“I’ll go pay him off.” He spoke with difficulty. “We’ll put your bags in my car.”
She was dressing quickly. “I’ll come with you.”
All the long walk along the concrete pier, he held her hand. On the drive home, he held even tighter.
“Aren’t you glad to find out you can?”
“Maybe I only can with you.”
Time was, two and three women a night didn’t bother him. And a little something in the afternoon. God, he’d loved women, the shape of their asses under their skirts, the way their legs angled out. Most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He remembered years ago, when he was still small enough to be taken to church, he’d seen written on the whitewashed walls in big black letters: CUNT IS GOD. He read those words every time he went to Mass; nobody hurried to paint them over. He finally decided that the priest himself had put them there, for he was great at womanizing. Robert was a little surprised to see how “cunt” was spelled. It should have been a longer more impressive word.
He played with Margaret’s fingers, pulling them back and forth.
“You hurt,” she said.
“Maybe I want to.”
“And maybe I don’t.”
She tried to pull her hand away; he held on. “Look,” he said, “why don’t you spend the night in my house, with me?”
“No,” she shook her head, smiling gently at him.
In the glow from the dash, he could see clearly the little crinkles at the edge of her eyes. “I’d like you to.”
“Just think how the neighbors would talk.”
“To hell with the neighbors.”
She managed to pull her hand free. “I bet in all your years of chasing tail you never had a girl in that house. Right?”
He said slowly: “I would think you’d find that flattering.”
“I do,” she said. “But I’m a respectable divorcee and I’m going back to my father’s house.”
They drove silently along the New Basin Canal, its waters slack and littered. Finally, he said: “I’ll spend the night with you. In that big barn, who’d ever notice? Anyway the Old Man’s gone to Port Bella. It’s Thursday, remember?”
She crinkled her nose at him; even in the dark he could see that gesture. “What’s all this spending the night business? Don’t be foolish.”
I’ve done that all wrong, he thought. You approached a woman lightly, touch and go, flick aside. Bear down heavily and they started thinking about the consequences. Push them and they started thinking something was wrong. You had to brush gently with the old magic wand. That was all there was to it.
In the morning, before he was fully awake, when there was just a crack of light behind the drawn curtains to tell him the time, he telephoned her.
“What’s the matter?” He could hear the rattle of china; she was having breakfast.
Another mistake; what was the matter with him? “I wanted to see if you were all right.”
“Of course I’m all right.”
“I know that now.”
Margaret swallowed noisily. “All through Mexico I didn’t have a decent cup of coffee. Lousy country. Look, Robert, I always thought it was the woman who called up next morning and said things like ‘Wasn’t it marvelous?’ Or, ‘When am I going to see you again?’”
He flushed with anger and hurt. “It usually is,” he said. “But I know where I’m going to see you again.”
She laughed again. “No, buddy boy, you won’t see me in the office today. I’m going to Port Bella.”
“What’s there?”
“My sister,” she said and hung up.
Everything was wrong that morning. He couldn’t manage to get out of bed. Only the thought that Anna’s invisible housekeepers would soon be arriving got him dressed.
He was late, but he wasn’t going directly to his office. He drove to the yacht club, snaking impatiently through the morning traffic. He hurried along the concrete piers in the white midmorning sunlight. (He was walking on them with Margaret in the moonless night, last night, and he could feel the warmth of her hand, the softness of her skin, the delicate bones lying in his fingers.) He unlocked his boat and went into the cabin. He could smell her there; the stale unmoving air was heavy with her musk. Her glass was on the table; he picked it up, noticed a trace of lipstick, rubbed it against his cheek and then his own lips. He put the glass carefully into the proper cabinet, not washing it. He went to look at the bunk, its linen covers still bearing the faint rumples of her body. He stared at it for quite a long time, not touching it; then he fixed himself a drink and sat down on the opposite bunk and drank it slowly. He fixed a second and came back to the exact same spot. When he finished, he washed the glass and put it away.
Driving into town, he slumped against the door, wearily watching the familiar streets. He rubbed his cheek, found a rough patch by the jaw. He’d shaved too quickly. Well, he sure couldn’t walk into the office like that. He kept fingering the little tuft of whiskers. By the time he slipped into the barber’s chair, he could have sworn that it was five inches long.
It was nearly noon before he reached his office. His secretary looked up, hesitated, and said nothing.
“I slept late,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
He still smelled of barber’s cologne. He disliked that odor intensely. Like an undertaker, he thought. Nasty sweet. Abruptly he laughed out loud.
His secretary did not even look up this time. With studied care she arranged the papers on his desk.
Automatically Robert began signing letters, marveling as he always did at the Old Man’s empire.
Esplanade Enterprises was a holding company of great complexity. Robert sighed—the strangest sort of things. Like that drugstore chain in Chicago, the toymaker in Atlanta. Apple orchards in New Jersey and Virginia, a couple of thousand acres of Mississippi cotton land, three small banks discreetly placed around the country, half that big jewelry store in St. Louis. And through various other corporations—a small newspaper, oil lands and leases, a brand-new television franchise, blocks of Long Island apartments. … The Old Man kept track of it all, flawlessly playing one against the other, the total against the outside world.
