by Robert Stone
“I’m not trying to take the guy’s points, Axelrod. Why does everybody suspect me of being other than a nice person? I just wondered what kind of risk he ran.”
“Not much,” Axelrod said. “Not like she does.”
Walter took a drag on the joint and gave it back to his wife.
“Sometimes I’m inclined to think this is all Charlie’s fault,” he said. “Charlie’s a silly man. Silly shit happens around his pictures.”
“Really,” Patty Drogue agreed.
“The sixties,” Walter Drogue said to them. “You think they were that great?”
Axelrod shrugged.
“Everybody shoplifted,” Patty Drogue said. “People handed out flowers. You could get laid three times a day with an ugly body.”
“That’s all over now,” Axelrod said.
Bathed, anointed, as cool and clean as chastity, she climbed the lighted path. Walker came behind her, walking carefully. They passed a garden bar and lighted tennis courts, following a yucca-bordered path that led to Charlie Freitag’s casita.
The casita’s sunken patio was lit by flickering torches, set at intervals along its border of volcanic stone. A party of grim mariachis was performing; their music seemed strangely muted to Lu Anne, as if each brass note were being instantly carried off on the wind.
Axelrod appeared from the darkness. He smiled at her and hurried past, approaching Walker. The Long Friends, jubilant, fanned out among the guests. She thought it odd that they seemed happy there.
Across the patio from the musicians was a walled barbecue pit where white-capped chefs labored over a spitted joint. The air was smoky with roasting beef. A great cauldron of boiling sauce stood to one side of the pit and, nearby, a company of men in toques blanches sharpened carving knives. The waiters had set up a buffet and a long well-attended bar.
Axelrod and Walker were conspiring.
“Fuck him then,” she heard Walker say. “Is he here?”
“Not yet,” Axelrod answered. He turned to Lu Anne. “How are you, Lu?”
“A little tired,” she said. He was studying her. His hard features were firelit. “Will that do?”
“It’ll do fine,” Axelrod said. “Remind her, Gordo. She looks beautiful but she’s a little tired.”
She tried working with them.
“When they ask me how I am,” she assured them, “or how I feel, I’ll say a little tired.”
“Smile,” Walker told her, “when you say it.”
“I’ll try it with the smile,” she said dutifully, “and if it works I’ll keep it.”
She thought some quarrel might be breaking out among the Long Friends, some dispute over precedence or family history. Her anxiety quickened.
“Is everything all right?” she asked. In the patio below, Freitag’s guests were mingling, carrying their drinks among the cloth-covered buffet tables. There were not so many of them as she had thought at first. Her Friends hung on the edge of the light.
“It’s fine,” Walker assured her. “It’s nice here.”
“It’s just friends,” Axelrod said. “Just …” He paused; both he and Walker were watching Dongan Lowndes descend into the lighted garden, making for the bar.
“Just buddies,” Walker said.
“Let’s get down there,” Axelrod told them.
Smiling, unclear of vision, Lu Anne strolled among the guests with Walker at her side. He was conducting her to Charlie.
She went to him in expectation of elaborate greeting but he simply took her by the hand. His fondness seemed so genuine that it made her sad. She thought she could feel Walker beside her grow tense with a suitor’s unease, as though Charlie were his rival.
“You lovely girl,” Charlie said. “You champion.” He turned to Walker. “Want to ask me if I like it?”
A tall horse-faced woman with prominent front teeth stood at Charlie’s elbow. Next to her was a stocky Latin man with a dour Roman face and straight black Indian hair that fell in a sweep across his forehead. He was in black tie and dinner jacket, the only man present in formal clothes.
“You like it,” Walker said. “Have you spoken to Walter?”
In the grip of his emotion, Charlie Freitag turned and sought Walter Drogue among his guests.
“Walter,” he fairly shouted. “Call the director!” A few people turned toward him in alarm. “Get over here, Drogue!” The party recognized his good humor and relaxed.
Walter Drogue made his way to Freitag’s side and a circle began to form around them. Lu Anne saw Lise Rennberg, Jack Glenn and Eric. George Buchanan sipped Perrier. Carnahan and Joy McIntyre were dissolved in rowdy laughter. When he had gathered his principals about him, Charlie raised his glass. “Here’s to all of you,” he proclaimed. “Artists of the possible!”
“And absent friends!” Joy McIntyre cried. Freitag, who had no idea who she was, looked at her strangely for a moment, his smile on hold.
“Like father, like son,” Charlie told Walter Drogue junior when they had quaffed their cup of victory.
The young director gave forth with an insolent simper, the malice of which was lost on Big Charlie Freitag.
“It ain’t over till it’s over, Charlie.”
Freitag’s eye fell on Dongan Lowndes.
