"You're getting morbid. Come on. Let's go on board."
The narrow gangway leading to the freighter's deck danced and swayed beneath their feet as they climbed. Betty was too afraid of catching her stil-leto heels to worry about the sun anymore. And Roger, just behind her, kept his mind from thinking of other things by concentrating on the irregular, flowing motion of her hips beneath the tight skirt that she wore. He noticed that it was a new skirt and wondered if she had bought it just for the trip. The idea made him smile and the smile lasted until he had reached the top of the gangway. Then he couldn't help turning and looking back.
All around him were the new docks of Brooklyn, humming and clanking and grinding with activity. Just beyond were the two overhung terraces of the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway crowned by the long, bench-lined Esplanade. And beyond that the too-familiar streets of the neighborhood where his life had been dying. Over all this hung the grim March sun-half-hidden by the rolling clouds tat tumbled across the late winter sky in the teeth of an icy wind. He shivered and his heart caught. He was leaving. It was real.
"Come on." he said, pushing Betty towards the open doorway before she could look back. "Let's find our cabin."
It was warmer inside the ship, but the hum of machinery came through the antiseptic walls.
"It's so new." Betty whispered as if she couldn't quite believe it.
"Only a year old. It's the newest ship this line has."
"And look at all the wood paneling. Just like a yacht."
"Sure. Our own private yacht. Nine thousand tons and with a German crew. Of course, we'll be sharing it with a few old friends whom we haven't met yet...."
"It's beautiful. Just beautiful."
They found the purser in his cabin. He was a smiling, dimpled young German with shifty blue eyes.
"Er ... Mr. and Mrs. Roger Craven." Roger said to the purser as he handed him their ticket.
"Yes, of course. Welcome on board, Mr. and Mrs. Craven." the purser replied. "I hope you will have a good trip. Your cabin is Number Five on the deck above this. We will deliver your luggage to you directly."
"Thanks. Oh incidentally, I happen to be carrying a fair amount of money with me. Cash and bank checks. Would you recommend that I leave it with you?"
"With me?"
"You know to put in the safe."
"Ah. Of course if you wish me to do so, I will be happy to comply. But it is not necessary. There is complete safety for all personal effects on board the ship. The crew is entirely reliable."
"I was thinking about when we stop at some of those ports on the way Rio, Porte Alegre, and so on."
"Yes, certainly. I will be happy to put your money in the safe if you desire."
"Good. I'd appreciate it. For my own peace of mind, you understand."
"Naturally."
Roger drew two brown envelopes from the inside pocket of his coat. The first contained two thousand dollars in United States currency. The second contained three bank checks made out on El Banco National de Argentina for five thousand dollars each. It was a good chunk of all the money he had in the world. The rest-some eight thousand dollars was in a personal savings account in a midtown branch of the Bowery Savings Bank. He also had another forty five hundred in stocks, but they were mostly growth stocks and his broker had advised him to leave them alone for the time being since the Market had been having a rather bearish winter.
The purser made out a detailed inventory of the contents of each envelope and signed it carefully. Then he handed the receipt to Roger with a dimpled grin.
"Oh ... er, one thing more." Roger said. "Yes, Mr. Craven?"
"My wife Mrs. Craven has her passport made out to her professional name. Elizabeth Davison."
"Elizabeth Davison, of course."
"She's a writer, you see."
"Ah? Then she will be interested to know that there is another American writer on board."
"Another writer?"
"Yes. A very famous writer. Tli Berman. You know him?"
"Y. . .yes, of course. The novelist. He's on board?"
"Going to Buenos Aires-just as you are. I will tell him about Mrs. Craven when I see him again."
"Well that's all right. Don't go out of your way."
"My pleasure, Mr. Craven. You will find that our few passengers all become good friends on such a long voyage as this."
"How many passengers are on board?"
"Eleven this time. Normally, we carry twelve. But Mr. Berman has taken a whole cabin for himself in order that he may work."
"Many Americans?"
"Some Americans. The rest Latins. But they all speak English. You will have no trouble talking to them."
"Okay, Thanks. I guess we may as well get settled in our cabin."
"Yes. Number Five. On the deck above this one."
"What time will we be sailing, by the way?"
"In one hour, or perhaps two. These matters are somewhat flexible, you understand."
"Sure. I understand. Thanks again."
They found their cabin without difficulty. It was a large roam paneled in walnut and furnished in Swedish modern. The two beds were placed side by side at one end of the room with a large night table between that was built into the wall. At the other end was a dresser, a dressing table, a low table fastened to the wall, and two very comfortable chairs. A short entry hall led to the door. On one side of this were two closets with sliding panels and on the other side the door leading to the bathroom. Two small, curtained windows were set into the outside wall on either side of the dresser.
"Quite a set-up." Roger said as he wandered around the cabin. "On the Queen Mary, this would be a top-priced First Class cabin."
"Yes ... Darling, why did you have to tell him that ridiculous story about my being a writer?"
"Well I had to tell him something. They're bound to check our passports sooner or later. And when they see that your last name is different from mine...."
"You could have told him that it was my maiden name."
"Except that your passport is brand new and we don't exactly look like honeymooners. I'm sorry. It was the most believable white lie I could thing of."
"But if this fellow Berman ever talks to me, he'll know I'm not a writer."
"I didn't say what kind of a writer you are, you know."
"Yes but. . . "
"So if Berman asks, just tell him you write film scripts. For Industrial films. That doesn't require much talent, as I well know."
"I wish you could have thought of something else."
"Well I couldn't, so let's not waste our time regretting."
"You don't have to snap at me."
"Oh Betty...."
"I mean it. Just because I...."
"Okay. I'm sorry. Chalk it up to the excitement of leaving.
"Well try to remember that I'm excited too. More than you, probably. This is the first time I've ever been away from the United States ... And it's forever."
"It's also forever in my case."
"Yes, but you've been out of the country before. You've even been to Argentina before."
"I know, I know. Now let's not argue."
"No, I don't want to argue. I don't even want to live for the next few weeks. I just want to wake up one morning and get off the ship in Buenos Aires-with the sun out and a whole new world waiting for us."
"Sure. That's the way it will be. But the trip's going to be fun too. You can relax and...."
"And think. But I don't want to think. I just want to get off the ship in Buenos Aires-as soon as possible."
She turned away, crossed the room with a long sigh, and then sat down on the edge of the bed and began to cry. Roger sat down beside her and pulled her against him.
"Honey, come on," he crooned. "It's going to be all right."
"I ... I'm afraid. "
"What's there to be afraid of? We'll be leaving soon and from then on the world's going to be made just for us-tailored to our own special dreams."
"But I'm afraid of ... of that man."
"What man."
"B. . .Berman."
"Berman? But you don't even know him."
"Well ... I'm still afraid .
Now come on. No more worrying. We're going to have a wonderful trip. How about coming out on deck with me to look over the ship." see it anymore."
"So what if he does? He probably wouldn't be interested anyway. Now come on. No more worrying. We're going to have a wonderful trip. How about coming out on deck with me to look over the ship."
"No."
"All right...."
"I'm sorry, darling. But I just don't want to see it anymore."
"It?"
"The City. I don't want to see it looking at me watching me. . .run away. I don't ever want to see it again."
"Okay. Anything you say."
"In fact, I think I'll take a little nap-until we sail. I'm suddenly very tired."
"Sure. Let me see if there's an extra blanket in one of these closets."
"That's all right, Roger. Don't bother."
"No bother. Dou you want to close the curtains? Yeah, here's a blanket. Feels like cashmere, as a matter-of-fact."
"Don't be silly. They don't make blankets out of cashmere."
"On a ship like this, you never can tell. Shall I close the curtains?"
"No, no. That's all right. Just shut the door when you go out."
"Yeah, I think I'll take a look around. Leave you here to get some rest. Come on. Lie down. I'll tuck you in."
"I'm sorry if I seem like a ... a...."
"You don't seem like anything. Now lie down."
He covered her with the blanket, then bent down and kissed the tip of her nose. She smiled and closed her eyes. But as he started for the door she abruptly rose and called after him.
"Darling, I hope you realize what I'm doing for you," she said. "And what I'm giving up."
"Of course," he said. "I know what we're both giving up and why. It's part of the fact that we love each other."
CHAPTER TWO
"Hello, shipmate."
Roger stopped and turned back. A man with gray hair and a broad smile was standing in the doorway holding an unopened bottle of Scotch in one hand.
"You are a passenger, aren't you, pal?, the man went on.
"Yes, I am. My wife and I."
"Well, come on in, have a snort. I was just about to open this bottle anyway. The Missis and me are going to drink our farewell toast to Brooklyn."
He found himself accepting the invitation without quite knowing why. Maybe it was because he was afraid of disturbing Betty if he went back to his own cabin.
"The name's Hoffstader," the man said once they were inside the cabin. "Fred and Ethel Hoffstader."
A small, motherly woman with lavender tinted white hair stood up from the lower drawer of the dresser where she was arranging clothes and smiled warmly.
"How do you do," Roger said. "I'm Roger Craven."
"Glad to meet you," and Hoffstader shook hands energetically. "Just call us Fred and Ethel. We got a long trip ahead of us so we may as well make it as friends, right? You say you're wife's traveling with you?"
"Yes. She's resting in our cabin."
"I get it. Sailing nerves."
"Now Freedie. Don't be rude," Mrs. Hoffstader said.
"We'll, it's nothing to be ashamed of. You should have seen the state Ethel was in when we started out on our first trip. She was convinced the ship would sink before we even passed Governor's Island."
"Oh, Freddie. . . "
"This your first trip, Roger?"
"Yes. Well ... I've been abroad before, but never by ship."
"Believe me, there's nothing else like it. You want to rest-take a ship. You want to make friends-take a ship. This is our third trip."
"Oh really?"
"Sure. Two years ago we took a cruise through the Mediterranean. Last year it was Japan and the Philippines. Now we're off to South America. All by freighter."
"Oh, I see."
"But here I stand talking about myself when what you really come in for was some Scotch. Ethel, you wanna see if there's some glasses in the bathroom?"
"I already checked, Freddie. There's only two."
"Oh, well, that's okay. I can see the shot glass. You got it unpacked yet."
"Yes. Right here."
"Good. Well, come on, Roger. Sit down."
"Oh, thanks."
"Excuse the place being such a mess, but we're still unpacking. After today, you'll wonder if we dumped half this stuff overboard. Nobody can keep house like Ethel-even in a ship's cabin. In fact, on our first trip she even brought along pictures to hang on the walls. How do you like yours-straight or a little water?"
"About half a glass of water, please."
Roger hated Scotch, but the Hoffstader's warmth and hospitality was so overwhelming that it seemed to kill the bitter taste. The three of them sat there amid piles of clothes-Roger and Ethel on the chair and Fred on the edge of the bad-sipping their drinks and chatting like old friends.
"You met any of the other passengers yet," Fred asked at one point.
"Just you two."
"Generally, it's at the first meal that everybody gets acquainted. But I looked in on the Spanish family down the hall a little while ago. Four of them-parents and two kids. All going back to Uruguay. Look like nice people. Then there's the guy next to us. I saw him coming on board. Brother, what a character. The purser told me his name and said he writes books."
"Oh, that must be Eli Berman."
"Yeah, that's the name. You know him?"
"No. I've read a few of his books, that's all."
"Well, I don't know what kind of books he writes, but wait'll you see him. He looks like something out of the Old Testament."
"How do you mean?"
"I can't do him justice with words. You'll see him at dinner. Hey, we're moving."
Roger glanced out the window and saw some lights gliding by slowly. He was also aware of a deeper throb from the engines. Yes. The hawsers were away now. The umbilical cords had been cut at last. So goodbye to all that.
"Well Ethel. Here we go again." Fred said with a grin.
"Long live Brooklyn." She answered.
"Right. Long live Brooklyn."
They drained their glasses ceremonially. There was a long moment of silence. Then Ethel said 'Excuse me' and rushed into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Fred looked slightly embarrassed and grinned weakly.
"Don't mind her, Roger," he said.
"No, no. That's perfectly all right."
"She's a very sentimental woman and she's spent all her life in Brooklyn. So each time we start off on a trip-just as soon as we find out we're moving-we drink that toast and then she locks herself in the John and has a good cry for about five minutes. After that she's fine. But I still don't get it. It's not like we weren't coming back or something. I don't know, women are funny."
"Yes, women are funny."
"Oh incidentally-for your wife's sailing nerves..." and Fred began rummaging in the suitcase that lay open on the bed next to him. "I got something here that'll fix her up fine."
"Well, that's all right. Don't go to any trouble."
"No trouble. And we want to make sure she starts off the trip feeling good, don't we? Yeah, here it is." He pulled out a small bottle containing some red pills. "My daughter's married to a doctor and he give these to Ethel before our first trip. Some sort of tranquilizer, I think."
"But I don't want to use up your supply."
"Oh hell, one's not going to make any difference. Besides, Ethel never takes them anymore."
He placed a red pill in a piece of tissue paper and handed it to Roger.
"Well thanks." Roger said, knowing it would be useless to protest any more. "And as a matter-of-fact, I guess I should be getting back to our cabin now. My wife..."
"Sure. It won't be long before dinner. I'll see you then. And we'll look forward to meeting your wife."
"Thanks. And thanks for the drink."
"Don't mention it." And then, as Roger left the cabin, he heard Fred knock on the bathroom door and call out to his wife: "Ethel...? Honey, when you're finished will you see if you can find my razor? I wanna shave before dinner." .
He felt better now-because of the Scotch and the Hoffstaders. But he couldn't help envying them a little. Nor could he hide his strange eagerness to see what Eli Berman looked like.
Dinner was served while the ship was passing through the Narrows. They sat at one long table and the food was distinctly Teutonic in flavor. All even passengers were present-Roger and Betty, the Hoffstaders, the Uruguayan family (two smiling parents and two hopelessly serious college age daughters), a pair of young Brazilian businessmen, and Eli Berman.
There had been no photographs of him on the jackets of the books Roger had read and thus he was seeing for the first time a man whom he felt he knew and had already formed certain opinions about. The shock to his illusions was considerable, for Berman didn't look as if he could be anyone's kindly old uncle. He was a tall, gaunt man in his fifties with a prophets' flowing beard and hard black eyes that made Roger remember what Betty had said about writers knowing everything. His face was angular and so empty of flesh that the bones seemed about to pierce his skin. And he said nothing as the meal progressed. After a steady, brief glance at each person around the table he refused even to look at them again.
Fred, on the other hand, took it upon himself to act as official host since the Captain and the mates were busy on the Bridge and would eat later. He introduced himself and his wife, then Roger (whom he treated like a friend of many years) and Betty, then got the others to confess their names and destinations. His effervescent good will flowed in all directions at once, it seemed, and had spread an atmosphere of easy companionship around the table by the time the meal was over. He kidded the two Uruguayan girls until one of them finally broke down and smiled (to the accompaniment of wild, gleeful screams from her parents), spoke in glowing tones of his eagerness to see South America to the two Brazilians, and even managed to make Berman admit that he wrote books. This launched him into an involved and humorous description of his former duties with the telephone company which he suddenly broke off to enquire about Roger's work.
"I make films." Roger answered.
"Really? You mean like at the movies?"
"Well, no. Not features. Films for business and industry-and TV commercials. Lately it's been mostly TV commercials."
"That must be a lot more interesting than the telephone company. Ethel thinks some of the commercials on television are better than the regular programs. Right honey?"
"Yes. Especially during the day."
"Then you're a rare woman, Ethel." Roger said.
"You going to be making movies in South America?" Fred went on. "Is that why you're taking this trip':"
"As a matter-of-fact, we're moving to South America permanently. I have a friend in Buenos Aires who runs a film unit for the Argentine government. And I'm going to work for him."
"My goodness, such a big step to take." Ethel said." Leaving New York forever. I could never do that. Not in a million years. Won't you miss it, Betty? New York, I mean."
"From our standpoint, it's sort of a God-send." Roger broke in. "I was getting awfully tired of grinding out TV commercials and my friends makes films that have a bit more to them. Also, Betty never actually liked New York that much. She's from New England, you see. A small town. We're both from out of town, as a matter-of-fact. Originally, I mean. New York is wonderful but it's never really been home to us."
"Well I think you're doing a great thing-moving all the way to Buenos Aires so you can do the kind of work you want." Fred said enthusiastically. "That takes more courage than most people have. How about it, Mr. Berman? Don't you think it's a great thing?"
"Yes, of course." Berman answered quietly. "People should always do the kind of work that pleases them."
"Sure. The only trouble is, a lot of people get themselves tied up with too many responsibilities. You know, like children and mortgages..."
"Do you have any children, Betty?" Ethel asked.
"No..."
"Yes." Roger said at the same moment. They looked at each other in confusion and Fred grinned.
"Weill come on, folks," he said. "Which is it?"
"A little of both, I guess you might say." Roger answered finally. "We're expecting a baby in September. Our first."
"Hey, that's great. We've got two. Both of them grown up and married. Good kids, too. My son's an English professor at Columbia. He probably knows all about your books, Mr. Berman."
"I hope so."
"Say incidentally. What kind of books do you write?"
"The kind that please me."
"Oh ... But I mean ... well, you know-detective stories or love stories or..."
"Let us say that I write about the Great American Pastime."
"You mean Baseball? Say, I know a guy..."
"No, not Baseball."
"Yeah, I guess you're right. You can't call it the Great American Pastime any more. Not since the Dodgers left town. It's only another business now. But seriously, Eli ... you don't mind if I call you Eli, do you?"
"Not at all."
"Okay. Seriously, Eli. Just what are your books about? I'm sorry to say that I haven't read any of them. In fact, to be perfectly honest, I never even heard of you before today. But that don't mean anything since I'm sort of what they call a lowbrow."
"Well, I said my books were about the Great American Pastime-which can be defined as the process of moving up in the world."
"Yeah? Well ... Look, I'm sorry Eli. Maybe I'm just stupid or something, but I still don't get it."
Berman smiled ever so slightly and leaned back in his chair.
"Never mind, my friend. Let me offer you a cigar instead."
"Sure. Thanks."
"And let me offer the rest of you gentlemen cigars too."
"Er ... not for me, thanks." Roger spoke up without quite knowing why. "I smoke a pipe."
"Ah. One of the elite." And Berman smiled again, this time more to himself, as he took a black leather cigar case from an inside pocket.
Roger and Betty went to their cabin early that night. Both were tired and both found it a little hard to be with the others for very long without feeling a bit uneasy.
"But's it's just because of the habits we've gotten into." He explained as they were undressing. "We-ve had to be so careful about letting other people see us together, and habits have a way of hanging on. But we'll break them soon enough. The others think we're just another married couple moving to South America and in a day or two that's what we'll fell like."
"I ... hope so."
"Oh course, honey. Just give it time."
"I mean, I hope the others..."
"Oh sure. We don't have to worry about them. They're all nice people. Especially Fred and Ethel."
"Yes, they're very nice. But Berman..."
"Berman will turn out to be as human as the rest, despite his beard."
They left only the night light burning and sat down on the beds facing each other in their night clothes. But for some reason, Betty refused to let her eyes meet his.
"Are we out of sight of land yet?" she asked.
"I don't know. It's too dark to see much. But I glanced out the window before and didn't see any lights on the horizon."
"The ship is rolling more, I noticed. That must mean we're out in the ocean."
"Yes. Somewhere between Long Island and New Jersey. But in any case, there won't be any land around when we wake up tomorrow morning."
Then her eyes met his imploringly, almost desperately.
"Roger, you ... you're not sorry about all this are you? You're not sorry that we're going away together and will only have each other from now on?"
