A Little Tea, a Little Chat

by Christina Stead

  “They will think it is a very common, very old game, like a soldier who goes to a woman’s room and does what he likes and when she is not looking, slits her stocking and takes the money from it. You know men boast of a thing like that; and you will boast of what you robbed me of—my reputation, my marriage—but it will not seem as good to others as it seems to you. They think, There has been some wrongdoing, perhaps, but the woman alone should not be the one to pay. You will be subpoenaed and nothing you can say will do you any good, for it doesn’t look good from any angle. That is the only reason I say, Robbie, looking the thing over from your point of view and with your best interests at heart, you had better think over what Walker and Smitt propose to you; what it will be I don’t know…”

  All this was on the telephone. Grant listened intently to all; and here interrupted Mrs. Downs.

  Grant said, “I won’t pay; only a man of the lowest character would ask it. You’ve been talked into this, it isn’t like you. You don’t know what you’re saying. I know you, sweetie, and I have confidence in you. I want to meet you and have a little chat with you about this. We can’t leave this for others to poke their fingers into. But believe me, for me to pay anything would be a confession of guilt—and from his side—”

  The woman’s voice changed: it broke in with a crying sound, sharp, “At nine-thirty A.M. I was awakened by the landlord’s agent asking for the rent. I must pay the rent. I gave them his address; he was not to be found. Churchill, I mean. I told them I expected the money in the morning’s mail. They watched me while I opened it. Imagine what a state I was in! I told them I would go down to my broker’s and get it. They let me go out. Will they let me go in? I told them it was certainly today or tomorrow. They already gave me three months’ grace. They are not bad to me in this housing crisis. Yet they are anxious now to get me out. I cannot even have an old friend up for tea. Churchill has been making too many inquiries. They have found out where I work as interpreter. I get thirty-five dollars a week. They know I cannot pay my rent on that. They do not care about honest work. They want their money. Very proper. If you have no money a dog is better than you, says the calypso. They keep calling for their pound of flesh, you see, it is in the bond. But no doubt you had a very pleasant evening last night and slept well and had a pleasant morning getting in your money and dictating to your secretary, and crying over the forty thousand dollars you lost which only leaves you your last one million, eight hundred and ninety-seven, six hundred and three dollars to eat on this week. I know you are making a profit in the U.S.A. of one thousand dollars a week, on an average, and you only work part-time now, because you don’t want to pay in the higher brackets. Who are you fooling? I am in bad trouble and there is no one behind me. My own friends turn and rend me—”

  “Look, sweetie, I’ll send you a check as soon as ever I can. I am not responsible for your rent, and I don’t want to pay it, especially now. I am not trying to get you into trouble, I want to help you. I want you to meet me in the White Bar at four o’clock, and we’ll go into all this. I think you have raked up a mare’s-nest. I think you are seeing things that are not there. You are nervous and excited. This husband of yours has nothing on us, sweetie. But don’t try to bother me, don’t try to threaten me, it is not like you, sweetie—and I don’t like to hear it, it doesn’t sound like you. We’ll work out a for-r-mula that will stop him dead in his tracks. I expect a long-distance call, darling. I’ll call you back.”

  She said swiftly, “I was so agitated yesterday that I did not go to work, I went to the movies with Mother and went shopping and bought a few things and I sent the bill on to you. You owe me something for all the mental agony I have gone through. But let me have the check. I could not stay in the apartment anyhow, it has too many unpleasant memories and it appears in those photographs—”

  “Photomontages—”

  “I stayed overnight with Paula and I feel better; but now Goodwin and Smitt have upset me and I must consult with you.”

  “I thought you said the landlord awakened you at nine-thirty.”

  “It was Karolyi let in by the landlord: he knocked at the door then—I went home early to get my mail with the check. But in the mail was a letter from Mother, she had just got wind of the affair. It is all around town and she cannot, naturally, understand. She is in a terrible state. But she says, ‘I am sure Mr. Grant will give you the right advice and I do not see what you have to worry about, as you are innocent. But you must try to get Mr. Downs put away.’”

