Two Weeks in Another Town (21 page)

“Yes,” Jack said.

“It’s beautiful,” Clara said, pleading. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Yes,” Jack said. “Beautiful.”

“It’s going to make all the difference, this one,” Clara said, almost confidently. “This is going to put him right on top. Don’t you think so?”

“No doubt about it,” said Jack. There was nothing in his relationship with Delaney that committed him to honesty with Delaney’s wife.

“You know, they’re after him to sign a three-picture deal right here in Rome,” Clara said proudly.

“Mr. Holt told me something about it,” Jack said.

“I’m looking for an apartment,” Clara said, “on a year-round basis. With a good cook. Give him something to come home to at night. If he has security like that, I have an idea he’d settle down more. The last few years’ve been so—” She stopped, looked thoughtfully across the room at Delaney and Barzelli. “You know what I’m going to do, Jack. I’m going to get out of here. He hates it when he feels I’m being possessive. I’ll just slip out. You have to know how to handle a man like that, Jack, you have to know when to stand in his way and when you mustn’t. Don’t tell anybody I’m leaving.” She sidled toward the door through the throng of guests, then vanished, unnoticed. Two hours later Delaney might peer around hazily, wondering where she was, then shrug and go off with Barzelli, relieved that there were no excuses to be made to her for sending her home alone.

Jack sighed. And there was a time, he thought, when I believed people went to parties to enjoy themselves.

He felt a light touch on his arm. It was Mrs. Holt, accompanied, as always, by her husband. “It was so thoughtful of you to come,” Mrs. Holt said, in her wispy, apologetic voice. “There must be so many things you have to do in Rome, so many people you must see…”

“Not at all,” Jack said, shaking hands with Holt. Holt was in a dinner jacket of raw silk, obviously made in Rome, and Mrs. Holt was the only woman in the room in an evening gown. It was a girlish, wispy blue, to go with her voice, and her shoulders were covered with a tulle shawl. Her hands kept wandering upwards as she kept arranging and rearranging the shawl. “I hardly know anybody,” Jack said. “By the way, Sam, about that thing we talked about last night…”

“Oh, yes,” Holt said, with a quick, worried sideways glance at his wife. “If it’s too much trouble…”

“I talked to someone at the Consulate,” Jack said. “A Mr. Kern. You might drop in on him. I think perhaps he can help a bit.”

Holt beamed. “Now, that was friendly of you, Jack,” he said. “To do it so fast.”

“There’s some information he has to have,” Jack said, net prepared to warn Holt more definitely than that. “I thought it might be better if you talked to him personally.”

“Of course, of course,” Holt said. “It’s about the adoption papers,” he explained to Mrs. Holt.

“They have such sad eyes,” Mrs. Holt said, her own eyes blurring a little with tears. “They’re so polite, it breaks your heart. I couldn’t sleep all night, after the last visit, poor little tragic ladies and gentlemen in those horrible black clothes. I would like to take them all to my bosom.”

“Jack,” Holt said, “I’d like to ask you a question—are you committed to the government for life?”

“Well,” Jack said, puzzled, “I hadn’t really thought about it, I guess. They don’t have chains on me, if that’s what you mean…”

“What I’m driving at,” Holt said, “is, if something—uh—something advantageous, something very advantageous—came up, would you have an open mind on it?”

“I suppose so,” Jack said, wondering if Holt was going to offer him a job on the basis of the hour in the night club and the walk along the Tiber the night before. “I guess I’m as open-minded as the next man. I haven’t thought about it.” He smiled. “Nothing very advantageous has come up for about ten years.”

“Good,” Holt said crisply, as though Jack had just shaken hands on a deal. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“I want to tell you something, Jack,” Mrs. Holt said. “When we got home last night, Sam said to me, I like that young man. He’s solid. He’s not like most of the Americans you meet who’ve lived abroad for years—light and smart-alecky and cynical.” She beamed at Jack, decorating him officially with her husband’s approval.

“Well,” Jack said gravely, “that
is
nice to hear. Especially the young man part.”

“I don’t know how old you are, Jack,” said Mrs. Holt, “but you leave a young impression.”

“Thank you, Bertha,” Jack said, thinking, Maybe I ought to get her to talk to Bresach on my behalf.

“Please feel free to drop in here anytime, Jack,” Holt said. “New you know the way. You’re always welcome. And”—he looked around him with pride at the assemblage of guests drinking his liquor—“there’s no telling who you’re likely to meet up with here.”