"Sorry? Are you serious? Remember, honey. I was the one who talked you into this. I was the one who thought up the whole idea and made all the arrangements."
"But ... you could be sorry now."
"Yes. And I could fly back to Brooklyn Heights if I had wings. But I don't have wings and I'm not sorry about anything."
"Because it's important that we never be sorry, darling. We're not like the others-the Hoffstaders, that South American couple. We don't have all that weight of tradition and social approval on our side to make it all right for us to have occasional regrets."
"I know."
"We have to love each other ten times as much as other couples. We just have to."
"Of course, honey. And if I didn't love you twenty times as much as I could love anyone else, I wouldn't be here now."
"Come sit by me."
He moved over to the other bed. And she immediately slipped her arm around his waist. The thin length of her body pressed against his-a body that contained so many hidden fires, and also contained his child. He pulled her head into the hollow of his neck and they sat there in silence for a while, listening to the steady beat of the engines.
Then she stirred and sighed faintly.
"John may not even be home from the lab yet." She said. "He may not even have read my letter yet."
"And Belinda's probably just getting ready to go to her theater out in San Francisco. She won't get my letter until tomorrow. But so what? Those two people aren't part of our world anymore."
"Just legally."
"Until we're beyond the three mile limit-which we may be already."
"I hope so ... Darling."
"Yes?"
"You know something."
"What."
"This is the first room that's ever really been ours. I mean, really ours. That hotel room was always in your name. I was just a ... visitor."
"Now honey..."
"No, I don't mean it that way. Just that this is the first room of our own we've ever had. And that sort of makes it like our ... wedding night, doesn't it."
He couldn't help chuckling.
"Well it's nothing to laugh about."
"No, but your attempts to be subtle are. So you want to make like newlyweds, eh?"
"I just want you to love me."
"Sure."
He kissed her slowly. She moved closer to him immediately and one strap of her nightgown slipped from her shoulder. He slid off the other strap and began caressing her naked skin.
"Ummm ... Oh darling, it's got to be all right for us. Make it all right. Show me how right it's going to be..."
He was kissing her breasts now. Her small, pointed, wondrously feminine breasts that pulsed and danced beneath his tongue like beings with a life of their own. She slipped her arms through the open front of his pajama top and dug her finger nails into his back.
"Yes, yes ... Oh darling ... I love you so much."
And then they were together. And then the pounding of the engines was drowned out by the pounding of their hearts. This was the only form of Eternity they knew and they tried to make it last as long as they could.
Outside, a cold moon stared down as the gray and white ship, bedecked with lights, plunged ahead into the grim whitecaps of the winter Atlantic.
A man and woman-each married to another person-running away together from all that was Past.
Why?
CHAPTER THREE
Roger Craven had just selected the book in which he was going to try and interest himself for the evening when the phone rang. At first he was startled. The phone hadn't rung in weeks-not since Belinda went off on tour with her play.
It rang a second time and he answered it. A woman's voice spoke on the other end. "Hello, Roger?" the voice said. "Yes."
"Oh Roger, this is Betty Davison."
"Betty? Well, how are you? We haven't seen you people in a long time."
"I know. I tried to reach Belinda a few times several weeks ago but I guess she was too busy to call back."
"I'm afraid she isn't here now. Been on tour with the play for the past month."
"Then I guess you're home all alone, aren't you."
"For practical purposes, yes. The baby goes to bed early and that nurse isn't what you'd call stimulating intellectual company. Gives me a chance to catch up on my reading."
"Well I was wondering if you'd like to come over here tonight. I'm having a little party."
"Great. You and John?"
"Just me. John's away at a medical convention this weekend. It's only a few of the neighbors-the Morrises, the Rosens ... Nothing imagine or involved. But if you'd like to come over..."
"Thanks. I'd like to very much. No Bridge in the offing, is there?"
"None planned, but we'll see. Why don't you come over about eight-thirty or nine."
"All right. Fine."
"And Roger...? "
"Yes?"
"I hope you don't mind being asked at the last minute this way. But we've sort of gotten out of touch these past few months. And then tonight I started thinking that with Belinda away..."
"Oh listen, never mind the apologies. We're old friends, aren't we? I'm just glad you called."
"Well I'll expect you around eight-thirty or nine, then."
"Right. See you."
"Goodbye."
The Davisons lived in a house that had been converted into apartments so long ago that it was hard to believe the house had originally been designed for only one family. The front stoop was gone, the window cornices were gone, the fireplaces bricked up and plastered over, the ceilings new and plain. There were ten apartments in the house now. And the Davisons' was probably the nicest because it was on the ground floor and had a sun parlor that opened out into a garden where Betty grew roses and let her two cats roam.
Roger arrived in between couples. The Morrises had already gone to work on their first round of drinks when he entered the living room and the Rosens showed up five minutes later. Bob Rosen was also in the film business, but he and Roger rarefy saw each other outside the Neighborhood. He was one of the top young cameramen in New York and his wife Zelda had inherited enough money so he only had to shoot those films that particularly interested him. Jerry Morris worked for a corporate law firm in Wall Street and one look at him was all that was needed to know that he had been educated at Harvard. His wife Rose painted, and a rather confused impression of the view from the Esplanade hung on the Davisons' living room wall.
"What's this I hear about Belinda's going off and leaving you for the winter?" Bob said with a grin.
"A truly dedicated artist." Roger answered. "After the splash she made on Broadway last season she could have done another play here in
New York. But she decided that a few months of touring the provinces would do her good."
"You must come and have dinner with us, then." Zelda said.
"Thanks. I'd like that. Even Foffe's roast duck begins to wear thin after a few weeks."
"But let's make it soon." Bob said. "I'm leaving for Ghana in another three weeks."
"Ghana? What are you shooting there?"
"Something to do with Land Reform. Part of a new Documentary series for television."
"Very nice."
"Yeah. And it gives me a chance to shoot in Black and White again."
"It's still the same play, isn't it?" Jerry Morris said.
"That's right. But Belinda's switched over to the lead now. Part of the challenge, she says."
"Well I only wish we could see her in this new role." Rose said. "She's probably the best thing that's happened to Broadway since Julie Harris. And it's not just that she's so beautiful, either. She moved with the grace of a ballerina and has a depth of soul that's so very uncommon these days. I'd love to paint her sometimes."
"Maybe when she gets back."
The party remained sedate and conversational for the next several hours.
Betty said very little during these hours. She kept refilling their glasses whenever they were empty and the rest of the time say quietly on a chair dragged in from the kitchen listening to their good-natured debating. Roger wished that she'd go a little easier on the liquor, since she had a ridiculous tendency to throw herself at other men than usually subdued and the alcohol seemed to be having no effect on her at all. He guessed that she wasn't too happy about John being away for the weekend. That was probably the reason for this party.
Then, during a lull in the conversation, she abruptly looked at each one of them and began speaking in a wistful voice.
"The trouble with us is that we don't know how to be young anymore." she said.
They turned to her in mild surprise-more at the sound of her voice than because of what she had said. Jerry was the first one to reply.
"Maybe it's just that we've finally outgrown the last vestiges of adolescence." He said.
"But why does that have to make us dull?" she went on.
"Never. You don't have a dull bone in your head."
"I don't think you're dull either. And Jerry certainly isn't dull. It's just his Harvard aplomb."
"What about me?" Rose said.
"And me? Zelda said, joining in as if it were all a game.
"A pair of completely stimulating young women." Jerry said. "Right Bob."
"Right."
"No, I'm serious." Betty said, a little more intensely now. "Look at us-sitting here like parlor oracles, discoursing sanctimoniously about the ways of the world. You'd thing we were all eighty years old."
"Maybe it's the age we live in." Zelda sighed.
"No." Betty declared. "It isn't the age or the Hydrogen Bomb or the Cold War or anything else. It's us. We've forgotten how to be what we really are."
"Ah. The problem of Self-identification." Bob said. "That was Harry Bronstein's specialty before he took that job in Chicago working for a Motivation Research outfit."
"Maybe she's right, actually." Rose said. "But what can we do about it?"
"Well, I'll show you what we can do about it." and Betty leaped up from her chair and kicked off her shoes. "We can forget about the world's problems for the rest of tonight and play Spin-the Bottle."
"Play what? "And Jerry's aplomb dropped down around his knees for a moment.
"Spin-the-Bottle." Betty replied. "A game for happy children."
"Gee, I don't even know the rules." Bob said.
"I played it once, I think." Zelda said. "When I was in Sixth Grade."
"It's very simple." Betty said. "We all sit down on the floor in a circle and one person spins a soda bottle. Whoever it points to when it stops gets a kiss. And that person spins the bottle next."
"Suppose I spin and it stops at Roger." Bob said wryly. "Do I have to kiss him?"
"Of course not. You just spin again. The same thing if a woman spins and it ends up pointing to another woman."
"That sounds reasonable enough." Jerry said soberly.
"I think it sounds great." and Bob winkled roguishly. "You know, I've sort of had my eye on Rose for some time now."
"Be careful, honey." Zelda said. "Remember to set a good example for our son."
"You set the example. I'm going to have some fun."
"Well maybe I'll have some fun too and let him set his own example."
"Sure. Then he can grow up to be an oracle like his old man."
"And play Spin-the-Bottle." Rose said.
"Right."
"I'll get a bottle from the kitchen." Betty said. "Everybody sit down on the floor in a circle."
"And to make it more interesting, let's use the sunroom for the kissing." Jerry said. "Everybody gets exactly sixty seconds. Roger, let's have your watch. It's got a chronograph mechanism on it. We'll use it to time each couple."
Roger handed over his watch a little reluctantly and joined the others on the floor. He was slightly annoyed with Betty for breaking up their discussion with her insistence on playing this childish game. But the others seemed to consider it a good idea so there was nothing he could do. Also, he didn't like to sit on floors-even to talk. He was used to chairs and liked them.
But Betty had kicked off her shoes and that was the usual sign that she was starting to get a little high. So from this point on the party could turn into a standard, old fashioned blast. Well, bring on the happy days of youth again.
Betty spun the bottle first and it stopped at Jerry. They retired to the privacy of the sun room for exactly one minute and Jerry came back with a rather foolish grin on his face. He spun the bottle and it stopped at Rose. This precipitated an argument as to whether husbands should be required to kiss wives (and vice versa), and it was finally agreed that a handshake across the circle would be enough. So Rose spun the bottle and it stopped at Roger. As they headed for the sun room together, Jerry called out good-naturedly:
"Remember now. "I'm timing you. No liberties."
Rose liked to think of herself as rather an arty sort because of her paintings, but her general appearance was really too wholesome and sisterly to carry it off well. However, she seized him around the neck dramatically and made him bend her backwards in the style of a silent movie as they exchanged a moist but meaningless kiss.
Roger's first spin of the bottle stopped at Bob-who immediately cocked his head to one side and smiled like a fag.
"Spin again, spin again." Betty said.
Next time the bottle stopped at Zelda and off they went to the sun room trailed by a lascivious remark from Bob. Zelda was a dark, sultry-looking type with very impressive breasts whose contours couldn't be hidden no matter what sort of dress she might wear. But her kiss lasted no longer than the wink of an eye.
Zelda spun the bottle and it stopped at Bob. There was another handshake across the circle and then Bob spun. This time he and Betty went off to the sun room, but they stayed somewhat less than a full minute. Then Betty spun and the bottle stopped at Roger. He looked up and found her smiling and she took his hand as they marched off to the sun room.
"I hope you're enjoying yourself." He said to her, a little wearily, when they faced each other.
"Relax and live a little." She answered and held out her arms.
He kissed her dryly and wondered how much longer it would take for the others to get tired to this foolishness.
But then something happened.
Her warm, quivering length had crept against him more passionately than the circumstances warranted. And she was returning his kiss with a fire that seemed to burn away all awareness of those in the living room. His arms gripped her fiercely now and his tongue slid over her teeth into the warm hollow of her mouth. She gave a sigh that was almost a moan. Her fingers curled up through his hair-pulling his mouth even more firmly down on hers. His body stiffened as she ground her hips against him longingly.
And for the rest of that minute they were practically making open love to each other-standing up, there in the sun room, with their friends just beyond the corner of the half-open door.
"Okay, folks. The minutes up." Jerry called from the living room.
They broke off their deep kiss reluctantly.
"We ... we'd better go back." Roger gasped.
"Yes..."
"I don't ... have any lipstick on me, do I."
"No, you're all right."
For what little remained of the evening Roger was in an overwhelmed daze. He continued playing the game absently-going into the sun room with Rose or Zelda as the situation demanded. Twice more he and Betty were thrown together by the spin of the bottle. Each time their kiss led them far into the preliminaries of love-making. And as they grew more used to each other, their caresses became more intimate until Roger had all he could do to break away from her when time was called.
Then the party was over and everyone was saying goodnight. Roger got his watch back from Jerry and stuffed it absently into his pocket. Then, coming to a sudden decision, he walked into the bathroom and locked the door behind him.
He washed his hands, then rubbed his face with cold water.
He started to buckle on his watch, but his fingers were trembling and it fell into the sink with a clatter. The crystal jumped out of its frame and, when he put it to his ears, he found that he had stopped ticking. The watch had been a Christmas present from Belinda right after they were married. It was the only gift of any practical value he had ever received from her. And now it was broken.
He listened at the door for a few seconds. No voices. The others had gone. So he sucked in his breath, slid back the bolt, and opened the door.
Betty was wandering around the living room, still in her stocking feet, collecting glasses and ash trays.
"Oh, has everybody gone?" he said, conscious that his voice was a trifle louder than necessary.
"What...? Yes, they've gone."
"Well here. Let me give you a hand cleaning up."
"That's all right. I'm almost done."
"I'll help you anyway."
They stacked all the glasses in the kitchen sink and emptied the ash trays into the garbage can.
"I'll wash them in the morning." She said, indicating the sinkfull of dirty glasses with a wave of her hand.
"I don't mind staying and ... drying while you wash."
"No, that's all right."
He was at a loss over what to say next. There was no sign that she even remembered what they had done to each other in the sun room, much less considered it a prelude to anything else. He began feeling a little foolish and was on the point of going home when she suddenly turned on the radio and found some light music. Then she turned to him with that smile.
"We've never danced together, have we." She said, gliding towards him.
"I guess not."
"Well?"
They started dancing together-slowly, a little awkwardly at first. But the dancing lasted only about a minute before their mouths had come together again and the music was forgotten. This time they weren't in the sun room and nobody was counting the seconds. They caressed each other madly until Roger felt his lungs about to burst. He slid his mouth away and gasped loudly, holding her tight against him at the same time.
"I ... I had to stay." He whispered against her ear. "I couldn't help it."
"I wanted you to. Oh my God..."
He started to unbutton the back of her dress. Her body kept jerking wildly against him as his fingers struggled with the button holes. Then her dress was on the floor, and her slip, and her panties and bra and stockings. And then his own clothes.
Her naked body was a pleasant surprise. Slender, yes-but strangely exotic. Her tiny breasts were perfectly shaped and so firm that they seemed to leap out from her body. Her waist was narrow that he could almost span it with his two hands. And her long legs had an eager grace to them that he had never noticed before.
They couldn't even wait to reach the bedroom. They fell upon the long couch and came together almost immediately.
"Easy ... relax a little."
"Yes ... Oh Roger, hurry..."
"Okay. But relax. You're holding me too tight."
"I'm sorry. Is that better?"
"Yes. Fine."
"Oh yes. Yes, yes, YES. Go..."
CHAPTER FOUR
He awoke the next day around noon with a hangover and a lot of wild memories-just like in the old days. But there was also something present that had never been there in the old days. It was a deep sense of guilt that burned inside him like an angry flame. Not guilt regarding Belinda-which would have been ridiculous under any circumstances-but guilt regarding Betty. The memory of all the things they had done to each other there on the couch in her living room made him shudder. Playing around with actresses or models was one thing. It was never anything more than good business relations to them and nobody had any regrets afterwards.
But a woman like Betty was different. An old friend from the Neighborhood-married to a man he'd been drinking beer with for several years and considered a reasonably close friend, a woman who used to have long telephone chats with Belinda, a good Bridge partner ... what had gotten into him? This was the sort of thing you heard of going on in Westport among agency people, but never in the Neighborhood. Never among people like the Cravens and Davisons. He must have been out of his mind.
The worst thing was that such evenings often cast long shadows over everyone concerned. It wasn't a matter of just admitting that you'd gone a little overboard and then forgetting the whole thing. Women like Betty very often didn't forget. They tended to endow such evenings with an almost mystical significance and stood ready to throw away their whole lives on the strength of a romantic whim. They had no sense of Business as Usual.
And all because he had let himself get carried away by an innocent game of Spin-the Bottle. At least Betty wouldn't have to worry about him growing old too soon. He was still able to act like an adolescent where sex was concerned.
He shuddered again, then got dressed and swallowed some aspirin and coffee to ease his hangover.
But as the hangover faded his sense of guilt grew worse. He paced up and down the silent living room-wishing that there was some way he would wipe out what had happened last night and analyzing his reasons for what he had done with all the glib rationalizations of a parlor psychiatrist. After an hour or so he had the whole business laid out and explained like a case in a textbook. But that still didn't make him feel any better. Betty might be waiting for him to call her and declare his undying love or something of the sort.
So finally he did call her-but not to declare his undying love.
"It's Roger." He said after she answered the phone.
"Oh ... Hello."
"Listen Betty. It's important that I see you today. As soon as possible. Do you mind if I come over?
"Is it about ... last night."
"Yes, it is."
"Well, Roger ... I ... I don't exactly know what to say. But I want to apologize for what happened."
"Yeah, so do I."
"It must have been the alcohol, I guess. John and I both tend to ... to forget ourselves when we've had too much to drink. You do understand, don't you?"
"Yes, of course. In fact, I'm very happy to see that you're taking such a rational attitude about it. Because I feel exactly the same way."
"Oh I'm glad. I'm so glad, Roger."
"But seriously, Betty. I still think it's important that we have a talk. Why don't I come over this afternoon."
"No. No, I'd rather you didn't."
"But
"It's not just you. I don't think it's right for any man to come here when John's away."
"Sure. Yes, but..."
"But if you really think it's important that we talk, why don't you meet me on the Esplanade."
"The Esplanade?"
"Yes. It's a nice day. We can talk there. And there won't be anything wrong with us meeting."
"All right. The Esplanade's fine by me. Because believe me, Betty. It wasn't my intention to try and ... and seduce you, or anything like that."
"I know, Roger. But you understand how I feel."
"Sure. Of course. What time shall we meet?"
"How about in half an hour?"
"All right. I'll be at the Pierrepont Street entrance."
After he put down the phone he couldn't help laughing at himself. Here he'd spent a couple of hours wearing a trench in the rug while he agonized over the terrifying ramifications of last night, and it turned out that her sense of Business as Usual was as strong as his. Still, he was glad she had agreed to talk with him. It's all very well to tell each other that you understand, but when you both live in the same neighborhood and want to keep on being friends, it's better to have everything clearly explained.
They met on the Esplanade-like two friendly neighbors and without apparent self-consciousness-exactly at two thirty. It was a bright, warm autumn day and the benches were fairly crowded, but they found an empty one near the Remsen Street entrance and sat down under a tree.
Roger cleared his throat as if he was about to deliver a serious lecture and turned to her.
"First of all, Betty. I want to be very honest and tell you some things about Belinda and me." He said. "But I'd appreciate it if you kept them to yourself. Don't even tell John."
"You don't have to tell me anything that's personal, Roger." She said.
"No, no. This is important. Because it helps to understand why I ... acted as I did last night."
"All right. And of course I won't tell anybody."
"Good. Now..." and he cleared his throat again. "Well our marriage is only a formality-Belinda's a mine. It's been that way since before the baby was born."