I feel like I’m drowning, Robert thought.
His secretary was staring at him. “Battle fatigue,” he said.
She was probably the only totally unattractive woman he’d ever met. With her pinched face, small body, she resembled those inmates of concentration camps he’d seen in Germany. Did she bother to eat, he wondered. She was perfect, she was marvelous, she was nothing at all. Miss Jones. Female, so marked by the title. Human species, so marked by the last name. Good old generic name, fits her perfectly. Great name for a shadow. A walking efficient intelligent shadow that talks and types and answers phones and sorts through miles of papers. You wonderful Miss Jones. Child’s drawing of a woman, flat and colorless.
“Miss Jones,” he said, “you are a magnificent secretary.”
“Thank you, sir.”
She didn’t even sound pleased.
How could the Old Man keep up with all these independent operations? How was he ever going to do it himself?
Times like this he was just plain scared by his job—how could he follow the Old Man? He, who could hardly remember the pieces—but Margaret would be there. Margaret would help.
He stared out the dirty window, chewing the skin on the back of his hand, reflectively. Thinking suddenly: Anthony, my son. My lost son.
A cluster of convent girls waited at the bus stop. A saint’s day, a half-holiday, they were going home at noon, pleated navy skirts swirling back and forth impatiently. … Anthony would be in high school now, Anthony would be dating girls like that. Breathing into their mouths, wanting to wrap their skins around him, their beautiful shiny skins, their secret dark wetness, their tight virginal passages. …
His own loins ached. Hard asses, firm thighs. What you missed, Anthony, what we both missed. …
Behind him Mis
s Jones said, “You haven’t forgotten the conference with Snyder?”
“No.”
“The file’s on your desk.”
“Good old Miss Jones.” He flipped the pages too quickly; they slid under the desk.
Miss Jones got them, silently, quickly. “There is also some background on the Eastdown group. And, by the way, the title to the old Morgenthau tract is apparently all right.”
“Thank you,” he said.
What was the Morgenthau tract anyway? He couldn’t remember a thing about it. He’d known once; he’d forgotten.
He went back to the window and looked down the dusty tree-lined street. The girls were gone, all the pretty little walking bits of skin.
He glanced over his shoulder. Miss Jones was still there, still waiting.
“Miss Jones,” he said, “will you call the proper people and tell them I can’t make today’s meeting? If they want to reschedule it—if they do—I would suggest that they choose a day when either Miss Margaret or Mr. Oliver is in town. Not me.”
And then and there he resigned from the world he had so laboriously entered years before.
“Miss Jones,” he said, “I’m going out.”
He had finally, he thought triumphantly, gotten an expression on her face. Surprise and horror.
He walked rapidly, feeling the beginnings of sweat on his skin, out Esplanade, almost to the river, then up Royal. It was slightly cooler in these streets; more wind stirred in their narrow corridors. Streetcars rattled past him, their open windows jammed with students. It had to be a big holiday, he thought, so many schools were out early. Three girls, books fluttering carelessly from their hands, crossed directly in front of him, laughing. Their shiny curly hair glistened, their thick hips moved in unison; they were practicing some sort of dance. He found himself staring through their clothes. His eyes ran along the crease of the buttocks, along the circles of smooth tight skin. … They would be a little too old for Anthony; they were about eighteen. He would never approve Anthony going out with a girl that old. …
Robert kept walking, the girls turned away, glancing over their shoulders with a giggle. A couple of blocks later he passed an A. & P., saw the telephone in the front window. Yes, he thought, that’s what I want. I need to call Connie. …
She’d been a whore years ago, become a madam, and then, feeling the pressure of postwar puritanism, she’d retired to a successful restaurant. From there she ran a discreet and expensive call-girl operation. The Old Man had bankrolled her first house and later financed her restaurant, keeping only a small percentage for himself. It had been an old, pleasant, and profitable association for both. And now, Robert thought, another bit of business.
“Oh, Mr. Robert,” she said, “how nice to hear from you again. Would you have a drink with me and we can talk business in comfort?”
He chuckled; she was so careful on the phone. Outside the grocery window another group of girls walked past. These were younger, about fifteen, the right age. … “Connie, I can’t come by. I only wanted to talk to you about your stables.” She actually did keep a stable with a few animals—she was that careful.
She said: “Mr. Robert, all of my animals are real thoroughbreds, every one.”
“I’m looking for a filly, young, completely untried. Do you have one?”
“No,” she hesitated momentarily. “I don’t have a single colt.”
“A favor for an old friend—can you locate one for me?”
“Of course I can.”
“Today.”
“No, no …”
“Any price you want. No tricks; I can tell the difference. I’ll be home after five, come there.”
That was good enough for an emergency, when you were in a hurry. After this he would provide his own. … He could taste the young flesh on his tongue—Tonight he would use Anthony’s room.
Margaret, 1955–1965
TROUBLE, MARGARET THOUGHT; WHO’D have thought Robert would be so much trouble?
He no longer seemed interested in business. He did his work casually, carelessly, foolishly. He had done nothing right, Margaret thought, since his abrupt refusal to meet with Snyder. A damn stupid stunt, but no worse than the one that followed.