“It’s an intellectual experience,” said Mrs. Holt. “Since I’ve come to Rome, I feel my brain expanding. Actually expanding. Would you believe it, until tonight, I never met a real, live modern composer of modern music.”

They drifted off, radiant, to greet a Sicilian novelist who had just published a book about the war, the villain of which was a captain in the American Army.

“Jack…” It was Despière, touching his arm. “I was hoping you’d come tonight.”

“I didn’t get a chance to say hello,” Jack said, shaking hands. “I was busy trying to figure out whether I was a round-headed aurochs or a flat-headed Henry Ford.”

Despière chuckled. “I like him, the Italian. At least he has theories. You’d be surprised how many people I meet these days who refuse to have any theories at all.”

“Oh, by the way,” Jack said, making himself sound offhand, “I met a boy who says he’s a friend of yours. A kid called Bresach.”

“Bresach?” Despière wrinkled his eyebrows in an effort of memory and pushed at the short bangs of hair that fell onto his forehead. “A friend of mine?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Oh, yes. I’ve seen him a couple of times with Veronica.” He looked slyly and mischievously at Jack. “Very handsome boy. Veronica’s crazy about him.”

“So he told me,” Jack said noncommittally.

“What did he want?”

“Nothing,” Jack lied. “I just met him by accident.”

“Be careful of him,” said Despière. “He once tried to commit suicide in somebody’s bathroom. He’s a very dramatic boy. I’ve seen him slap Veronica in the face because she smiled at an old friend in a restaurant.”

“What did she do?” Jack asked, not believing Despière.

“She stopped smiling at old friends,” Despière looked around him and drew Jack into a corner. “Will you do something for me, Jack?” he asked, his voice light and casual, as usual, but his eyes serious, searching Jack’s face.

“Of course,” Jack said. “What is it?”

Despière reached into his inside breast pocket and drew out a long sealed envelope. “Hold onto this for me for a while.” He gave Jack the envelope. “Put it away, put it away.”

Jack put the envelope, which was plump and bulging, into his pocket. “Do you want to tell me what to do with it?” he asked.

“Just hold onto it. When I come back, give it to me.”

“What do you mean, when you come back?”

“I’m leaving for Algiers tomorrow,” Despière said. “They cabled me from the office this morning. There’s a story they want me to get. I’ll just be gone six or seven days. You’ll still be here, won’t you?”

“Yes.”

“The paper wants a couple of thousand words on how atrocious the Algerian atrocities are,” Despière said. “I’m the atrocity editor. No decent up-to-date magazine is without one. Thanks. You’re a good boy.”

“You want to tell me anything else?”

Despière shrugged. “Well…” he drawled, “if I don’t come back, open the envelope.”

“Now, Jean-Baptiste,” Jack began.

Despière laughed. “It’s a small war, I know,” he said, “but I understand they’re using live ammunition. Anyway, atrocity editors have to think of all eventualities. One other thing. Don’t tell anybody I’m going to Algiers. Not anybody,” he repeated slowly.

“Where’re you supposed to be?” Jack said. “If anybody asks.”

“St. Moritz. I heard the snow was good. I’m staying with some friends. But you don’t know their name.”

“What about the piece about Delaney?”

“I’ll finish it when I get back,” Despière said. “This is the twentieth century—atrocities before art.” He looked at his watch. “I’m late,” he said. He patted Jack’s arm and smiled at him, his smile sweet and boyish and friendly, untouched by malice, and turned and walked off through the drinkers toward his small secret war, a short, swaggering, tough little figure in his sharply cut Roman suit. Jack watched him leave and noticed that he didn’t say good-bye to anyone.

Jack touched the bulge in his coat. Its weight disturbed him.
If I don’t come back, open the envelope.

Moved by a sudden impulse, Jack started through the crowd toward the door, to follow Despière. If a man is going to a war, however small, he thought, his friend can leave a cocktail party and accompany him. At least part of the way. At least to the nearest taxicab.

But as he neared the door a new, large group of guests came in, blocking his way, and before he could make his way through them, he felt a hand grasping him, hard, on the elbow, holding him back. Jack turned and saw that it was Stiles, grinning woodenly at him, standing close, the hand firm on his arm.

“Hi, brother,” Stiles said. “I’ve been wanting to say hello to you all night.”

“Some other time, if you don’t mind.” Jack tried to pull away without making it too obvious to the people around him, but Stiles, who was a large man, gripped him more firmly.

“That’s no way to treat an old friend, brother,” Stiles said. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember me, Mr. Royal.”

