thought it odd that no one ever saw my mother, in her maturity, flying about the world in aluminum airplanes without her husband, boring into one city after another in search of an ideal Vatican or Jerusalem of cities, as a kind of victim. She was like one of those god-kings chosen by lot among certain tribes, raised from infancy in fantastic luxury, emblazoned gorgeously in feathers and jewels, magnificently feasted and fattened at innumerable jubilations and sacred festivals, worshipped and called holy, ail his whims elaborately encouraged, looked-after, desired and fulfilled, his person made strangely autocratic, empowered to command every happiness but one, that of being left to live and to die in his own time—and led at last to the greatest celebration of all, his brutal and unbeautiful death by pounding of sacrificial clubs at the hands of those kind uncle's, the priests who had fed him splendor. My mother was as innocent as this, and as ambitious and arrogant; and in the same way she did not suspect that she was hated for her glories. It is true that money attracts; but much money repels. My mother was pillaged, looted, ravished and ravaged: men crept at her pockets like so many mice; she was cynically robbed by her superior servants, footmen, and beggars a hundred times over, and was cursed with every burglary. Hence her wildness and her pranks—like everyone else, she longed for the sensation of robbing Allegra Vand.