  “Are there any grounds for that? I’d like to see that.”

  “With money you can do anything—almost.”

  “That would be a good way out. Put him away for only a month and then you can always say—if you have grounds—that is, swear out he’s of unsound mind.”

  “Mother was worrying because I do not send her money as formerly. She made a hole in her savings and changed the furniture around in her apartment and could not get her teeth fixed. And I put her off from month to month, and now in this letter she says, ‘I suspect you are in low water financially, but Mr. Grant will give you good advice.’”

  “Mother is right—so I will—so I will—so meet me at the—”

  “I had to cry with you about your losses of two thousand dollars, three thousand dollars, and all the time these months I have been thinking—twenty dollars. A dollar fifty I owe for a pair of shoes I can’t get from the shoe repairer, fifty cents a quarter of a pound of ham! That doesn’t look as if I have a bad reputation, does it? As if I get money from outsiders? But this has made me a cynic, Robbie. I have no more faith. That was one thing I had, faith and confidence in myself. I believed there was some good in every man, now I don’t. There is more faith and loyalty in crooks and thieves like ‘Brauner, Arthur,’ than in business men. I have the chance of a job in Cleveland, I’ll send Mother to a milk farm in the country. You can imagine what this exile will mean to cosmopolitans like us, but I will do it to retrieve my situation. I shall pay off my small debts. Let him pursue me there. But send me first the check for five hundred dollars so I can begin to retrieve my situation.”

  “I’m strapped now, dearie, but when I can get a few dollars out of the Argentine—”

  “And I don’t know where to turn, for he is going crazy; he says he will call the men’s wives, send letters to them, signed with his name, so that they will know everything, drag it into the open.”

  At last he was able to put down the receiver, after telling her to be sure to be at the White Bar—that he would bring her some money. In the meantime, she had said that she proposed to move into his apartment if she was put out of her own. He begged her to do nothing rash, their interests being the same.

  38

  Trembling, flushed, and out of breath, he left the office at once and took a taxi uptown to the Flacks’ apartment. They were now living in a three-story fire trap on Sixth Avenue near the women’s jail. It was a house in the middle of a row of mid-nineteenth-century houses with antiques, grocery and clothing stores on the street level. Grant had seen the place once only, and had never gone back. Inside it was all of dry, rotting wood and would make good kindling one night or other. As Grant saw it now, troubled as he was, he felt the as yet unborn flames licking his skin.

  The Flacks had an apartment opening on the street and on a view of back yards. The bathroom, yellow ocher, with rusty fittings, opened on the staircase. The rooms, large originally, had been divided up by frail partitions. There was a kitchen with a ventilating shaft against the wall. He asked them for some food and a cup of coffee, and plunging his hands in his pockets, his face anxious, he told them, in modest fragments, some of his story and his present danger, “Dangerous ’ooman, never would ha’ believed it of her—”

  “Anyone but you can see she is a rattlesnake. But now is no time for post-mortems. You have to leave town.”

  He was anxious, lining up the reasons why he should go and why he should stay to watch the affair. “Someone is poisoning
her; she is terribly nervous, and someone is driving her on.”

  They discussed this—the husband, Goodwin; who then?

  “No, Goodwin came to me first and told me the story; he’s on my side—our side.”

  Grant could not leave town because he could not go home to pack, nor cook up an excuse for “the boy” Gilbert, because that woman wanted to move right in with him. He had an engagement with her at the White Bar, but he knew her ways, she might go up to the apartment.

  “And there must be a detective or a bought employee in the lobby—even the elevator boy! You only gave him cigarettes for Christmas,” said Flack.