"I ... I'm awfully sorry, Roger."
"None of our friends probably suspects anything because we've been able to keep up appearances pretty well. But that's not going to last forever. One of these days she'll decide that she doesn't need me anymore and there'll be the usual divorce. Maybe it will happen while she's on this tour. I don't know."
"It must be terrible for you."
"Well, I've gotten used to it. I long ago outgrew any love I had for her, so I don't really care what she does. Not that I'm particularly hankering after my freedom or anything like that. It's just something I've learned to live with. At least, I've learned to live with the fact that Belinda is my wife in name only and probably not for much longer. But ... Well, it turned out that I'm a normal man, Betty. I guess last night proved that. And living without a woman-which is what my life with Belinda amounts to-living without a woman has been harder on me than I've realized. I don't have the sort of temperament that would let me go running around with actresses and models like some people in my business. I just try to tell myself that
I've outgrown such things. But I guess I haven't."
"You should be glad you haven't. Oh, I don't mean because of last night, but..."
"Yes, I know exactly what you mean. And maybe I am glad. But last night ... Betty, last night you suddenly turned into the most desirable woman in the world for me. The first time I kissed you ... Well, I don't have to go into the details."
"No, I understand."
"The point is, I was attracted to you and apparently you were attracted to me. So all of a sudden my ... frustrations cut loose and I lost my head."
"Yes, I lost my head too."
"Anyway, it was just one of those things. And it certainly doesn't mean that we're in love with each other. I think you're a fine woman, Betty. An attractive and fascinating woman. I have the deepest respect and affection for you as a friend. But I don't love you. And you don't love me."
"No, I don't love you. And I'm glad you understand, Roger, I'm so relived, in fact. Because otherwise we might have gotten ourselves into an ... awful mess."
After that they talked about the party in more general terms and about their friends until their meeting seemed no different from any normal chance encounter between them on the Esplanade. They stayed there talking until a cold breeze sprang up and Betty began to shiver. Then they walked back to the Pierrepont Street entrance and said goodbye.
"I'm sorry you broke your watch." Betty said to him as they parted.
"What? Oh ... Don't worry about that. I can be fixed easily enough."
"Yes, I suppose it can. But I'm still sorry."
"Thanks. Goodbye."
"Bye."
Late that evening, after he had finished reading the Sunday Times and had gone as far as he could with the crossword puzzle, he found himself relaxing in the big leather armchair of the living room listening to the melting sweetness of a Correlli concerto on the radio. The floor lamp next to his chair was the only light burning in the room and the corners were draped in shadows.
It was at the end of a boiling hot day in August the last summer they had endured without air conditioning-that Belinda told him she was pregnant. The shutters were closed in the living room to keep out the sun, but the temperature inside was still over ninety. He had just spent an unpleasant afternoon with a client who pointedly asked him several times if he had left-wing, anti-business sentiments. The film would have to be re-cut completely. All the Art taken out, all the honesty. It would end up being a standard, overblown, hard sell propaganda film that would embarrass everyone but the client.
Belinda was wearing a thin cotton dress and nothing else. It clung to her lush body in an almost indecent way that reminded Roger of the half-dressed heroines in jungle comic books. Her hair was tied back behind her exquisite ears with a red ribbon. And her large eyes seemed to be feeding the heat in the room.
"You lousy bastard." She screamed at him savagely. "You did it on purpose. I know you did."
"Oh Belinda ... Take it easy. It's too hot to get excited."
"Hot? I'll show you how hot its is. Roger, do you realize what this means?"
"Are you sure? Are you positive?"
" I saw the doctor this afternoon. He said there isn't any doubt at all. I'm at least two months pregnant."
"Well..."
"Well? Is that all you can say? Well? Jesus Christ, Roger. This means I'll have to miss the entire season. That could ruin me at this stage of my career. And my agent was arranging to get me a private reading with David Merrick, too." Now I'll have to tell him to forget it. I'll have to sit home this season and watch my body grow fat and distorted and pregnant."
She made it sound like a dirty word. But he still had trouble visualizing it. A body like Belinda's could never be pregnant somehow. Her breasts heaving angrily against the cotton dress were not for baby's lips to suck on. The curve of her hips could never swell and strain in the agonies of labor. Suddenly he felt sorry for her.
"Honey, look." He said. "Maybe it won't be so bad. I'll do everything I can and..."
"You've already done enough. You got me pregnant with your child."
"Well, it's your child too, you know."
"No. Not mine. Yours. I refuse to have anything to do with it."
"At the moment. I don't see that you have much choice in the matter."
"Oh no? Well I do have a choice. I may be pregnant now, but that doesn't mean I'm going to stay pregnant."
"What are you talking about?"
"Roger, I'm not going to have this child. I can't afford to miss this next season."
"Now just a minute..."
"I've gotten the name of a doctor from a friend uptown. I'm going to see him tomorrow. It' will probably cost you a lot of money, but that's too bad. Since it's your fault..."
"Belinda!"
"I'm going to have an abortion."
"You're out of your mind."
"I'm going to have an abortion, Roger."
"Like hell you are."
"Try and stop me."
"You're damn right I'll stop you."
"Hah."
"Now listen to me, you little bitch."
"Let go of my arm."
"Shut up and listen. Whether you realize it or not, abortions happen to be against the law."
"Oh don't be so old fashioned."
"Against the law, Belinda. Yes, I know how they get around that these days. You go to a so-called reputable Gynocologist and he puts you in the hospital for a D and C-a standard, legal, diagnostic procedure. Only when the woman happens to be pregnant it's an abortion. And I warn you, Belinda. I'm going to make sure that everybody knows just what your condition is. I'm going to see to it that there's no doubt in anybody's mind. And when I get through, there won't be a licensed doctor in the City who will touch you."
"Then I'll go to an unlicensed one and take my chances."
"You do and I'll turn you over to the District Attorney. You'll go to jail, Belinda. And the scandal will be too much even for Broadway. They wouldn't so much as let you set foot on the stage of a striptease night club after that."
She began to cry with rage, and suddenly leaped at his face with her finger nails. He grabbed her by the hair and yanked as hard as he could until she screamed.
"Now cut it out." He yelled. "And forget about any bright ideas for abortions. You're going to have this child and that's all there is to it."
He let go of her hair and pushed her away from him. She dropped onto the sofa, crying hysterically.
"God, what kind of a woman are you anyway?" he muttered angrily.
"I'm an actress." She shot back defiantly. "Does that mean you can't have a heart."
"Not if it's going to interfere with my career."
"Your career..."
"Nothing can interfere with my career. Ever."
Then she broke into a fresh torrent of sobs-helpless, frustrated, angry sobs that shook her whole body. He watched her grimly for a moment, then felt himself begin to soften. She was one of the few women in the world who could look beautiful when she cried. The plaintive droop of her shoulders and the girlish tone of her sobs always made her seem more human than at any other time.
He sat down on the edge of the sofa and reached out to take her hand. But she pulled it away quickly.
"Don't touch me." She sniffed. "Don't ever touch me again."
"Oh Belinda ... Come on."
"I hate you. You did this on purpose to try and wreck my career."
"Belinda ... Look, haven't we talked about having children sometime?"
"Yes-sometime. But not now. Not while I'm still trying ;o get established."
"Well..."
"You knew that, Roger. And you made me pregnant on purpose to ruin my career."
"I didn't do anything on purpose. Besides, you know I've always left the precautions to you."
"Well you took advantage of me. I remember the night. We should never have done it after that party when I had drunk too much."
"Well ... Anyway it's done. And we'll just have to live with it."
"Live with it? You live with it."
"Now Belinda..."
"All right. Roger. I'm going to have this child. You don't leave me any choice. But as far as I'm concerned, my responsibility ends with its birth. You can hire a nurse to look after the little monster."
"Look, it's a baby, Belinda. It's our baby."
"It's a friend and a monster. And I swear to you, Roger. If thinking and ... and praying can make it so, I'm going to see that it's born a twisted, ugly, misshapen thing that will make you sick every time you look at it."
"Belinda..."
She had a difficult pregnancy-full of morning sickness and dizzy spells. And she did her best to make his life as miserable as his own. But them in the seventh month, a great change came over her. She became more subdued and easier to live with. Her physical miseries went away. And it almost seemed to Roger that the sense of Motherhood was finally catching up with her at last. He even found himself able to hope again.
The baby was born at the end of February. It was a natural birth and Belinda was in labor for less than an hour. Roger went directly to her hospital room from the office when the telephone call came, but it was already over and she was living there entirely conscious.
"Have you seen it yet?" She asked him immediately with her lips pursed in a little smile.
"The baby? No, I came here first."
"See it."
"Belinda..."
"See it. Then we'll talk."
But they wouldn't let him go to the nursery until he had seen the doctor.
"It's one of those nasty tricks that fate sometimes plays on us." The doctor said in a tone of great sympathy. "Nobody can be blamed-nothing hereditary is involved. It doesn't even mean that you can't have more children."
"Tell me." Roger said desperately.
"It's what we call a Hydrocephalic. You've got to be prepared for a shock when you see it. Some people call them monsters because they don't look very human. But they never live very long. Five years at most. I'm glad your wife is taking it so well."
"Let me see it."
"Of course. But you'd better be prepared. Afterwards, I'll put you in touch with a foundation that does research in this short of thing. They can give you information that may ... well, help a little. I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Craven. But it's nobody's fault. We're not even sure it can be blamed on nuclear tests .although some people claim..."
He didn't go back to Belinda's room afterwards. He went straight home and sat down in the leather arm chair where tears of agony rolled down his cheeks. It was truly a monster-just as she had promised. His son. . .
She's had her revenge. But for what? No woman in her right mind could have wanted such a thing to happen. Unless she wasn't in her right mind. Unless she wasn't a woman. Yes, hadn't she always-told him that she was an actress first and a woman second?
All right. He finally understood. At long last-after years of hoping, dreaming, wishful thinking-he got the picture.
He was her meal ticket while she struggled to establish herself in the Theater. That's why she had married him. No love, no affection, no warmth, not even any respect. Just the promise of a place-to live and food and clothes and money to pay for acting lessons that the dollar-green gloss of his job held out for her. She wouldn't have to take part-time secretarial jobs to support herself if she married him. She'd be free to climb that golden ladder to glory. And the price she had to pay was so little.
Just marry the man who considered her the most beautiful woman in the world.
He was the one who had to pay all the bills.
CHAPTER FIVE
The next Friday night Roger came directly home from the office and dailed the Davisons' number. John answered.
"Oh John. This is Roger."
"Hey, Roger ... How are you? Long time no see."
"I know-a real wild affair, I understand. Betty told me all the details."
"She did?"
"Sure. like how you all sat around solving the world's problems and everybody went home cold sober. Sounds worse than my convention."
"Er, how was your convention?"
"The usual round of papers and seminars. I picked up some new ideas and gave out with a few of my own. Nothing world-shaking. How's Belinda doing?"
"Oh, all right. She's on the road, you know-touring with her play."
"Yeah. Sorry we couldn't get together for a last rubber of Bridge before she left."
"There'll be other chances. Listen, John. I was just thinking. If you and Betty aren't doing anything tonight, I sort of thought I'd drop by. You know-drink a little beer and talk."
"Why sure. Come on over. It's been a long time since we got together. There's plenty of beer in the icebox."
"Good enough. I'm going out to have dinner now, so I'll see you around seven-thirty or eight."
"You eating out these days?"
"Yeah, you know. With Belinda away and all that...."
"Too bad you didn't call a little sooner. We could have picked up some extra lamb chops and you could have had dinner with us."
"Thanks, but that's all right. I'll run down to Joe's."
"Okay. We'll see you in a while, then." Right. So long, John."
Roger didn't particularly like John Davison, although he considered him one of his closest friends.
John was a research physician who worked for the Sloan Kettering Institute on Cancer Research. He was a big, outgoing man who had played football in college and always looked happiest when he had his tie off and his sleeves rolled up and a can of beer in one brawny hand. They had met several years earlier when Roger was doing a film for a drug company and arranged to shoot some of the footage at Sloan Kettering. Although they didn't really have much in common, the fact that both of them lived in the Neighborhood seemed enough grounds for the development of a friendship that had lasted for a surprisingly long time. On the strength of a whim one night, they played a few rubbers of Bridge-though none of them could play well-and the mutual interests they discovered in this addicting game helped to cement their relationship even more firmly. During the last year, however, they had seen each other less frequently since Belinda's role on Broadway made it impossible to lead a normal social life. And Roger had been secretly relieved, in away, because John had been getting on his nerves just a little.
The whole difficulty was due to John's superior attitude about his job. Though he was modest enough about any personal accomplishments, he was well aware that the work in which he was involved had tremendous importance to the future welfare of Mankind. And he had no bones about showing it. Moreover, he looked with amused condescension upon Roger's work-especially since it was so well-paid-and even liked to deride it nastily when he had enough alcohol in him. On one occasion Roger very nearly lost his temper and it was only due to Belinda's cleverness (oddly enough) that the evening was saved from disaster.
Yet there was a basic validity to John's attitude-which was probably the worst part. His work was important and Roger's work was, at best, trivial. Furthermore, John was completely dedicated to his profession-slaving away long hours in his lab or at home over his reports with all the patient vigor of the typical, idealized research scientist of fiction. It filled his whole life-this vital work that he was doing. Filled it in a way that Roger's work had not done since his marriage. He wouldn't be at all surprised to find John winning the Nobel Prize for Medicine someday. While the only prizes he would ever win were those ridiculously large pay checks each month for putting what little talent he had at the disposal of Madison Avenue and keeping his conscience to himself.
He was hoping that John would have gotten all the self-acclaim out of his system at the recent convention when he went to their place that night. And for a time it seemed that his hope was answered. They drank beer and talked about the New York Mets and nibbled on ginger cookies that Betty had made the day before. John was in a good mood. His shirt collar was open, he was wearing a pair of moth-eaten old Army pants with holes in the knees, and his huge feet were propped up on the coffee table. As far as he was concerned, the Mets were second-rate and would always he second-rate. Roger tended to agree but argued anyway just for the sake of the discussion.
But then, in a moment of thoughtlessness, he dropped a remark about how hard he'd been working lately. It was a meaningless statement-more an arbitrary collection of sounds than a coherent sentence-but John's eyes lit up right away.
"They keeping you busy, eh?" he said.
"Yeah. We had a deadline moved up on us, A commercial had to be delivered a week early. It meant a lot of turmoil."
"What's this over about?"
"It was for a cigarette company."
"Oh ... Say Roger, I've been thinking. Has anybody ever tried to work out how much each new cigarette commercial will add to the overall National death rate?"
"The death rate?"
"Sure. You know-from lung cancer."
"Oh, well. . . "
"Now don't go trying to tell me that there's no connection between smoking and lung cancer. Remember, boy. This is my line of work."
"I admit that quite a case can be made...."
"I started wondering about it the other night riding home in the Subway. Figure it this way. Never mind the effect cigarette advertising has on established smokers. They switch brands, so what? It's the effect on non-smokers that counts. On kids, for instance. I began studying those ads in the Subway as I was riding along. There were four at my end of the car. And do you know, all the people in them were young. The ideal heroes for teenagers, you might say. And all smoking away like it was the main badge of maturity."
Roger thought of his own commercial. Young models-all in their early twenties-swimming, sailing, water skiing. The activities of young people. They had shot the footage in Miami two weeks ago and one of the girls had made it obvious to him how available she was. And after each activity-a cigarette. Yes, the point was clear enough.
"You may have something, John." he said.
"Sure. That's what these cigarette companies are out for in their advertising. The teenagers. Because the older people are already sold on one brand or are dying off. Jesus, Roger. It's frightening."
"It is a little, when you put it that way."
"Don't you ever talk about these things with the agency boys?"
"Well, no. It's not the sort of conversation they'd appreciate, I'm afraid."
"Yeah, but it must bother you sometimes-despite the money."
"I don't know. There's so much to think about just getting the damn things finished and delivered."
"I don't read you sometimes, Roger. You're an intelligent man. Remember that drug film you shot up at our place a few years ago ? You had drive and ideas. That impressed me. I couldn't believe then that you'd ever end up ... well, doing a job that has so little real value."
"It's the price of living in an over-civilized society, I guess. Not enough really useful jobs to go around."
"Yeah, that would be okay if it were true. But it isn't. Look. Do you know that this country spends more money each year on cigarette advertising than on Cancer research? Now put this in the right perspective for a moment. Cancer research-supposed to save lives-at least, we're trying. But cigarette advertising ... Well, I've seen the figures. A heavy smoker has thirty times as much chance of getting lung cancer as a non-smoker. So one tries to prolong life while the other ends up shortening it. Yet we spend more money on the second than on the first. Does that make sense?"
"Well...."
"Oh ... we're out of beer. I'll have to run out and get some. Betty, you got any singles in your purse?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Want me to walk down with you, John?"
"Naw, I'll only be five minutes. You keep Betty entertained. And ... er, no more lectures when I get back. We'll talk baseball again. I've got a bad habit of sounding off."
He strode out the door with an energy that made the floor shake and seemed to suck all the air in the room out with him. John was a big man-in too many ways, it often seemed.
In the silence that followed, Betty carried the empty cookie dish into the kitchen to refill it. Roger followed her, feeling wretchedly helpless.
"Does he get on your nerves too?" she said as. she placed the dish on the counter. "He gets on everybody else's when he lectures them that way."
"Oh ... I'm used to it. John and I are old buddies."
"At least you know enough to take him with a grain of salt. Some people. . . "
"I know. Betty...."
"Yes?"
"I ... I have to talk to you."
"What about?"
"No, not here. There isn't time. But ... will you meet me?"
She forgot the cookies and turned to him in surprise.
"Why Roger, what are you talking about."
"I have to see you again."
"But why? I thought we decided last Sunday...."
"This isn't last Sunday anymore. I ... did a lot of thinking during the week. I was wrong about a lot of things."
"Roger, I think you'd better go sit in the living room until John comes back."
"Please, Betty. I'm not going to . try anything. I just want you to meet me."
"But why should I meet you?"
"So ... so we can have another talk."
"Roger...."
"It's important, Betty. It's vital."
"Then why can't you tell me about it now?"
"Because there isn't time. John will be back in a few minutes and ... Well we've got to talk alone, that's all. Now please. Say you'll meet me. On Monday-during the day."
"No. I'm sorry, Roger, but I don't think it would be wise."
"Look. We can meet in a public place. like last Sunday on the Esplanade. But we've got to have this talk. It's terribly important."
"Can't you even give me a hint as to what it's about?"
"No, no, it's ... too complicated. But you won't regret it, Betty. Believe me, you won't regret it."
"Well...."
"I'll call you Monday morning. Will you be home?"
"Yes, I'll be home."
"Good. I'll call you before eleven o'clock."
"All right. But ... I'm not sure about this, Roger. I think it might be the wrong thing."
"It isn't the wrong thing. You'll realize that once you've heard what I have to say."
CHAPTER SIX
They met at three o'clock Monday afternoon in City Hall Park. Betty was sitting nervously on a bench near the mountain when Roger arrived and was wearing a pair of sunglasses.
"What's the idea of the sunglasses?" he said to her as he sat down on the bench. "It looks like a pretty dark day to me."
"I ... I didn't want anybody to recognize me."
"So you made sure that you'd be conspicuous by wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day. That's very smart."
"Well I'm sorry, Roger. But. . . "
"Okay. Forget it. But listen. I think we ought to go somewhere."
"No."
"Betty. . . "
"No. You said we'd talk in a public place."
"Well there's nothing very private about a coffee shop or a luncheonette. And it's a little cold today. There's no reason why we have to sit out on, the street."