The next morning, a Saturday, he appeared at Port Bella, on schedule, with a hangover so bad that his skin smelled of sugar, and insisted on a game of tennis with her son Joshua. Margaret did not go to the courts, but she did look out the window in time to see the butler stagger up the slope with Robert slung limply over his shoulder, and then stretch him out on the porch floor.
She thought: I was a fool to have anything to do with him. Why am I always such a fool with men?
Anna said: “He played a wild game with Joshua, then collapsed.”
“I’ve got a great way to bring him around,” Margaret said. “Watch.”
She unrolled the garden hose, turned it full force on Robert, up and down his sweat-stained clothes.
“Stop it,” Anna said, and grabbed for the hose. “Stop it.”
Margaret skipped away, squirted her sister directly in the face, then as she sputtered, turned the hose on Robert again.
He caught the stream in his mouth, choked, rolled over, hunched up his shoulders.
Margaret hopped lightly across Robert’s body, lowering the hose directly onto his neck, as she did.
“Margaret, you’ve lost your mind,” Anna said quietly.
Robert moved again, pulling his legs up under him, hugging his body until he looked like a turtle. Margaret waved the hose, making lazy eights of water across his back. “Watch”—Margaret giggled—“water in the ear. Look at him jump.”
Then, in the midst of her laugh, something moved in her body, something completely unexpected. A roar, a jolt. Unpleasant and unfortunately familiar feelings: pity and, right behind it, love.
A mistake, Margaret thought again and again, as the years passed. A real mistake. … Why had stopping by his boat seemed like such an amusing idea? Why had she started anything at all? He could only be a problem for her. He was foolish, he was ridiculous, he was completely impossible. About the only thing he did well was get on with Joshua. As a matter of fact, they got on so very well, Margaret thought dryly, they must have a great deal in common.
Joshua said: “Money, always money. That’s all anyone talks about here.”
Margaret looked at her tall lanky son. “You not only look like your father, you sometimes even sound like him. That’s what he’d say: ‘Money, money, always talk money.’”
Robert said quietly, “I suppose it is dull, if you’re not interested, Joshua.”
“Well, I’m not.”
Robert went on in the same even tone: “We’ve been hearing lots of complaints. What do you really want to do?”
The boy hesitated. Margaret chuckled. “He wouldn’t know.”
“Wait a minute,” Robert said, “while he thinks.”
The boy gave him a quick grateful look. Like his father, Margaret thought. Just the way his father used to look after making love: soft warm eyes. Damn fool, Georges Légier. Damn fool me too. Messed up that marriage. Never should have. … But there was no reason to spend your time regretting. It was finished. If she still had twinges, well, there was nobody to blame but herself.
Joshua ignored his mother and spoke directly to Robert: “I know exactly what I want to do.”
“Shoot.”
“Well, first I want to live with Aunt Anna.”
Margaret’s eyebrows shot up, but Robert’s attention did not waver.
“I can finish school there.”
Robert nodded. “I’m sure she’d be glad to have you, Josh.”
“Yes, sir,” Joshua said quietly. “I admire her for the things she’s doing. And the spirit she’s doing them in.”
“You mean her interest in Dr. Schweitzer?”
“Yes, sir,” Joshua answered respectfully. “She gave me some of his books.”
Made a convert, Margaret thought. Out of my o
wn son.
“Well,” Robert said, half to Joshua and half to Margaret, “I don’t see why he shouldn’t try it, do you?”
“Fine with me,” Margaret said.
Joshua gave her one quick grateful glance. My God, she thought, the thing that makes him happiest is getting away from me.
“Mama,” he said suddenly, “I don’t want you to think that I disapprove of your life. …”
“Oh for God’s sake,” all the anger at him and at Robert showed in her voice, “I don’t care about your approval.”
“You don’t understand.” Joshua rolled his eyes toward Robert. “You just don’t understand.”
I understand, Margaret told herself. I understand perfectly well that my son will never be a help to me. Like Robert, he will always be a burden. An annoying ever-present fact of life.
ROBERT. SHE WAS busy; she hardly had time to think of him. She noticed his increasingly obvious pursuit of women. (Anna seemed to see nothing.) But she had her own loves, she could not bother with his.
She was truly surprised when he called, early one morning.
“Hi,” she said cautiously, “where are you?”
A high-pitched embarrassed laugh. “I’m at a pay phone on Rampart Street.”
“That is a damn-fool place to be.”
“I want to see you tonight.”
“You run out of girls?”
“It’s your turn.”
She held the phone a little away from her and stared at it. Trouble. Always trouble.
“I am busy, Robert.”
“Break the engagement.”
“I haven’t the slightest intention of doing that.” She heard a roar as traffic passed close by—at least he was telling the truth about the outside phone.
“I said break it.”
She hung up.
He rang back within a minute. “No,” she said. And hung up again.
Within a minute it was ringing again. This time she pulled the pillow over her head and did not answer.
There was a note on her breakfast tray: “Mr. Robert called to say he will pick you up tonight as he planned.”
She crumpled the paper and threw it away.
The Condor Passes Page 29