  He sat in a chair with a Mexican rug over his knees, his face flabby and yellow in the street daylight. Supposing himself in excellent health, because gay and garrulous, he had not been near a doctor for years, and had been overcome by an incurable though not painful disease. He was now unable to do regular work, but still could write free-lance articles.

  Grant, in his terror, was without resources. He listened to Flack childishly and agreed to do everything that was suggested. It was arranged that Grant should occupy for several nights an apartment belonging to Hugo March, rented by March & Company by the year in an uptown hotel, for the convenience of out-of-town clients. Flack would go to Grant’s office, dispatch his business, bring letters that needed Grant’s attention, go to Grant’s apartment, warn Gilbert, and bring all necessary things. He would buy Grant a ticket to Bermuda or Havana, just as they decided by the afternoon. Meanwhile Grant must stay hid in Flack’s place—there the blondine would certainly never find him. Let the blondine wait in the White Bar for her check; that would keep her occupied while Flack did his part. Flack would see Hugo March, some more dependable lawyer than Walker, and send a letter to Mrs. Grant.

  Said Flack, “And while I am gone, you stay here, you big noise, and don’t take a taxi to any of your haunts: you’re as secretive as a mastodon.”

  Grant blushed, giggled, and began looking round hungrily, “Have you got anything to eat, Edda? Where is it—? I’ll take her out to lunch.”

  “You stay where you are or I’ll desert you, you restless bumblebee. You stay put. And don’t annoy Edda with sentimental details of your romances—she’s just recovering from an affair which was pretty serious; she doesn’t want to have your nosegays thrown in her face.”

  “A fella—eh?” He began to smile, he was already at home.

  “Yes, and shut up about it. Forget your Decameron.” Flack grinned, then burst out laughing with pride, “Edda’s a passionate type of girl and she doesn’t know too much about your sidestepping and minueting, and I’m glad of it. So just keep the lid on; boil inside if you must.”

  Smiling from ear to ear, Grant, much flattered, sat back in his chair, noted one or two details of the place, found the poverty displeasing, frowned, “Well, leave it to me, trust me. Can’t understand Downs. Such a stodgy sort.”

  “He loved her, she was an angel, remember.”

  “Well, she’s an angel, but a black angel—”

  He instantly regretted having said that, but the pleasant flavor lingered on his tongue. He laughed, confessed, “It’s a syndicate, they put me down for ten thousand dollars. She told me he couldn’t raise two thousand dollars if he moved heaven or earth. He’s honest, so he’s got no credit. It’s his first stroke of business. He doesn’t know it but he’s auctioning her off, who will pay most for my secondhand furniture, including my wife? I’m first,” he laughed, and repeated it, then—“Murvieux, antiquary, second; drug-wholesaler, third; James Alexis finished fourth in the love-nest stakes. Ho-ho-ho. Call it a shakedown if you like, life is never dull with the blonde. Ho-ho-ho. Maybe I deserve it, but deserve it or not—I don’t pay. Can’t be me, so it must be Murvieux or Alexis. He doesn’t pay, I don’t pay. Alexis. Looks like it must be Alexis.”

  Flack went out to telephone Hugo March about the apartment. He came back to say it was fixed up and he would go to March’s to get the key, and bring Grant any necessary letters. He went away warning Grant again not to leave the apartment. At this moment Edda brought in some sandwiches and red wine for Grant. Flack left.

  Grant ate heartily, taking two sandwiches at a time, and draining the glass at a draught. Then he fixed his moist and penetrating eye upon Edda and looked her over. She had changed a bit, for the better, he supposed. She looked as if she had been through something. He knew by Flack’s hint that she had had a lover. He cleaned up the plate, drank another glass of wine, and shaking his head, said merrily, “I’m looking for romance, for a woman, and I get a harpy; how do you explain that? Not a good picker. Never could pick a woman. I trust them; I take them on faith. A woman can be beautiful but she has no character. ‘You’re nice to look at,’ I say, ‘but you have no character, it’s not good enough.’”