Betty was full of protests but finally agreed to accompany him to a large luncheonette over on Broadway. They sat down in a booth towards the back and a large man from behind the counter-who bore an alarming resemblance to John-came over to them.
"What'll you folks have?" he asked pleasantly, wiping his hands on his stained apron.
"Two coffees. Er ... that's all right with you, Betty?"
"Yes. Fine."
They said nothing to each other until the coffees arrived. Both stared quietly at the table and listened to the clatter of dishes coming from beyond the far wall. Roger had spent the last two days trying to decide what words to use when he met her, but now his mind was a blank. He knew that he ought to feel supremely foolish about the whole thing, but he couldn't. It was too important.
The coffees arrived-much too hot to drink-and they just let them sit there untouched. Then
Betty raised her eyes to his.
"Now what did you want to talk to me about?" she asked bluntly.
"You said it was important."
"Well?"
"Betty, I ... I can't forget that night we spent together."
"What?"
"It wasn't just ... just an incident with no meaning. I had convinced myself that it was when we talked together on Sunday, but ... Well ever since then I haven't been able to get you out of my mind."
"Roger, I'm going back home."
"No, please...."
"I'm not going to get myself involved in something like this. It's wrong and it's foolish. You told me on Sunday...."
"I was kidding myself on Sunday. And I was kidding you. I didn't mean a word of it-not in my heart."
"Well that's too bad because I did. I'm sorry I acted so foolish that night at the party. I'm sorry if I gave you any wrong ideas. It was all a mistake and I've regretted it ever since."
"Have you?"
"Yes...."
"Betty, tell me honestly. Didn't that night mean anything to you ? Didn't our . ... "
"No. Don't say it, Roger."
"I will say it. Didn't our lovemaking touch your heart at all."
"Oh God. . . "
"Betty ... Come on. Admit it."
"No, no. It was the drinks."
"Betty...."
He reached forward and touched her hand. "Don't. Please...."
"I just want you to be honest with yourself. The way I've had to be this past week. Come on. Face this one fact. It wasn't the drinks."
"It was, it was."
"No. It was ... us."
"Oh Roger, don't, don't. Please, let me go home."
"Not until you've admitted what we both know to be the truth."
"All right. Yes. Are you satisfied now? It was wonderful. I'll never forget it. I loved every minute of it. Does that boost your ego enough?"
"You did feel something."
"Yes. I felt a great deal. And I'll always treasure the memory. But that's all, Roger."
"All?"
"I'm going to make sure nothing like that ever happens again-even if I have to stop drinking entirely. Now please let me go home."
"Sure. Go ahead. I can't stop you."
"Thank you. And I think it would be wisest...."
"But just one thing."
"Oh Roger...."
"Hasn't it meant anything to you that I've gone to all this trouble just to get you to meet me? Hasn't it meant anything that I've been thinking about you constantly?"
"Roger, I'm leaving. Right now."
"Yes. We'll both leave."
"Now look. If. . . "
"Damn it, Betty. I want you. I want you so much that nothing else matters."
"No. I absolutely refuse...."
"Just once more. Please, Betty. Without any alcohol or parties or ... games like Spin-the-Bottle. So I don't have to wonder."
"Oh Roger, why are you doing this to me?"
"I can't help myself."
"But if...."
"Just once more. That's all I ask. Call it a matter of getting it out of my system. Because otherwise..."
"Otherwise what."
"Otherwise I'll never be able to look at you again without feeling it tear at my insides like a knife. And someday it might get out of control-at another party, for instance. When John is around."
"Oh my God.
"That's why it's so important, Betty. If only so I can ... rest again. You've got to come with me this one last time."
"Bu ... But there's no place we could go. I can't have you come to the apartment...."
"Yes there is. I know a place. A hotel."
"A hotel?"
"It's not what you think. We often send our out-of-town clients there. A small, nice, quiet hotel in Murray Hill. No problems, no ... danger."
"I ... It's not right. Roger. We shouldn't even be here together."
"Just this once. I promise."
"Oh God. I'm never going to see the end of this."
"Come on. Drink your coffee and let's get out of here."
They went to the small hotel in Murray Hill and checked into a room. There was no difficulty at the desk and the elevator was automatic so they didn't have to endure the presence of an operator as they rode up the six floors. It was a pleasant enough room, with a modern double bed, that faced out on a blind airshaft. Even so, Betty drew the curtains before the door had even closed behind them.
Then they faced each other-but without quite meeting each others eyes.
"We don't have to hurry." he said softly. "There's plenty of time."
"Yes ... " she answered. "John won't be home until late-as usual."
He took her in his arms and kissed her with great tenderness. It was all so familiar and relaxed now. They knew each other. Their bodies were't strangers. He unzipped her dress slowly and slipped it off her shoulders. She wriggled out of it and took off her slip. Then she bent over to unfasten her stockings as he continued to stroke the small of her back. When she was completely naked except for her panties he kissed her again. And his hands began to caress her breasts.
But there was a lifelessness to her body. She wasn't responding. He tried kissing her harder but it didn't seem to help.
"Betty...?"
"You said we didn't have to hurry."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Excuse me for a minute."
She reached for her purse, then went into the bathroom and closed the door. He paced back and forth and began to wonder if he had made a mistake. Yes, she had come with him. But the fires seemed to be gone from her body. He glanced towards the bathroom door....
And then a surge of realization leaped up inside him. She had come prepared. Despite her protests and arguments and threats to leave, she had come prepared. He felt like dancing with joy, and when she finally emerged from the bathroom he met her at the door with a wild embrace.
"Darling ... " he crooned against her ear. "Darling, darling, darling...."
"Now stop. It's my turn."
"What?"
"Sit down on the bed so I can reach your tie."
"Oh my darling. . . "
"Well all right. Don't be so eager. You said yourself that we have plenty of time."
He sat down on the bed, but as soon as she came close to him he grabbed her around the waist and began running his tongue over the smoothness of her belly.
"Oh Roger ... Honestly."
But her body wasn't lifeless anymore. And by the time they were lying together on the bed-naked and writhing in the first storms of passion-she had even lost her playful coyness. Her eyes glowed and her body jerked and her mouth hung open sighing ecstasies as her legs clutched his in the tormented longing of a lovers' embrace.
It had worked perfectly. Every detail had fallen in place. She had met him, she had come with him, she had made love with him. And he knew that she wouldn't want this to be the last time anymore than he did.
It had just been a game that he had to play. The age-old Game of Love.
PART TWO
A STORM AT SEA
CHAPTER SEVEN
In the early hours of the fourth day out of New York the ship ran into a severe Mid-Atlantic storm which, during the next twelve hours, gradually took its toll of the passengers.
Betty was the first. She awake with a bad case of sea-sickness and never even bothered trying to get dressed-despite Roger's urging that some food and a little fresh air out on deck would do her good.
"No, no ... " she moaned. "Just leave me alone."
The Uruguayan family was decimated one by one as the morning wore on. First the mother-who bravely did her best to swallow some breakfast (with disastrous results), then the two girls, and finally the father all staggered dizzily down the corridor to their cabins and took to their beds. Ethel Hoffstader fell victim just before lunch.
"I don't get it." Fred said in the dining room as he kept a wary eye on his soup plate." She's never been seasick before. Neither of us has. Not even when we ran into a typhoon out around the Philippines."
But after lunch, he too retired from the scene and Roger wondered if this wasn't the supreme example of closeness in a marriage.
By dinnertime only Roger and Eli Berman were left. They ate alone with the Chief Engineer in the dining room and afterwards found themselves together in the salon. The rolling of the ship was steady and long-much like a rocking chair on the porch of an old fashioned country hotel. Roger didn't really mind it, though he would have been glad to see it stop for Betty's sake. Berman didn't even seem aware of it. He walked along the corridors without clinging to the side rails and stepped through pitching doorways with all the unconscious grace of a life-long sailor.
As they sat down across from each other in the salon, Berman pulled out his leather cigar case.
"Would you join me in ... " he began, and then stopped. "Ah no. I forgot. You're a professional pipe smoker."
"As a matter-of-fact, I think a cigar would be very pleasant right now." Roger said as cordially as he could "If you wouldn't mind...."
"Not at all. Help yourself."
He held out the open cigar case-which Roger had to stand up and take a few steps forward to reach securely because of the rolling of the ship. Then they both fired up their cigars and sat there quietly. Berman blew an immense smoke ring that floated almost motionless in the still air before him as the salon heaved and pitched around it.
"I suppose a lot of people must think I've lost my mind." Roger said all at once.
Berman looked at him with something like surprise
"And why should they think that?" he asked. "Well, because of the job I gave up. The money."
"Ah. The money."
"As far as that goes, I was pretty well fixed. But it god hard to believe that the money wasn't actually a sort of gentle bribe-if you know what I mean."
"I get the idea."
"After all, the main thing is that a man should believe in his work. Don't you agree."
"Of course."
"The only thing is, that's become a rare luxury these days. And everybody tells you how immature you are if you have an idea that things should be any different. Never mind whether your job is pointless or serves no useful social purpose. Face facts. You're not in college anymore. And so it goes. As Jules Pfeiffer had one of his characters say, why is it that only unethical decisions are considered mature? You know him, don't you?"
"Who."
"Jules Pfeiffer."
"The cartoonist? I'm acquainted only with his work."
"That's what I mean. I sort of wonder what kind of a cartoon he could dream up out of all this-my running away. The revolt of Bernard, he might call it."
"Yes, I suppose so. Tel me, Roger. Why are you traveling by ship-you and your wife?"
"You mean, rather than by plane? As a matter-of-fact, we gave that quite a bit of thought. And we decided on a ship simply because it would make the trip so much longer."
"A vacation?"
"Not exactly. You see, we had to make a complete break-with our friends, our ... families, everything. A plane only takes about fourteen hours to reach Buenos Aires. It makes the distance seem like practically nothing. And then we'd always have the feeling that we weren't really so far from New York-that we could go back any time we felt like it. But we can never go back. This move has to be it, as far as we're concerned."
"Buenos Aires is an interesting city."
"I know. I've been there before."
"A splendid haven for Nazis and other assorted dreamers."
"Yes ... Why do you travel by ship, Eli? I understand this isn't your first trip."
"I like to work on board a ship. I find it less distracting."
"Oh, you're writing a new novel then?"
"Yes."
"What's this one about."
"The Great American Pastime-as usual."
"I remember you said something about that to
Fred at dinner the first night. Frankly, it sort of confused me-and I've read several of your books. You defined it as moving up in the world."
"Exactly."
"Well ... just what do you mean by that?"
"It's a basic American tradition. In times past back in Europe, a man had the boundaries of his dreams clearly staked out by the realities of his father's life. If his father made shoes, he would make shoes. If his father was an aristocrat, he would be an aristocrat. It was a continuum that would only be changed by war, revolution, or an unusual amount of luck."
"Yes, I see what you mean. And in America...."
"American society has always lacked that continuum-first because we were expanding across an enormous continent, more recently because we have been creating such an astonishing number of new professions. So it became accepted that a man would naturally seek the kind of work which would bring him more money or prestige than his father-and would seek to move in a more elevated social world. To me, nothing typifies this more than the history of our various immigrant groups. And no immigrant group has moved up in the world so quickly and so entirely due to hard work and superior talents as the Jews."
"Yes. Of course. And that's the story you're telling in your books, isn't it."
"More or less. There's such a classical pattern with the Jews. Father may have a little tailor shop in the Lower East Side. Son becomes an entrepreneur in a similar field-owning a factory in the garment district, perhaps. But grandson moves into a totally different world. He becomes a lawyer, or a biology professor, or possibly even a concert violinist or a novelist. Everything about their lives follows this pattern. In religion, for instance-father is Orthodox, son is militantly Reformed, grandson relaxes a bit and becomes Conservative. And in marriage. Father marries a sturdy peasant type to bear his children and manage' his home. Son chooses a wife for her attractiveness and social graces. Grandson wants a wife who is an intellectual companion above all else."
"Yes. I see exactly what you mean."
"But, of course, there are difficulties too. The strains of living as an adult in a world quite different from the one in which you grew up often take a heavy toll. In marriage alone the price is almost too high sometimes."
"Marriage? How ... how do you mean?"
"Our real needs in a wife become confused. We run after one kind of woman because she represents the idealized queen of the world we want to live in. And yet, in our hearts we might be much happier with a very different kind of woman. It didn't used to be that way."
"You mean, before all this social mobility?"
"A man who knew that he was going to live in marriage. The standard was there. It was all very simple. Now there aren't any standards. Just dreams. No wonder the divorce rate is so high."
"Wait a minute, Eli. Aren't you overlooking something?"
"What."
"Well ... love."
"Love?"
Berman's upper lip curled ever so slightly.
"Certainly." Roger went on. "I mean, it's all very well to talk about standards and social roles and that sort of thing. But the fact remains that most people marry for love."
"My friend, love has very little to do with marriage. One is a matter of emotions and physical desire and the other is simply a practical social contract. At least, it should be approached on a practical basis. Few people do these days, unfortunately. Another reason why the divorce rate is so high."
"But ... You can't be serious, Eli."
"Of course I'm serious."
"But everybody else...."
"Once upon a time everybody else believed that the world was flat. But that didn't make it so."
"Yes. Sure. But...."
"And it wasn't too long ago that most people could recognize the truth in what I'm saying. There's a whole mass of romantic literature from earlier eras devoted to what is glibly called the conflict between Love and Duty. A man and woman of different stations in the world, loving each other but eventually coming to the hard realization that it would be wrong for them to marry. We can't see the point in these books anymore because we've deluded ourselves into believing that love and marriage-how does that song put it?-go together like a hose and carriage. A nonsensical, outmoded ideal expressed in an equally nonsensical, outmoded simile."
"You ... you don't believe in love at all?"
"It depends on what you mean by love. Yes, I believe that love exists. Nature's way of propagating the race, as the cliche puts it. A massive physical urge to drag some attractive woman off to our cave and possess her completely for a certain length of time. Then we pound our chest and roar defiantly at the other animals in the forest. Our ego swells with the satisfaction of Victory. And Nature or God or whatever you want to call it is satisfied. The race will continue to be available as victims for the various agonies that Fate-likes to think up for us. The oldest continuum of human history is protected. Now surely you're not going to consider all that as a logical justification for marriage."
"But ... Well what other justification is there?"
"I'm not quite sure. Perhaps the novel I'm writing now will give me the answer. In any case, the answer will have to be based on something more than self-deception and romantic fairy tales."
"This is pretty hard to go along with, Eli."
"No doubt."
"I mean, it's all right to reduce love to its lowest terms. But aren't you forgetting how ... well how noble it can be?"
"Noble?"
"Yes. And ... inspiring."
"My dear friend, you've been reading too many of the wrong books. I fail to see what nobility there is in something which can turn a normal, decent, well adjusted man into a wild, conniving maniac willing to lie, cheat, steal, and even murder in order to possess the woman who excites him."
"Our history is diddled with tales of the misfortunes caused by love. Men have sold their honor, betrayed their countries, abandoned their families-all for love. It has been the cause of more crimes against Society than either money or religion. Can you find any nobility in this? Any inspiration? Love is the basic corrupter of the human soul."
"No, no. You're only talking about the wrong kind of love. The ... bad kind."
"Love knows no morality. It is not concerned with Right and Wrong-Good and Bad. It is concerned only with-Itself. Love is wholly and exclusively selfish."
"But ... it so often works out the other way. Works out so well."
"Does it?"
"Of course. Look ... look at the Hoffstaders, for instance. They're so ... closely tied to each other that when one gets seasick so does the other."
"You're surely not going to read any romantic significance into that, I hope."
"All right. But let me give you another example. A ... a friend of mine. A man who had gotten himself into a ridiculous marriage because he was too young to know any better. His wife didn't love him and he didn't love his wife. It was just a ... formality. And it was running him-this marriage without love. It had so ... taken the life out of him that he had let himself fall into the kind of work that was pointless and a waste of his talents. Because nothing meant anything to him. He just didn't care. But then he met ... a wonderful girl. She was also trapped in a bad marriage-a marriage without love that was ruining her. And they found that they loved each other-really loved each other. So finally they went away together. Built a new life together. The man found himself able to throw over his old job and do the kind of work that really mattered to him. And it was because he found someone he could love, and who loved him."
"I think your friend was a fool."
"A ... fool?"
"And weak. And a coward."
"But.
"He evidently lacked any ability to manage his own life. He let it be swept this way and that by the dictates of Fate. His little romance with the girl was one of those dictates. Fate brought them together in such a way that they 'fell in love,' as you call it. And the result of this was their running away together-which was no doubt forced on them as the only practical way they could continue to enjoy each other's bodies. The man took up a different line of work because it was the only thing open to him under the circumstances. I see nothing to be proud of in that story at all. Assuming, of course, that the man really exists as something more than a figment of your imagination."
"No, no. He does exist. I knew him well."
"Then you have known a perfect example of why it is foolish to exhault love the way we do."
"But...."
"Consider. Why did your friend marry his first wife?"
"Well, he was too young...."
"Yes. Youth is the time when we're most susceptible to love-unhappily, because most of us marry when we are young."
"But it wasn't love...."
"Then why did he marry her? Was it arranged by his parents? Was he driven to the altar at the end of a shotgun? Did Congress pass a law to the effect that John Smith had to marry Jane Doe?"
"Well he thought he loved her, but...."
"If he thought he loved her then he did love her. In this case, the proof of the pudding is in its very existence-not in how digestible is proves to be after the meal. Obviously he loved her. And because of that he married her-which led him down the road to ruination. Then love cooled-which love has a habit of doing. And then he decided that he was miserable-which he no doubt was."
"Yes, but his new wife...."
"Whom he married for love. Unless, of course, he had decided to ignore love and approach marriage on a more realistic basis this time. But that doesn't seem to be your point, if I understand you correctly."
"No. He ... married her because he loved her."
"In other words he'd learned nothing from his first disastrous experience with marriage. I repeat : your friend is a fool."
"But ... they're very happy."
"Another silly illusion. Real happiness is seldom within the realm of human experience."
"All right. But my friend's doing the kind of work he-likes. And he's convinced that he's married to the finest woman in the world."
"Give him time. In marriages that are based only on love, there soon or later comes a point when self-deception fails. Then he will realize what a fool he's been to make the same mistake twice. Just give him time."
CHAPTER EIGHT
The only light in the cabin came from the bathroom. It bothered Roger's eyes but he was too weak to do anything about it. The regular sound of the ashtray sliding back and forth on the table also bothered him. So did the noise of the engines. So did the constant, maddening roll of the ship.
A thousand and one things bothered him as he lay there on his side in a fetal position.
But worst of all were Berman's words that echoed and re-echoed through his tormented brain.
"Was it true? Was he such a fool? He loved Betty, but how long would it last? If he failed this time then there was truly nothing left. He might as well die. And, if Berman was right, he might as well die right now and get it over with. Because he was tied to Betty more completely than he'd ever been tied to Belinda and he knew that he could never escape her. The running away together, the baby coming, the whole circumstantial fabric of their relationship bound them together more irrevocably than any legal ceremony.
All because they thought they loved each other.
No. Berman had to be wrong. He was probably just embittered by personal experiences. And they had nothing to do with anyone else. He didn't even know what true love was. And true love-the kind he and Betty shared-was wonderful.
It had to be.
Otherwise, the most vital move in his whole life had been made for the wrong reasons-and he was doomed.
It was the same hotel room now become a kind of secret home for them because its walls had shielded all their occasions of passion except the first.
