William F. Buckley Jr. (29 page)

He felt confident that Rhodes would consult with Mr. Biddle and report back with a clearance for Danny to continue in the hotel profession.

The other problem was young Tony Astor. Using family money, to be sure, Astor had resurrected the dilapidated Mark Henry Hotel in Chicago. So the capital wasn’t his, but the creative work was, and at the time he waded into the Chicago situation, Tony Astor was only two years out of the University of Virginia. Tony was not yet thirty, but he was president and had a controlling interest in the Astor chain with its seven hotels, splendidly located. Tony Astor had a reputation—he paid large salaries to quick-minded and industrious young people.

Danny closed his eyes. A light fog was lifting, and he was achieving perspective.

It would be humiliating to go from president of Trafalgar to vice president of Astor. And what would they think at Trafalgar of a move so transparently a demotion? Wouldn’t it then be conjectured that some undisclosed pressure was responsible for his resignation?

No. He would have to move in on Astor in a different way. He would set up as hotel consultant—that’s always good. And all you need do is—open an office!

“Daniel T. O’Hara, Consultant to Presidents.”

He laughed. But in fact everybody recognizes that there are advantages to working for yourself, to making your own schedule; so that to quit as president of Standard Staples in order to become president of Daniel T. O’Hara Consultants—consultants to the Staples industry—was not by any means a step down.

After setting up shop, he would stage his advance on Tony Astor. He complimented himself on his forethought in sending a half-dozen letters over the past few years to Tony, congratulating him on his serial conquests in the hotel business. They had met from time to time, had even played tennis and sailed together. It would all pay off.

Now, Florry. Would he tell her before … or after?

But then,
just why
did he have to tell her
anything
on this trip? No one (who mattered) knew he was going to resign next week.

Danny was delighted with the speed of his thinking on the subject: He could write Florry when he got back to New York, or even telephone her.

He needed only to answer for himself a single question: Was he willing to say to her, “Okay, Florry. You win. Divorce ain’t easy, especially if it’s a Catholic at the other end. But it can be done. So, come and be Mrs. O’Hara.”

His eyes registered again on the image of the airplane’s movie screen. He winced.
That man in the movie!
Whatever he was called in Hollywood, his
real
name is: Francis Biddle! He stared at the screen, squinting his eyes for focus … until reality took over.

Of course, it wasn’t Biddle. He ordered another drink.

What had brought Francis Biddle to mind?

Yes, face it. Granted it would not help politically, far from it. But the real obstacle, the conclusive obstacle, was dear old Uncle Francis.

Danny would have to figure out a way to get himself to Los Angeles frequently. If absolutely necessary, he permitted himself a silent smile, he could pay for the round trips and the hotel
rooms himself! He could not bear the thought of indefinite absences from Florry. There was of course the obvious sensual joy, but her company was so special, her understanding of everything he said, her curiosity, the resilience of her mind, exactly complementing his. Et cetera.

But it would not do—certainly not for the time being—to bring Florry to Greenwich.

With Bradley Jiménez, everything was as usual. Danny made all the appointed rounds, visited with all the key personnel, showed the usual keen interest in the figures, gave a nice pep talk to key members, and confirmed at lunch with Jiménez that the arrangements for that night were as usual. He was through with his rounds by four.

Florry arrived on time, as ever. And, as had become now a fixed habit, or obsession, they made love before dinner. She looked especially ravishing, Danny thought, looking down at her, her head on the pillow, her long eyelashes closed. Oh God, how he loved her, loved loving her, loved making love to her, her responses so copiously reciprocal. Whatever he did, he must plan to be with her once a month, no matter what. They kissed tenderly, he dressed minimally, went into the living room and, in a few minutes, the dinner was served. She joined him, radiant—had that blond gleam in her hair escaped his attention until now? Or was she simply experimenting with some new gold-exfoliating hair wash or whatever? He would ask her. No, he would not ask her. Private business, hair color.

Florry chatted. She would compete the following week for the Salamanca scholarship. Danny noticed that she seemed much less eager than when she had first told him about the contest, almost three years ago. Florry had after all not even tried out for it in her sophomore and junior years—she would not leave Danny. Well then, why was she competing this year? Danny asked.