“I remember you,” Jack said. He jerked his arm suddenly and was free, but Stiles slid, with surprising agility, between him and the door, blocking it. The two men faced each other. Stiles still had the glazed, pugnacious drunkard’s grin on his face, happily prepared to make a scene. It’s not worth it, Jack thought. I probably can’t catch up with Jean-Baptiste by now, anyway.

“What’s on your mind?” Jack asked shortly. He felt uncomfortable in the actor’s presence, foolishly guilty.

“I thought maybe you and me could have a nice little talk together,” Stiles said. He had a curious, stiff-lipped manner of talking, hardly moving his mouth, the drunkard’s evening disguise. “About art and acting and allied subjects. I’m an old admirer of yours. When I first started acting, I used to try and sound like you.” He laughed breathily. “And now you’re getting paid to sound like me. Life’s little ironies, eh, Jack?” He rocked unevenly, his face coming close to Jack’s, the smell of gin strong on his breath, the drink in his glass slopping over and staining his trousers, unnoticed. “You’re not going to deny it, are you, Jack? The sneaky little dubbing-room sessions. You used to have a reputation as an honest man, you’re not going to deny it, are you?”

“I’m not going to deny anything,” Jack said.

“You’ve seen my performance, in fact, you must be the biggest godamn expert on my performance alive today,” Stiles said loudly. “Have you got any little hints on what I should do to improve it?”

“Yes,” Jack said. “Join Alcoholics Anonymous.”

“You’re a help,” Stiles said flatly. “You’re a big help. You sound like my godamned mother.” He sipped noisily at his martini. “Tell me,” he said, “how am I going to sound? Am I going to sound sincere and troubled? Am I going to sound pathetic and brave? Will I sound virile and tragic? Will the girls like me, Jack? My fate is in your hands, Jack. Don’t take it lightly.”

“I’m not taking anything lightly,” Jack said.

“Maybe when the picture comes out, I’ll sue you for de-de—formation of character.” Stiles laughed loudly at his pun. “A half million dollars. I could use a half million dollars. Especially when the news gets around that they had to bring in a clerk to read the lines for me in Rome. Boy, that’ll raise my price back home, won’t it?”

“Stop whining,” Jack said, annoyed with the gin-stained, foul-breathed actor clutching at him, grimacing close to his face. “You’ve got nobody to blame but yourself.”

“The saddest words of tongue or pen,” Stiles said, grinning loosely, the spit bubbling on his lips. “You’ve got nobody to blame but yourself.” He moved his hand clumsily, and brushed Jack’s shoulder with the glass. The glass dropped onto the floor, shattering. Stiles didn’t bother to look down at it. “Serves them right,” he said, looking around him bellicosely. “The bastards didn’t invite me. I’m the stinking pariah of the company. I’m the Leper of Rome. But I came anyway. And they didn’t have the guts to say, Blow, bud, this party is for ladies and gentlemen. I came for you, Jack. I’m an old fan, Jack, and I came for you. Aren’t you touched?”

“Why don’t you go home and get a good night’s sleep?” Jack said.

“You don’t know anything, Jack.” Stiles shook his head sadly. “A big grown man like you and you don’t know anything. I’m still a quart away from sleep, boy, a good fat quart…”

“Well, have a good time,” Jack started to move away, but Stiles held him once more, his hand shaky but tight on Jack’s sleeve.

“Wait a minute, Jack,” Stiles said. “I got a proposition to make you.” His voice sank to a hoarse whisper, and the drunkard’s flesh around his mouth quivered loosely. “Go away. Get out of town. Tell that bastard Delaney you reconsidered. Tell him you’re too proud. Tell him your wife’s dying. Anything. Leave tonight, eh, Jack? I won’t ask you what they’re paying you, but I’ll pay it. For doing nothing. Out of my own pocket,” he said desperately, his bloodshot eyes blinking, as though he were trying to hold back tears. “Go have a holiday. On me. If you do that, I swear I won’t touch a drop till the picture is finished…” He stopped. His hand dropped from Jack’s sleeve. He laughed loudly and wiped his mouth. “Ah, I was only kidding. What the hell, I wouldn’t give you ten cents. It was a joke, boy, I just wanted to see what you would say. What the hell difference does it make to me? The picture stinks anyway. Maybe I’ll hire you as my personal ghost. You can dub me in all my pictures. Probably give me a new lease on life. Have a good time in Rome, boy.” He clapped Jack on the shoulder, then walked, straight-backed, toward a window, threw it open, and stood there, staring out at the windy dark street, taking deep breaths of air, smiling widely.