Her body gulped at his with a last, straining, agonizing clutch. His body heaved and roared and seemed to leap out of itself. The precious moment lasted longer than ever before. Then their lungs exploded in a loud duet of sighs and the urgency died out of their embrace. They parted, but still clung to each other fondly, exhaustedly, as their lungs sucked in new air.
"Oh darling, that was wonderful." she gasped finally. "More wonderful than any other time."
"You were in the right mood." he said. "So was I. We practically read each others minds."
"Yes. I knew exactly what you were feeling every moment."
"And I knew what you were feeling. That's why it was so good. Each of us was thinking about the other instead of just ourselves."
"I never realized it could be so wonderful."
He chuckled softly.
"Now what are you laughing at?"
"You always say that." he reminded her.
"Because I always feel it. Each time it's better than all the others."
"Be careful. Pretty soon you'll make me start believing that I've deflowered a virgin."
"Perhaps I was a virgin before I knew you." and her eyes grew thoughtful. "In my heart, I mean. Because my heart had never been touched this way."
"Now don't tell me John was that busy."
"Oh he tried, I suppose. Being a doctor, he knew all about how a woman's body works. Or thought he did. But it was never quite the same, somehow. I always felt that I was on the outside looking in, so to speak. A detached observer watching ... It even ... disgusted me a little sometimes. And I knew it shouldn't. I wanted to feel something. But there never seemed to be anything for me to feel."
She giggled and pressed her cheek against his shoulder.
"I'm glad you're so pleased with me."
"That's the understatement of the year."
"No I mean it, darling. That was another trouble with ... John. I never felt that I was really pleasing him. But I didn't know how. And he wouldn't tell me what he wanted me to do."
"I bet you never talked together afterwards, either. The way we do."
"No, never. He'd just ... go to sleep. And he'd make such a ... an awful sound when he snored."
"Oh now wait a minute."
"Well it was an awful sound. He'd snore in three or four different keys all at once."
"I snore too, you know."
"Really? I've never heard you."
"You will. And I hope it won't get on your nerves."
"No, no. It couldn't Because everything's so ... different with us."
"Vive la difference."
"Completely."
They kissed each other gently and lay there without speaking for a while.
"Why did you marry him, honey?" Roger asked her finally.
"Yes. Did you think you loved him or....."
"Why do most girls of twenty get married. John was the first grown-up man who ever asked me."
"The first? Really?"
"He was big and strong and ... older. Old enough to seem like a member of a different generation."
"But ... what is he, five years older than you are?"
"Five and a half. But that seems like a lot when you're only twenty and a lot of the boys your own age still have pimples. And he was a doctor. That seemed so marvelous. My grandfather was a doctor
with a long beard and a gold watch and chain and an ancient car that he'd drive around to the farms where his patients lived. I thought that doctors were the fines men in the world."
"So you went and married the first one who asked you."
"No ... It wasn't exactly that simple. At first I couldn't imagine being married to such a man. I couldn't even see why John wanted to go out with me. Little me. Still a small town girl from Vermont in so many ways. But I was afraid to ask questions. And John is a very determined person."
"Yes, I know."
"Once he decides to do something, he never rests until it's done. And he decided that he wanted me as his wife."
"Bowled you over, in other words."
"Sort of. And yet ... Well these was more to it than that."
"Tell me."
"When he first started talking about getting married, I immediately began mentioning all the reasons why we couldn't. We had no money. He still had several years of residency ahead of him. What would we live on? And then he confessed to me that he couldn't help seeing how impractical it was for the very reasons I had mentioned. But he still wanted to marry me. And if only we could find a way....."
"So you had a job and there's a popular myth to the effect that two can live as cheaply as one. So..."
"It was more than that. I saw a way that I could help him. I realized that he needed me if only as a source of income while he finished his medical training. That meant a lot to me, Roger. At home, I was always the baby of the family. Everything was done for me. Which was fine except for the fact that there was never anything I could do for other people. Never any way to make myself feel needed. I left home and came to New York simply to get away from all that. And suddenly I found a person who seemed to need me. I had a good job at the hospital. John wouldn't have to worry about money while he finished his training."
"Love didn't enter into it at all?"
"Not love as we know it. I admired him, of course. And I thought that he loved me. I hope he'd love me more and more because of the way I was helping him. I didn't know that there had to be ... other things. I was too young."
"But did he love you?"
"People like John never love others. They can only love their work which is an extension of themselves, I guess. Oh, they have friends. Sometimes they're very nice and easy to get along with. But they can't actually love other people. It isn't in their character."
"How well I know. It's a perfect description of Belinda."
"Yes. We both made the same mistake, didn't we."
"But for different reasons. So you married him."
"Yes."
"And then what."
"It wasn't any different from what I expected, really. John worked hard at the hospital. I got a raise which made thing easier. The years passed."
"Were you ... happy?"
"I thought I was needed. That made me happy enough. And I was needed especially when John decided to go into Cancer research after he finished his residency instead of going ahead and being a surgeon. It meant an extra year of graduate study when he wouldn't be earning any money at all. He could never have done it if it hadn't been for me at least, for my job."
"And. ... love?"
"I guess I loved him. But not romantically or anything like that. I told myself that I didn't have that kind of temperament. I would bring up his children and be a good wife to him. Our life together would be a clam one."
"But you never had any children."
"No. Of course, we couldn't while he was still in training. I had to keep working."
"But afterwards?"
"We just ... never had any. I wondered if it was my fault. Because I couldn't seem to ... respond in a way that would please him. I even wondered if there might be something wrong with me if I might be sterile. But I went to a doctor and he said I was perfectly all right."
"Maybe it was John."
"Maybe. I tried to ... talk it over with him a few times. But he only laughed. Not meanly or anything like that. He just wouldn't take it seriously. It didn't matter to him whether we had children or not. Nothing mattered to him but his work."
"When did the change come. When did you begin to realize....?"
"I guess it was after he finished his year of graduate study. He got this job with Sloan Kettering and ... I didn't have to support him anymore. In fact, he wouldn't even let me keep working. He made stay at home with nothing much to do while he spent nearly all his waking hours at work. I realized that he didn't need me anymore.
And he wasn't even ... interested in me either. His work came first. His work was everything."
"Nothing to do but think, in other words."
"Yes. I thought a great deal. Too much, probably. I got to the point where I was thinking up all sorts of reasons why it was somehow my fault. That seemed to make my ... life a little more bearable. Or at least, understandable."
"What a set-up. He married you to get a meal ticket and then tossed you aside when he got to the point where he could pay his own way."
"Roger, it doesn't sound ... selfish of me to say these things, does it?"
"No, of course not."
"Because I realize that his work is important. Vitally important. I know it will help save lives and prevent all kinds of suffering. And I know how much it means to him. But I shouldn't just have to sit on the sidelines with nothing to do, should I?"
"Absolutely not. He married you, didn't he? You deserve something out of life too."
"Well now I do have something. These evenings
"Believe me, honey. They mean at least as much to me as they do to you."
"I know they do. That's part of the joy they give me. It means that I wasn't just girlishly idealistic when I thought that a man and woman should need each other equally."
"Idealistic, perhaps. But also true."
"Roger, I love you."
"Honey..."
"This is the first time in my life I've known what it could be like. Maybe it's wrong, maybe it's ... immoral, maybe it violates all the things I've been taught to believe. But I don't care. I've found something that's infinately precious to me and I never want to lose it."
"Neither do I."
"If we can't just ... keep on having these evenings together. That's all I ask. As for the rest ... well it can just take care of itself."
"And you're not afraid anymore."
"No. I love you too much to be afraid of anything."
CHAPTER NINE
When Roger met Belinda, he was at that point in his life when it was easy to believe that the world had been made entirely for him. He had a good job in a glamorous profession that paid very well. He and Steve lived in a rambling, gloriously ramshackle apartment on the edge of the Village that epitomized every young man's dream of bachelorhood. There was a constant parade of women for both of them-models and actresses who they met in the course of their work and who could be successfully charmed into domestic service whenever the kitchen sink became too full or dirty dishes or the living room too chaotic even for their easy-going tastes.
These were Roger's golden days. His awards were many and his disappointments few. And most of all, his dreams were bright.
He first met Belinda when she appeared as a receptionist in a film they were doing on Office Management. It was a single day's work for her behind a lavish, free-form desk on a studio set that was supposed to represent an office reception lobby at its most modern. She was chosen not so much for her good looks as for the perfection and grace of her diction the importance of which was one of the things being stressed in the film.
Steve was directing the film and Roger, as script writer, had to be on hand in case there were any last minute dialogue changes and also because he and Steve always worked very closely on the films they did.
At one point no long after they had started shooting, the client's representative became dissatisfied with a telephone speech that Belinda has to make and decided that it should be rewritten on the spot. So Roger went off by himself to a reasonably quiet corner of the studio and set to work. Before long he looked up and found Belinda standing quietly near him.
"It's all right, Miss Young." he told her. "This is going to take a little time yet. Why don't you go have some coffee with the others." .
"Oh I don't mind waiting, Mr. Craven." she said.
"In fact, if you isn't intruding, I ... I have a few suggestions that might help."
"Fine. Let's have them."
"Well I was just thinking. Mr. Wellington said that he wanted the speech to sound more friendly. But I don't think he really means friendly so much as personal. There's a slight difference but an important one."
"I think you're right. God knows the original speech was pretty dry and formal. But....."
"You see, it's a matter of the reception's whole motivation, I think."
"Motivation?"
"Yes. She knows the man who's calling. He's been in the office before. It's important that she treat him on slightly more personal basis than if he were just a stranger. So she wouldn't merely speak to him in pat phrases. I....I know I'm not explaining this very well, but....."
"You're explaining it just fine. Pull up a chair, Miss Young. Let's see if the proverbial two heads can lick this faster than one."
"I'm not a writer, of course. But maybe my ideas as an actress...."
"Sure. Pull up a chair."
She sat down next to him and they began digging a little deeper into the problem at hand. Her approach struck him as quite unorthodox because she first insisted on knowing all about the man who was supposed to be on the other end of the phone what he looked like, what his job was, his age, his relationships to other people in her office. All the things a receptionist would know, in other words. So together they created a human being out of the faceless name that had been nothing more than a dramatic contrivance to Roger.
"She has to react to him as a person too, Mr. Craven." she explained. "Not just as a voice on the other end of the telephone."
"Right. That's been the trouble with this whole speech."
Once they had a human being who seemed real to them, it was an easy matter to write a speech for the receptionist that had the desired tone. But Belinda insisted that they also write lines for the caller even though they wouldn't actually be used.
"I'm reacting to what he say, Mr. Craven." she went on. "So there have to be lines for him to say even if I only hear them in my mind."
Wellington was very enthusiastic about the new speech when they showed it to him.
"Yes, yes. This is it. Perfect." he said. "In fact, it makes our point so well that we might not even need the narration later on this sequence."
"How's it read for you, Steve?" Roger said.
"I like it fine." he said. "Sounds like a real person talking. Now how fast can you learn this, honey? We're running behind schedule."
"Oh, I think I know it already." Belinda said. "Would you like us to make up some cue cards?" Roger said.
"No, that's all right."
"It wouldn't be any trouble."
"No, no. I have to know these lines perfectly. So the words will come to me spontaneously as I talk. Let me just take a look at the speech again."
She studied the lines intently for about twenty seconds, then handed the sheet of paper back to Roger.
"Now check me." she said and began speaking the lines.
She gave a complete performance right there perfect in every detail. The timing was flawless and even the movements of her eyebrows helped to underscore the character she was portraying.
"Brother." Steve said when she had finished. "Here is an actress. Honey, you could win an Oscar for that bit alone. Come on, Harry. Fire up the lights. We're going to do one rehearsal and then take it. This gal's already was ahead of us.
They got the Long Shot in one take. Then Steve, who had become entrenched by the expressiveness of Belinda's face, called for two Close-ups from slightly different angles. Again, it was only a matter of one take for each. Belinda was perfect every time.
"Okay, that's got it." Steve called out after the second Close-up "Let's relight for the next sequence. Relax for a while, honey. You were great."
"Thank you, Mr. Klein."
From his chair well black of the camera Roger had watched the whole thing. And now he waited to see which way Belinda would head as she left the set. She went immediately over to Wellington, who greeted her with a big smile, and Roger felt a slight twinge of disappointment hit him in the stomach.
Then, a few minutes later, he looked up to find her standing there in front of him holding two containers of coffee.
"I've brought you some coffee." she said with a bright smile.
"Oh. ... Thanks."
"Do you like it black or with milk? I've got both kinds here."
"It doesn't mater. Which do you prefer?"
"Oh, I've already had some. But then I saw you sitting over here by yourself working so hard
"Just reading my own script. More pleasure than work. I'll take the black."
"Good. I sort of thought you were the type who drinks black coffee."
"You did? Why."
"I don't know. Just an inspiration. I'll bet you like Bourbon, too."
"My favorite poison. Do you also read palms?"
"Oh. ... Nothing like that. But black coffee and Bourbon seem to go together. I mean, if a man-likes one he generally-likes the other. Haven't you noticed that?"
"No, I haven't really."
"Well I have. It's a pattern that rarely fails."
"And what happens to the other container."
"Maybe I'll drink it. I always put cream in my coffee."
"If I ask you to sit down, will you drink it here with me?"
"Oh...," and she laughed brightly. "Why not?"
"I can't think of a single reason. So please sit down."
"Thank you."
There was another chair nearby and she pulled it over. Then they both opened their coffee containers. Roger's coffee was boiling hot and, after a cuatious sip, he put it aside to cool. Belinda sipped her unconcernedly, however. She didn't seem to care whether it was hot or cold.
"By the way," Roger said. "I want to thank you for all that help in rewritting the speech. It made quite a difference."
"Yes, it seemed to play much better, didn't it."
"It sounded great to me."
"Of course, I'm no writer. Just an actress, but
"And a very good actress, too."
"I know."
"I don't mean just for this sort of thing. You could probably..."
"I'm an excellent actress, Mr. Craven." She said-without a smile, without the usual self deprecating humor, without anything but the simply honestly that goes with an unassailable statement of fact. Then she looked straight at him and went on: "I'm going to be a star one of these days. I'm going to be remembered as the greatest actress of my generation."
"Well, I guess you need a lot of self-confidence in your business."
"It isn't a matter of self-confidence, Mr. Craven. I'm speaking the truth-like saying that the Empire State Building is the tallest skyscraper in the world."
"I..." and suddenly he found himself at a loss for words.
"Yes, I'm not very modest." She continued. I've never been modest. It's merely a polite form of hypocrisy."
"Well that's all right. I guess you run into enough people willing to be modest for you. If I know anything about the acting profession..."
"They don't particularly worry me. One of these days they'll see how wrong they were. And then I can laugh at them."
"You won't have to laugh at me. I've just had a glimpse of what a good actress you are."
"Why thank you, Mr. Craven." And now she smiled again-a beaming, girlish smile that seemed to light up the whole studio. "It's nice of you to say that."
"Er ... call me Roger."
"Al right. And my name's Belinda."
"I know. You couldn't have picked a better name. It fits you perfectly."
"As a matter-of-fact, I didn't pick it at all. That was the name my parents gave me."
"Oh I didn't mean it that way. Just a figure of speech."
"That's all right. Most actress change their names-for professional reasons. I changed my last name. Or rather, my agent changed it. I'd tell you what it was but it's supposed to be kept a secret."
They continued to sit there chatting until she was called for the next sequence. And afterwards she came back to him-she always came back to that chair next to his as the day wore on. They ate lunch together and worked together on the only other speech that needed touching up. But she talked no more about herself or her career. It was as if she had told him all he needed to know about her and henceforth their conversation would have to be limited to matters of no consequence.
At the end of the afternoon, her work finished and nothing more to keep her at the studio (except, perhaps, his company), she bade him a cordial and person goodbye and hoped that they'd work together again some day. But she also bade Steve and Wellington cordial and personal goodbyes and also hoped to work with them again. So, try as he might, there was nothing really meaningful that he could read into her farewell. Not that it should matter.
CHAPTER TEN
Towards the middle of that winter, the Company won a very lucrative contract from an airline to make a half-hour film selling the joys of Bermuda to the American tourist. It was to be another film made by Roger and Steve working as a team, and they threw themselves into it wholeheartedly. After a fast, three day trip to see the islands and a week of mulling over their notes, they came up with what seemed like the perfect gimmick to hang the film on. They would do a modern-day fairy tale about a young couple spending their honeymoon on the islands. They would cast the whole thing in a haze of fantasy that would capture the hearts of any prospective tourist. The client was charmed-and enthusiastic. They were told to get to work on the script immediately.
After that they fell into their normal working routine. Roger would knock out drafts of the script, Steve would study them carefully, and then they would tear them apart in arguments that made them sound like bitter enemies. They worked constantly-days and evenings, in the office and at home. This was going to be the best film they had ever made.
But after three drafts of the script had been typed up and chewed over, there was still something missing.
"The pattern's all right." Steve said. "But we're not getting our point across in the details. Maybe it's this dialogue you've written. I'm not sure."
"Well what do you suggest? The client's going to start thinking we've gone south for the winter if we don't give him a script pretty damn soon."
"I don't know. I'm stuck."
"The trouble with this fantasy angle is that it's hard to keep it natural-hard to avoid forcing."
"Hey. That's it."
"What."
"That's the trouble. You're forcing."
"I just made that observation."
"You're not writing your characters from Life. What you need is a model."
"I'm having Barbara every Saturday night. That's enough model for the moment, thank you. She's so damn bony that it's like making love to a skeleton."
"I mean a model for your characters. Especially the wife. She's the most important. Wait. I've got an idea."
"No, Steve. I am not going to marry Barbara and honeymoon in Bermuda just so I can write a decent script."
"I'm serious. Listen. Remember that little gal we used in the office film? The one who played the receptionist."
"No."
"Sure you do. An absolute knockout and a terrific little actress."
"Oh, that one."
"Now don't play games with me, pal. Nobody forgets a gal like that."
"All right, I remember her. So what."
"So I'm thinking. Let's use her to play the wife. She's as photogenic as hell and a good enough actress to carry off the fantasy angle. Okay?"
"Sure. Fine. But aren't you getting a little ahead of yourself? A minute ago we still didn't have a script. Now suddenly you're casting."
"Look. If she's going to play the wife, why not make it easy on everybody and tailor the script to suit her particular talents?"
" All right. I'll buy that. At this stage, anything's worth a try."
"Well don't act so resigned about it. She's a beautiful girl. It ought to be a real pleasure getting to know her."
"In other words, I should mix business with pleasure."
"Anything you want. As long as you give us a good script."
"Okay. I'll call her tomorrow from the office. If she's free-and interested..."
The next morning at the office he dug her resume out of the talent file. The picture across the top was a good one but it didn't really do her justice-he recalled. Underneath the picture was a description of her acting background. The usual list of summer theaters and local TV work which he didn't stop to read. At the bottom was a telephone number. The dialed it and a woman's voice answered, rattling off the last four digits of the number in a bad imitation of Judy Holliday.
"I'm trying to reach Miss Belinda Young." He said.
"This is the Answering Service. Can I give her a message?"
"Yes. Would you please tell her to call Mr. Roger Craven at United Film Productions."
"I'll tell her."
"Oh ... and in case she gets back late, I'd better leave my home number. It's rather important that she contact me right away."
He gave the apartment phone and then hung up. All right, now the ball had been tossed to her, he found himself saying. And why did he feel less tense all of a sudden?
She returned his call at two-thirty that afternoon. He was in the midst of screening a print and when he heard his name called he ran for the phone without even bothering to shut off the projector.
"This is Belinda Young, Mr. Craven." She said over the wire. "I understand you wanted to reach me."