“I really have to, to appease Professor Agrippo. He has given me so much of his time, so much guidance. I had to make very elaborate excuses to skip the competition last year and the year
before. But this is my last chance, of course—after June I’ll no longer be an undergraduate. I hope to win the prize, of course—for the record. Then I’ll wait a week or two, and tell the committee I can’t leave my—
amante!
” She laughed. “No. I’ll tell them Sister Alicia absolutely needs me to take over the orphanage. Something like that. Don’t worry.”

“You don’t doubt you’ll win it?” Danny tucked into his asparagus and poured them both more wine.

“At this point only a native-born Spanish poet posing as an American could beat me. You know the rules? Nobody can compete who spoke Spanish as a child or who has traveled to Spain or spent more than two weeks in Mexico. Otherwise they’d just be handing our scholarship money to Spanish expatriates.

“But how goes the hotel business? I know the Trafalgar is doing well, at least during the twenty hours a week I’m there. You were nice to give me the job three years ago, but for a long time now I’ve really been earning my keep. There is tons of Latin-American business. And, by the way, the Ambassador has a Spanish-speaking person at
both
their desks.”

If he were going to tell her
anything
, now was the time. He was tempted. Well, he’d take just a
tiny
step in that direction.

“There’s a board meeting coming up. They’re bringing in trustees. You know that the stock is held by the Hyde Park people? I assume they’ll bring in trustees I can feel happy with. So I guess it’s safe to say: not much change.”

Florry looked slightly distracted. Suddenly she turned to him. “Danny, I can’t stay the night. Because—this is no fabricated excuse—Sister Alicia does need me very early in the morning. Three girls, sisters, are coming in to the orphanage, don’t speak any English, Mexican uncle is driving them up from San Diego. The mother disappeared—that kind of thing.”

Danny said he was disappointed, but she didn’t have to leave right after dinner, did she?

No, but maybe after an hour? He leaned over and kissed her deeply, lingeringly.

“Or so,” she managed.

•    •    •    •

She gave their coded knock on the hotel door:
dot-dot-dash-dash-dash.
The tall blond young man with the light blue eyes and the pearl-white teeth opened the door. They spoke only in Spanish. After a year at Salamanca, Tracy Gulliver could speak as well as any native Spaniard.

“Did you tell him?”

“Well, no, Tracy, I didn’t.”

He offered her a glass of wine, but she said no, she had had enough wine tonight.

“Why not?”

“After I was there for a while, I figured—”

“He … did it with you?”

Florry pushed him away. “Of
course
he did it, Tracy. I mean, grow up! If I
wasn’t
going to
do
it I wouldn’t have gone up to his room. He has paid over six thousand dollars for me during this year, plus the extra stuff I get in the hotel.” She smiled suddenly, and looked up at him coquettishly. “I mean, do you want to make a dishonest woman out of me?”

Tracy found it hard to smile, but finally did so. What, really, did it matter, one more time? But
the last time.

“So when will you tell him?”

“I decided I’d write to him from Salamanca!” She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “On stationery from Assistant Professor and Mrs. Tracy Gulliver.”

His smile was now radiant. “ ‘Tracy Gulliver’ said in Spanish isn’t easy.”

“I’ll practice.”

A
CABLE was waiting for Henry at Hué. It was from Richard Clurman, who advised Henry that his request was granted, that he could return from Saigon for a six-month leave. “At least six months. We’ll talk about it in New York.”

Henry spent two days attending the funeral of Than Koo, consoling his relatives and writing a detailed cable on the events of those terrible hours. In an entirely separate cable, addressed to Clurman, he acknowledged gratefully the considerate treatment of his request to leave Saigon for a while, but now he confessed that the experience of Hoile had “wiped me out. I know it’s only temporary, Dick, but honestly, I feel now no curiosity, no desire to write down what happened, to interview anybody about anything. I’m afraid I’m not going to be very much use to you out in
the field for a while, and I don’t mean out in the field in Saigon, or Rome or Moscow or Paris. I mean out in the field
anywhere.
”

After writing so solemn a sentence, his spirits lifted, and he went on, “Did you spot what Nelson Algren said a while ago? He captured my mood exactly. Somebody asked him how up he was on world affairs and Algren said, ‘Put it this way, if Marjorie Morningstar married the man in the gray flannel suit on my front stoop at noon, I wouldn’t bother to go to the wedding.’ I’m afraid I feel a little that way, but obviously I can’t take that out on Time Inc., so maybe I’d just better have a leave of absence without pay.”