  Edda burst out laughing, “This is where I came in, Robbie. Don’t hand out your bromides, please. I’ve got other bromides singing in my ears.”

  She picked up the plates and the napkin from his knee, brushing some crumbs from his waistcoat, “Watch out—you only have one suit till Dad collects your things.”

  She began clinking things in the kitchen.

  Left alone he began shifting, stretching his neck, and looking at his address book. He had intended to meet the blondine that afternoon and now he had no idea how to fill in the time, either now or afterwards. He would sneak away if he could and meet her. To spend evenings shut up in March’s hotel room: one evening? He could at least telephone Livy, or send a telegram. He began to think about the woman in the kitchen. It pleased him that she, who had always been priggish, sharp, had uncorseted her feelings. She was now, for him, a woman. When she came back he looked her up and down with his head held on one side. She had brought him another plate of sandwiches. Putting them in pairs, he soon swept this plate clean too.

  “You’re a good cook, good cook—”

  She sat down beside him. He saw her manicured nails. She had frizzled her black hair round her head. Her young neck had three deep creases although it was quite slender. She had a dun skin. He whipped out his crocodileskin notecase, half opened it, showing the large bills, and pushed it toward her below the table, rubbing her calf gently. He gave her a soft, knowing, inquisitive look and nodded slightly. She drew her legs away, said in a domineering voice, “What is the matter, Robert, are you looking for somewhere to leave your money? There’s no shelf under the table,” and as she said the senseless phrase, kicked slightly with her foot and burst out laughing. Not quite sure, he hesitated a moment.

  “Put it back, Robbie; you’ll lose it.”

  He put it back and half muttered, “After what you’ve been through, it’s unique to be so Presbyterian.”

  Without offense, she picked up the plate, washed it, and came back to sit with him, moving her chair. He began to tell her his stock romances, the Spanish woman in black, and so forth.

  He broke off in the middle and eyed his watch. He began to walk up and down, seeing nothing, “Must tell Davie about the shagreen case, the hatbox, remind me, will you? Make a note.”

  She sat there. He turned round, “Make a note, do me a favor, make a note.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  “Why must you be so stiff, Edda? It’s not—” he remembered. He laughed, “You were always very Presbyterian.”

  He strode about, “Look, my dear girl, just do me a favor and make a note. I’m very disturbed, had a great shock. Trusted the bloody ’ooman. Now she tries to take me for a ride, rope me like a steer.”

  Edda complied at last. He began rapidly, “Shoe trees, shoe covers, leather-jack, pair of pigskin riding gloves, leather belt with silver, the hatbox I left at the tailor, the glasses in the shagreen case, pound of margarine, two tins cocoa, Nescafé, ask the optician for my collar case, ask the maid to find two gold studs locked in a little silver box, mouthwash—” and so on, for half an hour, changing his mind about suits, enumerating his shoes—“and get the sports shoes mended,
I can’t go away without the sports shoes, and if there’s no key to the pigskin, get a key, and tell Mrs. MacDonald to get the carpenter to fit new keys if they don’t work—”

  “What is this—the tailor has the hatbox, the hatter has the collarbox—”

  “The optician has the collar case,” he corrected, seeing nothing amusing in it. He frowned at her and implored her to try to keep the list correct. He continued, “The carpenter, Jones, telephone him at once, and ask if the missing sheet is returned. Keep all telephone calls, bring the linen shoe covers and the shoe trees, get a pair of laces—” and so on; he shouted three times, “Bring all the keys he can find, and there’s a package, an envelope on top of the wardrobe, an umbrella in the bathroom, and give the laundry. Look in all the pockets for my spectacles in the shagreen case, and if there aren’t any they’re lost; go to the optician and get new spectacles, twenty dollars, and if there’s no shagreen case, get a new shagreen case. Get new ones anyhow, I might break them or lose them. And bring my sun lamp—”