"Ah, good. Yes. How would you like to go to the opera."
"I ... what?"
"Saturday night. They're doing TALES OF HOFFMAN. You do like opera, don't you?"
"Well ... yes, of course. Excuse me, Mr. Craven. But I guess I'm a little off balance. I thought you called me about a job."
"Next time. Right now I want to take you to the Opera."
"Yes, well that's wonderful. I'd love to go. Oh ... Saturday night, did you say?"
"Now don't tell me you're buddy. I've got two tickets waiting for us at the Met box office."
"I ... I might be able to get out of it, Mr. Craven."
"Do so, Belinda. And stop calling me Mr. Craven. The name's Roger."
He heard her chuckle.
"Suppose I think up a proper kind of white lie and then call a certain person. Can I reach you at this number later this afternoon?"
"Yes, yes. I'll be here."
"All rights-Roger. I'll call you back, then."
"Fine."
His palms were moist when he put down the phone. And he had the feeling that he had been speaking to her at a volume considerably louder than necessary. But she was going to the opera with him Saturday night and that made him ready to break into a wild dance.
She lived up in the West 70s-in a vast, ornate, old building where she shared an apartment with two other girls. He got there a little early and expected to wait, but she was ready. And the picture she made was overwhelming. She wore a tight-fitting black cocktail dress of starkly simple lines that high-lighted the rose-tinted skin of her face and neck and shoulders like the setting for a precious jewel. His heart leaped inside him out of sheer pleasure when he saw her. This was New York on a Saturday night. And all across the nation, in the beer parlors and bowling alleys and neighborhood movie houses of a thousand small towns, ten million guys were dreaming of such a girl in such a setting as they watched their drab lives roil along in ruts that would one day imprison even their dreams. But he was going out with this girl-out into the galaxy of music and adventure and sparkling lights that was this island of Manhattan. His dreams would never be imprisoned, because he was one of the few who could live them.
"Don't you look nice." She said as she came towards him. "I was hopping you'd wear a tuxedo."
"For the Opera-what else? You're quite a sight yourself, you know."
"Thank you."
"We're a little early, but we can have a drink at Sherry's before the curtain goes up." "Wonderful. I'd like that."
So off they went, with everything but a chauffer-driven Rolls Royce at their beck and call. The opera was perfectly mounted in every detail. And its elaborate, melodic romanticism warmed his very soul as he sat there in his big, red plush chair with the most beautiful woman in New York next to him. Never in his life had he felt so completely divorced from the hum-drum and the ordinary. Never before had such a carpet of exaltation unrolled itself ahead of him where-ever he walked. And when, in the first hours after midnight, he found himself alone with her in the tall alcove of the Beekman Tower's cocktail lounge-at a table next to the great window that looked out towards the diamond necklace of lights hung from the Queensborough Bridge, the final touch of magic lit upon the evening and his cloak of dreams wore a halo.
"You must tell me all about yourself." He said to her-suddenly remembering every word they had exchanged that day in the studio.
"No, not tonight." She answered.
"Why?"
"The life of an actress is mean and tawdry when she's at the point where I am now. And an evening like this deserves something better. Besides. You already know the general pattern. It's not much different from what other actresses have probably told you."
"What makes you think you're not the first actress I've ever gone out with?"
"You and your job and your whole ... demeanor. Am I right?"
"Tonight you're the first. My memory refuses to go back beyond the moment I walked into your apartment. Tonight you're the first woman I've ever gone out with."
She laughed.
"Now that's a speech no actor in the world could get away with on stage. He'd be laughed all the way back to the days of East Lynn."
"But I'm not an actor. Haven't you heard?"
"Oh? And who are you?"
"Its a secret. I'm in the country on a forget passport."
"Ah. . . "
"There'd be trouble if the wrong people found out."
"But you can tell me. Remember how close we were in the old days-when you were making movies."
"I've never forgotten. The carefree days of my youth. Nobody knew about me then."
"No one but me. Because you used to confide in me."
"Right. About the play I was writing-in secret."
"A play so good that it was banned the week it opened."
"Did you say banned or panned?"
"Don't joke about it, darling. I know you're very modest. But admit it. That play should have won the Pulitzer Prize."
"But instead the police closed it down. And was in danger of arrest until I managed to slip out of the country in disguise."
"I've missed you, darling. That play gave me my start."
"Yes. Your first big role. When you were still an unknown. And now you're the biggest star on Broadway. Every producer in town is at your feet.'
"Trying to capitalize on my name, that's all. haven't had a really good, serious role since your play."
"Never mind. My new one has the role of your dreams."
"Your new play?"
"Written in exile. It's to be put on under another name. No one will know that I wrote it."
"But still...."
"The climate's better these days. People are more tolerant. As long as it doesn't have my name on it there shouldn't be any trouble."
"Yes. But you haven't compromised, darling. Because if I thought you had compromised...."
"No, no. It's actually stronger than the other one. And no one can do the lead the way you can. That's why you have to take it, my dear, I've risked imprisonment coming back to New York just so I could try and persuade you."
"Darling...."
They kept on as the night deepened and the cocktail lounge grew deserted-spinning their little fairy tales with such enthusiasm that he almost came to believe in them. Then, long after three when the brighter lights of the City had gone out, they wandered back to her place and took the creaky old elevator to her floor. She unlocked her door, then turned to face him.
"I'd ask you in, but it's awfully late," she said.
"Sure. That's all right. But what an evening, eh?"
"Oh yes. It was wonderful. Thank you so much."
"Let's do it again next week. Maybe not the Opera but ... something else interesting."
"Well.
"I want to see you again. Belinda."
"Yes. I feel the same way. But it's so hard to make plans very far ahead. Something might come up. I mean, like a job. . . "
"I understand. Shall I call you?"
"All right, yes. About the middle of the week. I think it will be all right. But I'll know for sure by Wednesday."
"Fine."
He didn't kiss her goodnight-not even on the cheek. And this was strange because he always gave his women a hearty kiss at the end of their first evening together, even if he never intended to see them again. Yet Belinda was different. He couldn't say exactly how, but the difference was such that he simply couldn't bring himself to kiss her. Instead, he merely squeezed her hand and turned away-thinking all the while how Gullietta had stolen Hoffman's reflection during the Venice sequence in the opera.
Half an hour later he reached his own door, and as he inserted his key in the lock a question sounded in his mind.
Is this the girl I'm going to marry?
During his college years, and for a long time thereafter, this question always rang through his brain at the end of his first evening with a girl. But the answer had proved to be negative so many times that the question became merely academic and finally grew silent altogether. Now it was back-with all the nagging insistence of his college days. And the answer frightened him a little because it sounded so desperate.
Yes. God help me, yes.
He was glad that Steve was asleep. He wasn't in the mood to be cross-examined about what benefits the evening had brought to their damn script.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
By all odds, the trip to Bermuda should have been filled with nothing but happy memories for Roger.
First-the script had been completed to everyone's satisfaction and both Roger and Steve felt that they had the makings of a delightful film which would set Bermuda head and shoulders above all other resorts in the eyes of those who saw it.
Second-the rains and cold winds of late March had taken the last of the excitement out of the dying winter season and two weeks in the warm, sub-tropical sun of a resort island would provide a welcomed change.
Third-Roger could be with Belinda almost constantly during the two weeks they were away. And in a setting that was synonymous with the word Romance.
Yes, it should have been a wonderful trip. Instead, it turned into a nightmare.
Roger had been seeing Belinda steadily during the month and a half before the trip. He had dropped all his other girl friends and concentrated solely on her-not only on weekends but during the week as well when they would often meet for dinner.
He took her on a constant round of plays, concerts, parties and quiet evenings in cocktail lounges-reveling secretly in the way heads turned in her direction where-ever they went. Never before had he felt so much like the young price escorting the beautiful princess. And never before had be been able to find so much contentment in a girl who gave so little in return. It wasn't until their third evening together that he finally worked up the courage to kiss her-a clumsy, nervous kiss delivered outside the door of her apartment at three-thirty one Sunday morning. But her response was not like the others. Her body didn't swell closer to his. Her mouth didn't open eagerly. Instead she drew back almost immediately and laughed.
"I we wondering when that was coming," she said, in a tone that he convinced himself was good-natured.
"Look, I don't want you to get the wrong idea," he replied quickly, still holding onto her shoulders. "I. . . "
"Don't worry. I won't."
Then she pulled away expertly and said goodnight.
But her reaction was understandable, he told himself on the way home. Every guy she meets must try to steer her into bed. She's bound to be very cautious. He would have to play it cool and let her get to know him better. Let her see that she could trust him.
So he played it cool-and so did she. He fell into the habit of kissing her when they parted, and often when they met. And she accepted these kisses like pleasant little jewels to wear in her crown. She would take his arm when they appeared in public together and let him put his arm around her or hold her hand in the back seat of taxis. But is was just a convention she was observing. It meant no more to her than a smile or a handshake. That was obvious.
Still, Roger found it easy to tell himself that it didn't matter. Two weeks on Bermuda-working together, being together almost constantly-would change everything. And she'd come back to New York with stars in her eyes. Stars that he would put there. It was merely a question of being patient. She was certainly worth that much.
On the last day of March they boarded a plane at Kennedy and took off in a rain storm for Bermuda. Six of them. Roger and Steve, Joe Pennel (the cameraman), Arnold Wiseman (Joe's assistant), Belinda, and Gary Nickols. This last name belonged to the young actor who was to play the male half of the honeymooning couple. He was a good-looking young man with a blonde crew cut, an athlete's build, and the disarmingly modest charm so common among young actors.
And it also turned out that he and Belinda knew each other. In fact, their greeting to each other when they met at the airport was an embrace and a hearty kiss.
But Roger kept reminding himself that actors always go in for extravagant greetings. It only meant that they were acquainted. Nothing else.
They spent the first day checking their locations and lining up the other actors they would need in the film, all of whom were recruited from amongst the local people. A man named Thomas Mallory from the Bermuda Trade Development Board, who would serve as their guide, had already set the various wheels in motion on the strength of a detailed letter Roger had sent him two weeks before. So all the preliminaries were taken care of in one day.
During the next three days they had perfect weather and Steve set a grueling pace that had the others running to keep up. They rose each morning at seven o'clock and were only too happy to fall into bed, exhausted, soon after dinner.
"Let's get as much footage in the can as possible while the weather holds," Steve said. "We can do our relaxing when it's cloudy."
On the fifth day the clouds came. They woke up that morning to find a sky a dull, convoluted gray from one horizon to the other. The air was warm and pleasant, but the absences of clear sun made the islands look anything like the setting for a modern fairy table.
They spent the morning in the lobby-drinking tea and hoping for a break in the clouds. But by noontime the sky was still as grim as ever and Mallory conceded that there wasn't much hope for a change before nightfall.
"What the hell." Steve said finally. "This day's shot anyway. We may as well cancel and start off fresh tomorrow. Go to the beach, folks. Or get some rest. Anything you want. You're on your own for the rest of the day."
Joe and Arnie immediately decided that they would do some fishing and rushed off without even waiting for lunch. Steve who had a remarkable talent for diplomacy buried underneath his open-hearted New York gruffness-accepted Mallory's invitation to visit his home and examine his large collection of colored slides. Roger had some paperwork to catch up on but didn't expect it to take him much more than an hour.
"We'll go to the beach as soon as I'm through," he said to Belinda, then added with a wink: "You know, I've never seen you in a bathing suit. It ought to be worth the whole trip."
"How long will it take you?" she replied, ignoring his wink and the compliment that followed.
"I'll be as fast as I can. It's just a matter of typing up a few reports."
"All right, I'll be in my room. But hurry. I'm just aching to get into that water."
"So am I."
He went to his room directly after lunch and set to work feverishly at the little typewriter he had brought with him. There were half a dozen shot report sheets to be duplicated so that copies could be sent to the lab in New York with their first shipment of exposed film. But halfway through the first sheet, the typewriter suddenly jammed for some inexplicable reason. He spent the next quarter hour trying to fix it but succeeded only in bending one of the pivots that held the space bar in place. Out of sheer frustration, he raised the tinny little machine and banged it down on the desk. That loosened up everything-so much so that the platen jumped out of its seating accompanied by several tiny screws from mysterious places inside. The carriage return arm fell off and its screw seemed to have disappeared. None of the other screws that had fallen out would fit. He tried each one but they were too small.
So he took out a ball point pen and set to work copying the reports by hand-with everything carefully printed so there would be no confusion later. It was tedious work that couldn't be hurried. Once he found that he had left out a shot and, after trying vainly to fit it in between the lines in a way that it would still be legible, he gave up and had to do the whole sheet over. Another time, he put a piece of carbon paper in upside-down and didn't discover his mistake until more than half the sheet was copied. It just wasn't his day.
But finally it was all done and he stuffed the sheets into the shipping carton along with the cans of exposed film. Then he checked his watch. God, it was after two. All because of that lousy typewriter. He'd make sure that the manufacturer heard about this when he got back to New York. He'd tell everybody what an unreliable piece of junk that company was foisting off on the public. He'd ruin their whole sales program.
He yanked the phone off the cradle and called Belinda's room-and got no answer. Angrily he demanded that the operator check to be sure that she was ringing the right room, that it was really Belinda's room and not someone else's, that there wasn't anything wrong with the phone. Then he ran down and banged on her door. It was no use. She wasn't in. Finally, on the strength of a bitter inspiration, he called the operator again and asked her to ring Gary's room. No answer there either.
So they had gone off together. And without a word to him. Just great.
He knew they had gone off together, too. He had watched them over the past few days-billing and cooing like honeymooners off camera as well as on. He had listened to her laughter as they stood talking together on the sidelines, waiting for the next shot. It irked him to realize that she had a life apart from him-a life which was apparently shared with this 'old friend' who was now portraying her husband on camera. He had come to think of her as his personal property and refused to admit that anyone could be as close to her as he was ever.
The trip wasn't working out the way he planned at all. It was turning into a mockery of all his hopes. And what could he do about it without seeming like an idiot? Belinda wasn't like the other women he had known.
When Steve got back at five-thirty. Roger was sprawled out glumly in the room's one comfortable chair.
"Broter, talk about problems." Steve said as he wandered around the room trying to shake off the debilitating effects of his afternoon. "That guy Mallory needs a whole crew of yes-men. For the past three hours I've been telling him how great his lousy slides were. And I got the full treatment, too. Projector, soft music in the background, drinks-the works. I was afraid to tell him that I never took a color slide in my life. Hey. You didn't go swimming."
"No."
"What happened-Belinda stand you up."
"I was tired. I told her and Gary to go on by themselves."
"Ah, Gary. Now I get it."
"There's nothing to get."
"Listen, pal...."
"Out it out, Steve. I'm not in the mood. It's none of your business anyway."
"It sure as hell is my business. We've got a picture to shoot, remember? And I'll be damned if I'm going to let you slow things down by walking around with your head between your legs. Don't think I haven't been noticing you the past few days.
"Listen. There's an old folk saying along the street where I grew up. The better they are on the outside, the worse they are on the inside. Believe me, it's true. So snap out of it and forget her."
"Go to hell. You don't know what you're talking about."
"Okay, pal. Its your funeral. But don't think I'm going to let you good off on the picture."
"Don't worry. I'll do my job."
"You'd better."
Joe and Arnie got back around six bearing with them a slightly undersized bluefish which Arnie had caught and insisted that the hotel chef prepare for their dinner. They also brought along two local girls whom they had picked up under circumstances that were never clearly explained. The girls tended to giggle quite a lot but they were obviously very impressed by Joe and Arnie whom they gazed at rapturously all through dinner. The two cameramen, however, got so involved in an argument about the probably size of the big one that Joe lost three feet from the boat and the girls eventually began turning their attention to Steve and Roger. Steve told a few of his cleaner jokes, which made them laugh uproariously. But Roger was not very good company. He could think of nothing but the fact that Belinda and Gary still had not returned. And it was after eight o'clock. And pitch dark outside.
It wasn't until almost nine that they finally showed up-walking into the dinning room together all dressed for dinner. They sat down at the table with a nonchalant 'hi everybody' and never said a word about why they were so late. Arnie immediately told them all about his bluefish (which had scarcely been big enough to provide them each with a single, decent mouth full earlier in the meal) and Belinda launched into a great routine about how sorry she was that she missed it. Then she went out of her way to compliment the two girls on the charm of Bermuda and mention to Steve that the stars were out and it promised to be a good day tomorrow. But not a word to Roger. She accepted him as part of the crowd and that was all.
Afterwards, with a little desperate maneuvering, he managed to get her alone in one corner of the lobby while the others went out to the nightclub patio where a steel band from Trinidad was holding forth.
"What's the idea of running off without telling me?" he demanded.
"But I left you a message, darling. Didn't you get it?"
"I don't know what you're talking about. The first time I knew you were gone was when I called your room around two o'clock and got no answer."
"We must have just left."
"I thought you were going to wait until I was finished with my work."
"I did wait. You said it would only be an hour and I waited an hour. Then Gary came in and asked if we minded if he came along swimming too. It turned out that he'd been left out of everybody else's plans. And I didn't think it was fair to leave him alone at the hotel all afternoon while the rest of us...."
"Gary's obviously a big boy now. I think he can take care of himself. Was it his idea that you two run off together?"
"Oh Roger ... You make it sound so melodramatic. And it was my idea., as a matter-of-fact."
"I see."
"Yes. I was tired of waiting. I wanted to get at least one swim in before it got dark."
"You couldn't have called me?"
"I didn't want to disturb you. I knew you were working. Besides, we left you a message telling you to meet us at the Elbow Beach Club when you got finished."
"I never got any message."
"Well did you ask?"
"You never even asked. Oh Roger, honestly...."
"Now listen, Belinda. "Come with me."
"But.
"Don't argue. Just come with me. I'll prove to you that I'm not lying."
She marched him over to the desk and made him ask the clerk if there were any messages for him.
Yes, there was a message-carefully folded into a hotel envelope and written in a scrawl that must have been the clerk's. It stated, in one simple declarative sentence, that Miss Young and Mr. Nickols had gone on to the Elbow Beach Club and would wait for him there. He glanced over the note, cursed himself for jumping to conclusions, found it very easy to understand why he had done so, and turned back to her-still in an angry frame of mind.
"All right," he said. "So you left me a message. That still doesn't explain where you've been all afternoon."
"I never said it did. But you've been acting all along as if I ran off without a word. And you can see that I didn't."
"Yes, okay. I'm sorry. Now what did you do after you left the Elbow Beach Club?"
"Why ... we came back to the hotel."
"Beliveen the time you left the Club and came back to the hotel. Good God, Belinda. You didn't walk into the dinning room until nine o'clock. Now...."
"We were waiting for you until almost six. Yes, it was at least six before the left the Club."
"I see. And what about the other three hours."
"There weren't any taxis around so we had to borrow two of those motorbikes. And then we lost our way and Gary's bike had trouble with the motor or something. It took us a long time to get home. Then we got dressed and came straight down to the dining room."
"If you expect me to believe...."
"Honestly, Roger. You sound just like a jealous husband. There's no reason why I have to account to you for my time."
"I'm sorry, but I ... I can't help it. When I found out that you had disappeared with Gary...."
"I didn't disappear. And Gary happens to be a very old and close friend."
"Is he. How close."
"We've known each other for years."
"Has he ever gone to bed with you?"
"Roger, for heaven's sakes. That's a terrible thing to ask me. How dare you."
"Well damn it, Belinda. I...."
"I'm not staying here another second. I'm going out with the others to listen to the music. You can come along or nor, just as you choose."
She turned and walked away, leaving him with half a dozen unspoken sentences on the tip of his tongue-sentences that might have calmed her down and make her see all this in a different perspective.