When he got back to Saigon, Clurman had already responded: “
I HAVE AN IDEA. WHEN DO YOU GET TO NEW YORK? ADVISE.
”

At Guam there was the usual layover. He found himself walking into the PX. He stared at the bottle of forty-dollar brandy. He was no longer tempted to buy it.

He bought more of the usual things. For Tommy and Emily he got the new Japanese Olympus radios—one each. Children do not like to share toys, he reminded himself. Though Caroline had always offered to share hers with her older brother. That was true except for the little mother-of-pearl binoculars; she had wanted those so badly she simply hid them. He longed to see her again, and to tell her about Than Koo. She would understand.

He arrived in New York at noon on Saturday, called Caroline, and agreed to go to the country that afternoon. He bought the
New York Times
on the train and was astonished to read, on the business page, of the resignation of Daniel T. O’Hara as president of Martino Enterprises. What was going on? He read the entire news story and then turned to
The Wall Street Journal
, where he found a personal analysis combined with an interview. He read it hungrily.

“The resignation came as a surprise to Mr. O’Hara’s associates. It is known among his friends that O’Hara is interested in politics. In 1964 he put in an early bid for the Democratic nomination for the Senate, but was blown out of the political water when Robert F. Kennedy announced his own candidacy. One
associate speculated that Mr. O’Hara wished to devote much of his time during the next two years to lining up support for a race in 1968 against Senator Jacob Javits. The leading contender for the Democratic nomination is now Paul O’Dwyer, but Mr. O’Hara is young, well connected (his grandfather was President Roosevelt), and has built a reputation as a skillful manager.

“Questioned about the 1968 race, Mr. O’Hara said it was too early to talk about it, but he did not deny an interest in it. What will he do in the meantime? He will, he said, open a consulting business specializing in the development and maintenance of hotels. The firm will be called O’Hara Consultants. Two ‘skilled executives’ have agreed to join the firm, he said, but he declined, as premature, to give their names.”

Caroline was waiting for Henry at the Greenwich railroad station. Their embrace was intense. It struck them both at that moment that their reliance on each other was critical. Henry could sense that the union—Danny and Caroline—would not survive.

“Henry, let me suggest something. We go by the house, you can give Suzy a smooch—she’s the only one at home at this hour—and leave your bag. Then we’ll get into the car and drive off, have lunch somewhere, maybe the Red Barn at Wilton, get right away from it, what do you say?”

A half hour later, Caroline was at the wheel of Danny’s convertible. She left the station wagon for Thelma, who would crisscross the children in midafternoon to their various classes in piano, art, religion, typing, First Aid—whatever the schedule was for that day; it was all neatly typed out and tacked onto the bulletin board in the kitchen.

It was a soft day in spring, the azaleas on the Merritt Parkway sleepy and seductive, the air still and fragrant. Caroline drove slowly. Henry asked, How bad is it? She confessed that she felt in Danny a deep restlessness, a sense that an explosion had to come.

“What’s the business about his quitting Martino?”

“Believe it or not, I learned about it yesterday. But in talking with Lila a week ago, I now know that she knew it was coming. Something she said that made no sense when she said it comes to
life now. She said something like, ‘I don’t worry about what Danny will do.’ I thought it was some vague reference to the running for Senator business, but Lila doesn’t much go in for speculative thought. She obviously knew that Danny had to do something because Danny was no longer going to be president of Martino.

“But that’s
all
I can tell you.”

“And on the other front, Carol?” Carol. Only Henry called her that.

“On the other front, he is more distant every month. He has a girl, Henry, in Los Angeles. He goes there a lot. I had an anonymous letter. I assume it was written by the girl’s other—gentleman. Pretty conclusive stuff. The letter had an odd P.S., said that if ever I wanted to prove a point to Danny, or something of that sort, I should ask him about his mother’s necklace. What’s that all about?”