And after that it got worse.
CHAPTER TWELVE
On Saturday night, with a week's hard work behind them and rain forecast for the next day, Steve decided that they were all due a night on the town. It began with dinner at the Princess Hotel and Joe and Arnie even brought along their local girl friends. After dinner they adjourned to the night club where Roger took the first opportunity to drag Belinda out onto the dance floor.
For a while, things went very well. Gary seemed too involved enchanting the two girls with long stories about his summer theater adventures to pay any attention to Belinda and that left the way entirely clear for Roger. And Belinda seemed in a much warmer mood towards him than at any other time since the trip began. She cuddled up against him on the dance floor with her eyes closed and her cheek pressed against his as the exotic beat of Calypso music swirled about them. It had all the charm of their New York evenings and he noted with the same did pleasure the envious glances cast in their direction by other men once they caught sight of Belinda.
Then, as the early closing hour imposed by the local curfew drew near. Joe's girl had an idea.
"It's too early to break up the party," she said. "And I know a wonderful after-hours place up in the mountains. They have a really terrific Calypso singer."
"What are you talking about, doll?" Steve said with a grin. "I haven't seen a single mountain since I got here."
"Oh yes, you know," they went on, taking it all with a straight face. "The hills out beyond the town. That way."
"Those are mountains? I thought they were Indian burial mounds."
Everybody laughed and it was agreed to move on the place mentioned. They paid their bill, then went out front and began piling into a cab parked in the driveway. Joe and his girl got in first Gary climbed in front next to the driver. Then Belinda got in next to Joe. But just as Roger was about to get in beside her, the driver held up his hand.
"Sorry, sir," he said. "I can only take four."
"Oh, well. . . "
"That's all right, and Arnie's girl grabbed his arm. "The rest of us can follow in another cab. I know where the place is."
The cab drew away and left them. And by the time they had gotten themselves loaded into a second cab, the first was far ahead and out of sight. But Arnie's girl wasn't a bit concerned. She gave their driver all sorts of elaborate directions and, a quarter of an hour later, they pulled up in front of a rambling building set in a clearing on some hillside in the middle of nowhere. But it must have been the wrong club. Or else those in the first cab changed their minds while on route. They weren't inside and Roger didn't see Belinda again for the rest of that night.
He responded by getting so totally and embarrassingly drunk that Steve practically had to carry him up to their room when they finally got back to the hotel. There, he threw himself on his hands and knees in front of the John and began vomiting his guts out. Steve looked in a few moments later and found him with his head resting on the lip of the bowl.
"Roger, you're in a bad way," he said. "Take my advice and forget her. She's just another bitch in high heels."
"Oh ... shut up and leave me alone."
"Look, buddy. Don't tell me to shut up. I happen to be your friend and I can see what this is doing to you."
Then, to Steve's amazement, Roger began to sob-brokenly and drunkenly.
"I ... I love her," he moaned. "She's the most b ... beautiful girl I've ... ever known."
"You poor slob. She's done a very complete job on you, hasn't she. And to think I got you into this for the sake of the script."
"Oh ... What'm I going to do, Steve? I love her."
"Well, right now about all you can do is to go to bed and try to sleep it off. Come on, I'll give you a hand."-"Th ... thanks...."
So his trip to Paradise became nothing but torment. He did his best to bury himself in his work for the remaining week and treat Belinda as just another actress. Yet the way his body tensed and came alert whenever she was near him, whenever her voice sounded within his range of hearing, told him that she wasn't just another actress. He was like a fish on the end of a line abandoned by the fisherman-free to swim where-ever he wished, but unable to get rid of that nagging, aching hook buried deep in his flesh.
On the last Saturday night of the trip-with the picture shot and their plane reservations all set for a departure the next day-they held the traditional end-of-shooting party for everyone who had been associated with the production. It began with a lobster dinner on the terrace of an exclusive beach club that overlooked the sea and lasted far into the night to the accompaniment of much laughter and the clink of many glasses.
Sometime after midnight Roger came back from a trip to the men's room and suddenly paused against the rail of a deserted terrace to gaze out at the star-lit sea. From somewhere off in the darkness came the sound of tropical music. The rhythms of Calypso-or maybe only fake Calypso. But exotic nonetheless. And a perfect background for dreams.
Such a beautiful island, he thought to himself as he glanced down at the phosphorescent surf breaking on the rocks below.
"Roger...?"
He turned and found her standing near him in the darkness. "Oh ... Hello."
"I thought it was you. Why are you standing here all by yourself?"
"No particular reason."
"The party is starting to break up."
"I guess that's inevitable, isn't it."
"Yes ... But it means that our trip is almost over."
"Are you sorry?"
"In a way. I rather like it here."
"Fine. I'm glad somebody enjoyed the trip."
"Didn't you enjoy it?"
"A trip is a trip. I've been so many places-always making films. It's a job, that's all."
"Roger, why have you been avoiding me?"
"Have I been avoiding you?"
"Well it seems that way-all this week. You never talked to me, we never went anywhere together. . . "
"I gave up, Belinda. That's all. It looked like I didn't have any choice."
"Oh darling ... " and she pressed closer to him, raising her head until he could see the night sky reflected in her eyes. "Have I hurt you?"
"Maybe it was my own fault. I shouldn't have expected so much."
"It's because of Gary, isn't it."
He didn't answer. He just looked down at her eyes and wondered at the caressing tone of her voice.
"Sometime I'll try and explain it to you," she went on. "It was only for professional reasons, anyway. Nothing personal involved. I ... I don't love him, if that's what you thought."
"Can you love anybody?"
"Oh darling, don't be cruel. I'll make it up to you. I promise."
Then she reached up and kissed him. But she had never kissed him quite like that before. The warmth, the tenderness, the moist hint of desire-all this was a new experience coming from her. He grabbed her and returned her kiss fiercely.
She melted against him, then breathed a little sight that brought life back to his world again.
"Honey, listen," he whispered against her ear. "This is still Bermuda. There's still time. Let's ... go back to the hotel."
"Roger...."
"Please, honey. I ... I love you. And I want to ... prove it. God, I've wanted to for so long."
"Darling, no. Not tonight."
His anger flared again and he pushed her away contemptuously.
"Damn it, what's wrong with you? What are you trying to do to me?"
"Any other night, darling. I promise."
"Your promises...."
"I can't tonight. Don't you understand that?"
"How do I know this isn't just an excuse? How do I know you're not ... making it up to get rid of me?"
"Well what do you want-evidence ? Do you want me to strip off my clothes and show you the. . . ? "
"Belinda. For God's sakes."
"Oh don't worry. I have no intention of doing any such thing. If yu won't believe me, that's just too bad."
"Roger ... darling, let's not fight anymore. Let's be nice to each other. The way we used to be. Here."
She took his hands in hers and placed them over her breast. A shudder ran through his body and his fingers began squeezing her flesh convulsively. Underneath the thin fabric of that cocktail dress her breasts were naked. He could feel them. Naked and alive-yielding to his hands.
"Honey...."
"Just hold me, Roger. Hold me and show me how much you love me. Yes, that's it. Don't be afraid. Oh I love it, darling. I love what your hands are doing to me. Oh yes, yes ... I love it."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
By the end of that summer he had chassed through at least half a dozen separate categories of desperation, had spent an enormous amount of money, had lost fifteen pounds, had come into what seemed like permanent possession of a classic pair of dark circles under his eyes-and still had not managed to sleep with her. Now, his body and mind exhausted by the strain of the last six months, he had fallen into a state of dull resignation towards this unhealthy bondage that imprisoned him.
She had a wonderful talent for making promises and then manipulating circumstances so that no opportunities arose for her to keep them. That was why he had done nothing more than kiss her and occasionally neck with her. She had never actually refused to go to bed with him. She even acted as if she fully intended to keep that promise she had made him during their last night in Bermuda. But somehow the right time and the right place never quite presented themselves. And he lacked the temperament necessary to accomplish a successful rape. So, after a few excruciating weeks of patience, he gave up hope and let himself fall back into the same dull routine of seeing her as often as she would consent to meet him and waiting for some unlikely miracle to occur.
Saturday morning of the Labor Day weekend found them gliding along the Hutchinson River Parkway towards Connecticut-in a twenty six year old Rolls Royce that gleamed and sparkled in the sunlight. The Rolls belonged to him, but its ownership was inexorably tied up with his passion for her.
"I just love this car," she said, for what must have been the eight hundredth time, as an old Ford loaded with college students tooted a loud salute in passing.
"Glad to hear it," he said. "At least we have one thing in common."
"Why darling, I'm surprised at you. We have many things in common."
"We do, eh?"
"Of course. You don't think I'd go out with you otherwise, do you."
"I guess not."
Their destination was Greenwhich-specifically, a small island just off shore where they were to spend the weekend. The invitation had come from a business acquaintance of Roger's named Ben Moran who was living on the island that summer and always spoke of it as the latest thing in paradises.
"We'll have a ball this weekend," he had said the previous Wednesday. "Lots of people are coming. Why don't you join us for a day or so."
Steve and his current bedmate (a stone-faced model named Carol who specialized in underwear ads) were languishing on the back seat-seemingly miles behind. On the jump seats was a couple known only as Bruce and Ginny. They were friends of Ben and Roger had been asked to give them a lift-if he had room.
"A pretty academic point, I guess," and Ben couldn't help laughing over the phone. "You've got enough room for a couple of Bridge games in that bus of yours."
"I'll be able to take them. They can sit on the jump seats. Just tell them to be at my place by ten o'clock."
They reached Greenwich and, after asking directions three times, found the narrow driveway that led down to the small dock Ben had told them about. The island was on the other side of a medium sized bay where several people were water skiing and a sailboat was tacking across towards the inlet. As per instructions, they blow the dock's slightly battered fog horn three times and then sat down to wait. Fifteen minutes and several more blasts on the fog horn later, they saw a motor boat set out towards them from the dock on the island. Ben was at the wheel and greeted them with great enthusiasm.
"Hey, you showed up at the right moment," he said. "It's just been discovered that he won't have enough hot dog rolls for lunch. Roger, be a pal and run me into town, huh? In style yet. Mel can take the others over to the island."
Mel, who had accompanied Ben in the launch, was a sun-bronzed, bearded character who wore paint-stained blue jeans and waved his arms elaborately when he talked. He was introduced to everyone and responded to Belinda by stretching his face into an expression of disbelief and pointing one long finger at her breasts.
Honey, are they real? he said, "I mean, you're not just demonstrating the latest thing in falsies, are you?"
"Oh don't mind Mel," Ben said with a nonchalant laugh. "He's an artist. A painter-type artist. With him it's all strictly aesthetic."
"Baby, I feel the urge to do a nude study coming on." Mel continued, taking Belinda by the arm. "Let's get out to the island and talk this thing over. Those knockers really inspire me."
"Roger, come on," Ben said. "I want to get back as soon as I can. The others are getting hungry."
"Yeah, I can see what you mean."
Mel helped Belinda into the boat, then turned to the others like a bus driver.
"No more room. Wait for the next boat," he said comically. "This little girl and her super-sized water wings just took up the last available space."
There was a lot of gay laughter and the others began climbing on board.
"Hold the fort until I get back." Roger said to Steve in a low tone.
"I know what you mean," Steve mumbled back. "Maybe I should arrange for him to fall overboard in the middle of the bay."
"Don't do anything drastic. Just ... keep an eye on her."
"Sure."
It was more than an hour before Roger set foot on the island-much of it spent waiting on the dock for a boat to come and get them. The boat that finally did come was piloted by Steve, who was by no means as good a sailor as he was a director. Ben took over the wheel for the trip back and Steve joined Roger in the stern.
"Look pal," he said in a low enough tone so that the noise of the engine would hide his words from Ben. "Take my advice for a change and keep her close to you this weekend."
"My God, is it that bad already?"
"An artist is an artist. And this guy Mel is a first class lecher besides. When I left to pick you guys up he was busy serenading her with dirty songs. And she was getting a big kick out of it."
"Damn...."
"The time has come for you to show a little spirit, Roger. So take my advice. If you really do love her-idiot that you are-then do something about it."
There were about forty people on the island that weekend, including the guests who came and went. Except for the two grandmothers-no one appeared to be much over thirty five. And beyond this they all had in common the enthusiastic almost desperate, informality of a Pepsi Cola commercial. They greeted each new arrival with loud, effusive cliches no matter who he was. They wandered around in bathing suits or shorts borrowing each others boats and food and women. They talked constantly without ever saying anything. They drank endless cans of beer. They swam and sailed and water skied and sunbathed and play badminton and just sat. And they were hopelessly, even nauseatingly, friendly. Just like a big happy family they bragged. What fun.
On the strength of Steve's advice (and his own sense of concern), Roger did his best to remain close by Belinda as the afternoon wandered on. She didn't object, but neither did she object to Mel's presence-which was unnervingly constant. Along with the unceasing, vulgar overtones that colored every word he uttered.
Just as the sun was going down and their dinners were starting to digest, it was discovered that the beer was running low.
"Roger, come on," Ben said. "You can drive us into town and we'll get another few cases. We want to ride in your car anyway."
"Well, I...."
"Come on, Roger. We'd better hurry," Bent went on. "The nearest store closes in another half hour. We don't want to have to drive all the way downtown."
"Okay, okay."
"That's the spirit. Come on, gang. We're going to pick up the beer in a Rolls Royce."
"Hey, just what we need."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
When they finally got back (after a lot of unavoidable joy riding) it was pitch dark. The island was one great sea of blackness dotted here and there by the hushed glow of candles and the occasional beams of flashlights. But the blackness echoed with the sounds of laughter and gay voices and shouts of glee. There were parties going on everywhere-in each house, down on the beach, inside the boathouse, under the sagging roof of the old gazebo, on the three open porches of the mansion. And Belinda was in the midst of one. Unless...
He tried to find her. He barged into every group without a word of greeting and scanned the candlelit faces. But after half an hour of turning down drinks and enduring their quizzical glances, all he found was Steve.
"Roger, I'm sorry." Steve said. "I don't know what happened to her."
"But you promised to keep an eye on her."
"Look. She's your girl, not mine. What do I have to do-lead you everyplace by the hand?"
"Well if that's the way you feel about it..."
"She's poison anyway. As far as I'm concerned, she and Mel deserve each other. They're both lost causes."
"Damn it, Steve. . . "
"How long it is going to take you to get wise? Don't you realize what a fool you're making of yourself?"
"Look. Never mind. If this is all friendship means to you..."
"Oh hell. Don't pull that routine on me. If you had any sense..."
"Screw you, buddy."
Roger turned on his heel and walked off into the blackness, angry at the whole world now. Ready to slug the first person he met, or set fire to that whole frigging island. But he did neither. Instead, he found himself a quiet corner on one of the porches of the mansion, pulled over a case full of cold beer cans, and proceed with an undated version of that old game known as crying in ones beer. After the third can had been emptied, he had convinced himself that he was the most totally miserable person in the world. And he had also made up his mind to sell the Rolls just as soon as he could find a buyer-no matter how low a price was offered. It reminded him too much of Belinda and there was certainly no percentage in that.
He drank can after can of beer-which seemed to have no effect on him whatever. But the next time he looked up, the party at the other end of the porch had vanished into the night. And they had taken the rest of the beer with them. All he had left was the can in front of him, which was less tan half full.
Then there were footsteps on the porch. He jerked his head around and a flashlight beam caught him full in the eyes.
"Roger ... So this is where you've been hiding."
It was Steve. And the flashlight was immediately aimed towards the floor.
"I haven't been hiding anywhere."
"Maybe not. But I've been wandering all over the island looking for you."
"This damn island ... Steve, isn't it against the law for an island (like this to be without electricity? I mean, when there are people living here and everything."
"I don't know."
Steve pulled over a gigantic wooden rocking chair and sat down. He switched off the flashlight and began rocking slowly.
"What have you been doing all this time?" he asked.
"Drinking beer."
"Good enough occupation. Do any good?"
"No. It's just like drinking water."
"You ever find....."
"No."
"Too bad."
"Yeah, too bad. Too frigging bad."
"Pal, why don't you face facts and..."
"I love her, Steve. Does that make any sense."
"Not to me."
"Me neither. But there it is. She's the worst girl in the world. There ought to be a way to turn her inside out so everybody can see just how ... ugly and rotten she is under that veneer of beauty. And I love her. I love her so damn much that the thought of her off in this darkness with somebody like Mel..."
"Roger, listen to me."
"It's no good talking..."
"No. Shut up and listen for a minute."
"Okay. So talk."
"You've got to stop waiting for a miracle. You've got to do something yourself."
"Yeah ... What."
"Come to a decision. Either you lay down the law to Belinda-and right now-and she sees the light. Or you give her up and forget the whole thing."
"I ... can't give her up."
"Then go find her and give her a couple of belts in the jaw. That's something she'll understand. Maybe that's all she'll ever understand. But it's enough."
"Steve, I don't know
"Listen. It's either that or moon yourself to death. Have you any idea what this has done to you? And what it's done to your work?"
"Has ... has it really affected my work?"
"You damn right it has. Why do you think we've had so much trouble getting that paper company script approved? You sit down to write and end up mooning about Belinda. And all that comes out is gibberish."
"I didn't realize that my work..."
"So I'm telling you. Believe me. Roger. You'd better come to a decision. And right now. Tonight."
"All right."
Suddenly he was on his feet. "Now you're talking, pal."
"Give me that flashlight."
"Sure. Here. Now don't hit her with the flashlight. You might break the bulb. With your hand. Not too hard, but hard enough so she feels it."
"Just wait till I find her."
"Don't go around asking people. Use your eyes. Look. This island isn't that big."
"She's going to be sorry she ever set foot on it."
"Right. But maybe a little glad, too. Now go to it."
"Don't wait up for me."
"Pal, I'm going to find Carol and go to bed right now. See you in the morning."
"Yeah..."
He stumbled off into the darkness feeling so strong and clear-eyed that he didn't even bother turning on the flashlight. And just wait till he found her. First he'd drag her off to some quiet place. Then he'd give her that belt in the jaw she'd needed for so long. And then he'd rip off her clothes and get rid of the terrible longing that had been killing him. After that he didn't care what she did or said. She could hate him for the rest of her life. It wouldn't matter once he'd backed her into the ground with the strength of his passion.
He could breath again-either way. And if anybody got in his way in the meantime...
They almost collided in the darkness as he strode rapidly along the path. Mejl was with her.
"Oh Roger..." she said. "We were just looking for you."
"Where the hell have you been?"
"Down on the beach. But Mel thinks..."
"Get lost, Mel."
"Now wait a minute Roger. I..." He snapped on the flashlight and shined it straight into Mel's eyes from two feet away. "Get lost, Mel."
"Look, I..."
"Do you want to be found on the beach with your head split open when the sun comes up tomorrow? Get lost."
"Sure, sure. Okay, Roger. Don't get excited."
He backed away quickly, trying to avoid the blinding light. Then he turned and started back along the path towards one of the other houses. Roger switched off the light and turned back to Belinda.
"My. You're turned into quite a tiger all of a sudden." She said.
"Never mind the smart remarks. Come on."
"Where are we going."
"You know very well where we're going."
"Oh Roger, I think..."
He cracked her across the face with his open hand. It wasn't a particularly hard blow. But it must have stung. She gasped and put her hand to her cheek.
"Are you coming or do I have to carry you."
"Yes ... All right."
He gripped her by the arm and marched her back to the mansion-up the grand staircase to the second floor where their rooms were. "Which room is yours?" He demanded."
"Which one, damn it."
"That one. At the end of the hall."
"Good."
They entered the room and he lit the candle. It was a small room with an old fashioned iron bed up against one wall. Her eyes reflected the candle light as he drew close to her. But they also reflected something else that he had ever seen there before.
"Now take off your clothes." He ordered.
"Aren't you even going to undress me, darling?" and she smiled coyly.
"No arguments. Just do as I say."
"Yes sir."
"And no more smart cracks. Otherwise..." and he raised his hand threateningly.
"All right, Roger. All right. My goodness..."
Her naked body by candle light was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It almost made him forget what a vixen she was. But then she came towards him, with her arms outstretched and her lips raised provocatively, and he knew damn well that he'd better not forget.
"My sweet little tiger." She said in a soft voice that had just the faintest edge of mockery to it.
So he kissed her-violently. He dug his hands into her flesh and jammed her back against the dresser with his body. Then he slid his mouth down to her breasts. At last. At long last.
"Oh God..." and there was no question of any mockery in her voice any longer.
"It's better this was, isn't it." He said.
"Yes ... Oh tiger, tiger, tiger..."
"Come on."
He pulled her over to the bed and they sank down on it together. Her kisses meant something now. Because her body wasn't simply mocking him any longer.
It didn't last long. His pent-up desire was beyond any hope of control. But it didn't have to last long. She had submitted at last. And she even seemed to enjoy it. Her little, half-whimpered moans at the end told him that.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Betty was laughing. She was actually laughing in the face of everything. It was the last thing Roger expected, certainly. But at the same time it reassured him. At least he didn't have a panic-stricken woman on his hands.
"I'm sorry, darling." She said. "But it seems like such a perfect joke."
"Fine. I'm glad you think so. There's no doubt, I suppose."
"Not as far as I'm concerned. Darling, at long last-at long last I'm going to have a baby. Your baby."
She put her arms around him and pressed her lips to his.
"Well aren't you happy?" she went on. "I mean, forgetting about the complications for a minute-aren't you glad that we...? "
"Of course. Yes. I've always wanted more children-if only to make up for poor Billy. But Belinda..."
"Forget Belinda. I can give you any number of children. And I want to give you children."
"Honey..."
"Honey..."
"Now what."
"Sit down. Let's ... talk about this."
"Roger, don't you want the baby?" and a note of alarm crept into her voice.
"Yes, yes. Of course I want it. More than you realize. But lets figure out how we're going to ... manage the whole business."
"Darling, I don't know how much biology you studied in school, but it generally manages itself. The baby develops inside the womb and about nine months later..."
"Oh honey ... You know what I mean. We don't happen to live on some South Sea island where everybody practices free love and all children belong to the community. Somehow, the idea of you living in your husband's house while you carry another man's child doesn't strike me as a very manageable proposition."
"I suppose you're right. John would find out sooner or later, wouldn't he."
"Obviously. And unless you convince him that it's his child..."
"No. Never. It's our child-yours and mine. I'm proud of that and I refuse to lie about it."
"Then..."
"We'll just have to get married, I guess."
"Fine. Nothing would please me more. But the Law stipulates only one spouse at a time. Narrow-minded perhaps, but..."
Well naturally we'd divorce first. Honestly, Roger..."
"Yes. Divorce. That's where the problems start pilling up. It won't be difficult for me. Belinda will no doubt be very magnanimous about letting me go-now that I'm no longer of any use to her. But..."
"I know. You're worried about John."
"Honey, I just can't imagine that he'll exactly go out of his way to make things easy for us."
"No ... It's going to be very hard. I haven't let myself think about it before, but..."
"But now we have to think about it. He's ... well you know what his attitude has always been about this sort of thing. You know how he's always condemned it in others."
"Like an old fashioned minister."
"I'm just afraid he won't let you divorce him. I'm afraid he'll sue for divorce himself-here in New York State, on grounds of adultery. Can you imagine what a horrible...? "
"Well let him. I don't care. Let him set me up before the world and brand a scarlet letter on my breast. Let him cast the first stone and demand that others follow suit. I don't care what happens, just as long as I can be with you and bear your children."
"Honey, no. How could I stand it-seeing them malign you."
"But they'd also malign you. darling. You'd be named as correspondent."
"That's nothing. The man always gets off easily. But the woman ... Oh honey, you have no idea. They'll destroy you."
"No. They won't destroy me. Not when I have your child inside me. Because I love you, my darling. And love writes its own laws."
"Oh honey..."
He kissed her again-on the mouth, then on the tip of the nose and the ears and the chin and the neck. They fell back on the bed in a wild embrace and lay there for a moment drinking in the warmth and closeness of their bodies. Then she sighed happily.
"This makes it worth the agony." She said. "As long as you love me..."
"I'll never stop loving you. Never."
"Then I don't care what they do. I am your wife, darling. Maybe not legally, but that doesn't matter. I have been your wife ever since that first night. The rest if just a mass of silly formalities."
"Honey, listen to me."
"What."
"Let's think about this first. Let' if there isn't some other way..."
"Anything. I don't care. But I am your wife and I am going to bear your child. Let the rest of the world make whatever compromises are necessary."
"Yes, all right. But ... I'm going to think hard, honey."
PART THREE
BENEATH THE SOUTHERN CROSS
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
They had their first argument on the morning of the one day stop-over in Rio de Janeiro. Betty wanted to join the Hoffstaders on a standard sightseeing tour of the city by bus that was run by a local travel agent in conjunction with steamship company. However Roger had been talking to the Brazilian businessmen about housing problems and one of them had offered to show him a favilla-one of the ramshackle, Negro shanty towns clinging to the hillsides above the city.
"But why on earth do you want to visit a slum?" Betty said in amazement. "Weren't there enough slums in New York?"
"This is different." He explained. "It's part of the larger picture of poverty that's been stifling this whole continent. These people live in conditions so appalling that they make the average Harlem tenement look like a pajace."
"Then why do you want to waste your time seeing them?"
"It isn't a waste of time. Steve is going to be starting a series of films about housing conditions that I'll probably be working on. It's important that I get as much first hand information as I can."
"But there must be slums in Buenos Aires. Couldn't you wait until we're settled there?"
"Honey, you don't understand. This isn't like doing research for some industrial film. There're more than statistics involved here. It's a matter of people' lives. Their out-looks and the way their hopes have been crushed. I've got to feel this thing. Not just digest a lot of government reports."
"I suppose nothing would make you happier than to actually get down and live in this kind of ugliness."
"Believe me, I'd jump at the chance if it was offered."
"Well I wouldn't. I hate ugliness. I like things that are beautiful and inspiring. Maybe that makes me sound old fashioned, but..."
"Everybody prefers beauty to ugliness. But the point is, these people don't have any choice. Ugliness and poverty and disease and hunger is the only kind of life they know. That's what we're fighting to chance with these films. But how can
I make films that carry any weight unless I have some kind of first hand experience?"
"Oh Roger ... We'll only be in Rio for one day and..."
"Exactly. That's why I can't afford to waste it playing."
"But I want to see the wonderful things I've always read about-Corcovado and the view from Sugar Loaf and the beaches of Copacabana..."
"We'll be getting back to Rio again. After all, it's only a couple of hours from Buenos Aires by plane. Maybe we can fly up here next winter for Carnival."
"Oh, next winter ... I want to see these thing now-while we're here."
"Well there's nothing to stop you, honey. You can go ahead with the Hoffstaders and..."
"But I want to be with you. I want to see these things with you, so we can share..."
"Honey, I've got to take this opportunity..."
"Then I'll stay on the ship."
"Oh honey ... Now don't be foolish."
"I'm not going anywhere alone."
"But you won't be alone. The Hoffstaders..."
"It's not the same thing as being with my ... my husband. Not the same as being with you."
"Look, if you think blackmail..."
"Go ahead, Roger. Go wallow in your slums or visit brothels or ... or anything else you want. I'm staying here."
"Damn it, Betty. Why do you always have to think of yourself first?"
"Oh, I'm thinking of myself first. And you, of course..."
"This is connected with my work."
"Roger, you seem very willing to forget all the sacrifices I'm making for you. It isn't every woman who would..."
"What-leave a life she hated for a chance to live like a millionaire in South America-with a nurse to take care of the child she's always wanted? Don't talk to me about sacrifices. You've never had to make a real sacrifice in your life."
"Oh..."
She turned away from him and began to cry.
"And never mind the crocodile tears." He said. "I had enough of that nonsense with Belinda. It doesn't cut any ice with me anymore."
"G ... get out of here. I never want to ... to see you again."
"Betty, you're acting like a damn fool."
"Oh shut up. Just ... go on. Go to your slums and brothels and ... negro whores..."
"I'm going. Because it's part of my job. And if you're smart, you'll go on that sight-seeing tour with the Hoffstaders."
He started for the cabin door, then paused and looked back. She was sprawled out on the bed face down-weeping angrily. There was a clumsiness about her that he had never noticed before-an awkward, uncoordinated scrawniness to her 'body that almost made her look like an old woman. But maybe it was just the early effects of the child she was carrying. His child.
"Honey, come on." He said in a softer tone. "Let's not fight. There's too much at stake. After all, we love each other so much that we've run away together."
"I was a fool ... to ever listen to you."
"Oh hell. You can lie there and rot for all I care." And it took a great effort not to slam the door when he left.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was the middle of summer in Rio and the weather was even worse than New York in August. Heat and Humidity were both in the nineties. The tarred streets were spongy beneath his feet. A strange, almost exotic rankness filled the air. People walked the streets wearing sun-glasses and loose-fitting clothes and smelling of perspiration. A weird city. An appalling city. The most beautiful apartment buildings in the world-that could collapse tomorrow because the contractor may have cut too many corners when he was building them. And rising above everything were the green hills with the world's worst slums clinging to their sides.
Why did Betty have to act like such a child all of a sudden? Never mind whether or not she understood the importance of the films he would be making. A wife is supposed to accept the demands of her husband's career with good grace. Was it because they weren't legally married? Was it because she was pregnant? Maybe he should go back and...
No. He had made that mistake too often with Belinda. This time he was going to wear the pants. She's do as he wanted or she could go to hell. Never again would he compromise for the sake of domestic harmony. Let do the compromising. Let her make the sacrifices. Only...
What was the pint of running away with her if life was going to be a constant battle for supremacy? Love? Berman had give him the word on love. Berman was right. It was a lot of nonsense.
Then why was he running away with her? She wasn't even willing to let him take out one day on the trip to do something involved with his work. She wanted all of him-every minute-to do her bidding.
Just another woman. Another mistake. What had he let himself in for?
His Brazilian friend took him to half a dozen favillas in the course of that day. The poverty was even worse than he expected. And the Brazilian treated the whole thing with a reproachful detachment-as if it was somehow the fault of the United States for giving Brazil too little Foreign Aid, not the fault of his own upper-middle class who were only concerned with how much Foreign Aid money could find its way into their own pockets. The things he saw fed his anger until he was afraid to say anything, and left him with a feeling of utter helplessness. A sick child-too weak even to cry-dying of some deficiency disease. A young man vomiting blood as he lay doubled up in agony on the dirt floor of a hut. A woman in her twenties with a tumor in her breast the size of a lemon. These people would live and die here like flies in a sewer. So would their children probably.
And Betty sat there haughtily asserting her preference for things that were 'beautiful and inspiring'. God ... she should be dragged out here by force and made to see how the other ninety percent lives.
The day ended at a coffee bar down in the city where they were joined by several other men-all friends of the Brazilian. They talked about the favillas, about the miseries of the tenant farmers in the drought-stricken northeast, about how Inflation was ruining the country's economy. And the consensus was that the United States should increase its aid program. But never a word about land reform or tax reform or any meaningful redistribution of wealth. Brazilians couldn't be expected to do anything for their country. It was up to the United States, Otherwise Brazil might go Communist, or embrace Castrism.
When he finally got back to the ship it was almost dark. The others were in the salon, chatting idly as they waited for the call to dinner. Betty was sitting by herself reading a book. She glanced at him briefly when he entered, then went on reading. So instead of going over to her, he joined the Hoffstaders. After all, the quarrel was her fault. Let her be the one to make amends. He was done swallowing his pride and crawling. There had been too much of that with Belinda.
All through dinner she never said a word. Fred Hoffstader did most of the talking anyway-giving them an elaborate, enthusiastic description of the sights he had seen that day. He was a man who seemed to enjoy every minute of life, who found that whole world full of wonder and fascination. What did it take to be like that, Roger asked himself. Freedom from worry? A wife who was always on your side? Luck? Whatever is was, Fred had it and he didn't. And that annoyed him.
Then he saw Berman gazing at him with raised eyebrows. The man knew everything. He must have sensed right away that there had been a quarrel-if only because Betty was so quiet and glum. Now he was gloating probably. His theories about love were being proved correct. It was a fraud.
The ship left Rio and steamed out into the tropical Atlantic. A breeze caught them as soon as they left the bay. The night was moonless and so clear that all the Southern constellations glittered down from one horizon to the other. The breeze gave the warm night a strange perfume.
It must have been nearly midnight when Roger saw a figure moving towards him in the darkness. He was sitting on a deck chair just aft of the bridge-alone and miserable. The figure stopped in front of him and spoke.
"Quite a night, eh?"
"Oh, hello Fred. Thought you were down playing cards."
"The others decided to turn in. Even Ethel's gone to bed. Me, I don't feel in the mood yet. Not with a night like this. Mind if I sit down?"
"Sure. Go ahead."
Fred pulled over another chair settled into it with a deep sigh.
"Brother, this is living," he said, leaning back to stare at the night sky. "What more could anybody ask?"
"I'm glad you're enjoying yourself."
"Sure-why not? It doesn't cost any extra."
Roger said nothing and Fred continued gazing at the stars. Then he sat up and turned to Roger.
"You know, that Rio is quite a town," he said. "But I get the idea that life isn't what you'd call pleasant for most of the people who live there."
"I thought you went sight-seeing."
"I did, I did. But even a tourist's got eyes. Brother, talk about poverty ... Did you see those shanty towns on the hillsides?"
"That's where I spent the day. I visited several of them."
"Then you know what I'm talking about. I wanted to see one myself. Maybe take a few pictures to remind myself how lucky I am the next time I start envying somebody else. But Ethel thought it was silly. You know how women are."
"Yes, I know."
"No that they can help it. Part of their feminine character, you might say. Nothing outside their own little world means anything to them. But that's a good thing. Men are the ones who are supposed to run things and solve big problems. Women keep the home fires burning, like. They sort of balance each other out."
"I suppose so."
Did the Lady go with you today."
"What?"
"Betty. She go with you to see those shanty towns?"
"Oh. No, she wasn't interested."
"It figures. She should have come with us."
"I know. I told her to."
There was another silence. Fred lit a cigarette, then turned to Roger.
"Listen ... Roger. Tell me to mind my own business if I'm getting too personal. But I get the idea that you and the Misses are sort of ... having problems."
"It is so obvious?"
"To and old man like me, a lot of things are obvious."
"Well ... I guess we are."
"I hope it's nothing serious."
"Who knows what's serious and what isn't I ... Fred, damn it. What's the secret."
"Secret?"
"How do you arrange it so life isn't such a damn . . .trial all the time?"
"Pall, there is no secret. You just keep living, the best way you know how. And forget about looking for shortcuts because there aren't any."
"It it a question of love? Or is love just an illusion."
"Love? You mean like in the movies?"
"In the movies or in books or. . . "
"There ain't no such animal. It's another one of those shortcuts that don't exist. I'm sixty eight years old and if you asked me where you can find love, I'd tell you to go look for it in those movies where the good guys always wear white hats-if you know what I mean."
"Then Berman is right."
"I don't know about Berman's ideas on the subject. I never even read any of his books. But then it comes to believing all those stories about love ... Look. Ethel and me, we seem like the perfect, happy did couple, right?"
"Yes."
"And to look as us, gray-haired and close like we are, you'd never think we ever had anything but a perfect marriage-like in the movies. Well maybe it'll surprise you, but there was a time years back when things weren't going so well between us. The kids were having troubles, maybe Ethel was starting to feel old and worn-out. I don't know what the problem was. But it got so we couldn't say tow words to each other without getting into a fight."
"So even the gods have feet of clay."
"Who knows about gods? I just know that Ethel and me was making life hell for each other. Anyway, there was this little gal at the office. Pretty as a picture, she was. About twenty or so. And, like, available? I mean, it was obvious that she went for me, not that I could ever figure out why. So here was this golden opportunity, and Ethel wasn't getting any younger-if you know what I mean. Plus the way we were fighting all the time. It got so this gal at the office was aljl I could think about. Even one night with her ... Well anyway, the day finally came. I asked her to meet me after work. We went to a little bar I knew about where nobody worried about anybody else. And I had phoned Ethel to let her know I'd been home late because of a last minute repair job that the night crew couldn't handle."
"You were all set, in other words."
"Right. So there we sat in this booth-next to each other, you know. Holding hands and staring into our beers and figuring how it was going to be just like in the movies or something. But then I started thinking. I mean, where would it end? Before I got married I used to run around a lot-just like any guy. One gal after another. But pretty soov you get a little weary so you settle down with the one who seems ... well seems like she'll be the easiest to live with. Okay. That was Ethel. But all of a sudden here I am sitting in this lousy bar, starting the whole damn business all over again. So I say to myself-Fred, you're acting like an idiot. Women are basically all alike. If you got problems with one you're going to have problems with all. And at least you know Ethel better than the others. At least with her you got like a common meeting ground for solving problems. So why make life hard for yourself?"
"You talked yourself out of it."
"Yeah. Or maybe I wasn't so dumb as I thought. Only how was I going to get rid of this gal without hurting her feelings? That became the big problem. Then this guy walks into the bar. I didn't know him from Adam and he didn't know me, but we happened to look at each other. Accidentally, like. And I got an idea. So I turns to the gal and says excuse me, honey, but there's a guy looking for me.' And then I went up to this guy at the bar and tells him in a low tone-Pal, I want to buy you a" beer. Only I want to buy it at the place down the street because I'm trying to get away from a certain party. So he looks over at the gal in the booth and then looks back at me like he understands but thinks I'm maybe a little crazy, and then he says okay. So I go back to the gal and tell her-honey, I'm sorry but something just came up at the office and I gotta go back."
Roger couldn't help chuckling.
"Fred, you're probably one of the few guys in the world who's used the same excuse on both his wife and a girl friend in the same evening," he said.
"Maybe. But it got me off the hook. And after I bought this guy a beer down the street I went home to Ethel. And brother, that's where I've stayed ever since. Sure-we've had our fights and our problems. Who doesn't? But we've also had a lot of laughs. Those are the things you remember when you get old and you're nearing the end of the line. You see, pal. It isn't love that makes the difference in a marriage-like in the movies. It's the fact that a man and woman together make a little world. But when they're apart and chasing after each other, they don't make nothing but sleepless nights. And believe me, that little world is worth more than all the sleepless nights in history. Take my word for it."
"I ... I wish I could."
"It's easy, Roger. Just go down and get the misses. Tell her you want to show her what the stars look like South of the Border. I'll her anything, but get her up here with you. A night like this is too good to waste when you're young like you and Betty. Take an old man's advice."
"An old man who still looks at the world with the bright eyes of a kid."
"Sure. Because I got Ethel to share it with."
Five minutes later, Roger was holding Betty's hand in their cabin. She wasn't sure ... she didn't know ... she still had her doubts ... But he wasn't thinking about that.
"Come on, honey," he said. "I want to show you the Southern Cross. It's hanging right over the bow of the ship."
"Roger, I ... It's awfully Sate."
"Maybe. But not too late. We've got the rest of our lives to sleep."
Finally she smiled and kissed him and said all right. And he held her close for a moment-feeling the sting of tears in his eyes.