“Mr. Lowndes,” he said, “you’ve been lucky. You’ve seen this business at its best. You’ve seen a fine picture made by serious people and it doesn’t get any better than that.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Lowndes said thickly.
“Maybe we can get you to come out and work with us someday.”
Ignoring Charlie, Lowndes looked at Lu Anne for a moment and turned on Walker.
“Would I like it?” he asked. “What do you think?”
“Well,” Walker told him, “it beats not working.” Everyone laughed, as though he had said something funny.
Charlie performed introductions for the Mexican and Dongan Lowndes. The others were known to one another. The tall woman was Ann Armitage, a former comic actress and the widow of a blacklisted writer. The Mexican was Raúl Maldonado, a painter.
The thuggish musicians played their way into darkness. A pair of violinists stepped out of the void into which the mariachis had vanished and commenced to stroll. Freitag went off to speak with Lise Rennberg and the attendant circle dissolved.
“Let’s go talk,” Axelrod said to Lowndes. The novelist was disposed to remain beside Lu Anne. He gazed at her with drunken ardor. Lu Anne returned his look, pitying his flayed face, his sores and fecal eyes.
“Is it important?” Lowndes asked, without disengaging his gaze from Lu Anne’s.
“Not exactly important,” Axelrod said. “Scummy.”
He slid his hand under Lowndes’s arm and drew the man aside. Ann Armitage was asking Lu Anne how she was. Lu Anne stared at the old actress blankly.
“Line!” she called.
“A little tired,” Walker told her.
Lu Anne smiled confidentially. An expression of weariness passed across her face.
“The truth is,” she told Ann Armitage, “that I’ve been feeling a little tired.”
Ann Armitage did the double take for which she had once been famous.
“What are you two? An act?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Lu Anne said.
Miss Armitage looked them up and down, world-wearily.
Before the guests could make their way to the seating, young Helena stood on a wooden bench and raised her hands for silence.
“We don’t want you sitting with your worst enemy or your ex-spouse or their lover,” she told the guests. “So as some of you may have noticed, we’ve had lovely little place cards with your many famous names inscribed thereon. So—sorry about the milling. Wherever your card is—after you’ve helped yourself to the buffet—that’s where you’ll sit. And you may in fact want to take note of your place before you fill your plates with all this delicious food.”
There was some smattering of applause punct
uated by a harsh raspberry. Joy McIntyre had made her way, unerringly but unsteadily, to Charlie Freitag’s side.
“I mean,” she demanded in a nasal croon, “I mean, what is this, Charlie? High tea with Rex?” She seized his dinner gong and marched off to accost the violinists.
“Who is that woman?” Charlie Freitag demanded of those nearest him. He was told she was Lee Verger’s stand-in.
People walked about carrying their western-style metal plates, colliding with each other and adjusting their spectacles, trying to see in the light of tiny table lamps or flickering torchlight.
“Bang bang went the trolley!” Joy McIntyre sang at the top of her voice. The strolling violinists backed away from her like a pair of ornamental fowl. Charlie returned to his guests.
“That woman,” he said to Walker, “is she actually a stand-in?”
Before Walker could answer, the patio echoed to a horrendous screech.
“My God,” Freitag said. “It’s her again.”
It was Joy again. Bill Bly, uninvited but on watch, was attempting to relieve her of the dinner gong. Joy declined to surrender it.
“Get your bloody hand off me fucking wrist, you great fucking poofta bastard!” she protested. The guests had fallen silent. Joy’s struggle, the crackling of cooked meat and the violins, sweetly paired to “Maytime,” were the only sounds in the patio.
“The press is here,” Freitag said. “This looks like hell.” He looked about him in the dimness for Dongan Lowndes and saw the man squared off with Axelrod as though the two of them were at the point of blows.
“Jesus wept,” the gentleman producer cried. Walker took the opportunity to slip away.
Lu Anne sat at the head of one of the buffet tables playing with people’s name cards. Maldonado and Miss Armitage had attempted to enlist at a more congenial sector of the party but, encountering outbursts and angry voices at every turning, had been driven back into the shadows. In the shadows Lu Anne ruled. She had discovered that she, Miss Armitage and Maldonado, Walker and Lowndes, Charlie, Axelrod and the Drogues were all seated together at the very table beside which Charlie had introduced them.
“Do you think,” she asked the couple, “that some table game might be played with these? Something along the order of Authors or Old Maid?”
Miss Armitage smiled sweetly.
“Yes, I do,” she said. She seized the stack of place cards from Lu Anne’s grasp until she had her own and her escort’s, and put them on the next table. “It’s called Switcheroo.”
She picked up two place cards from the same adjoining table and handed them to Lu Anne.
“I’m too old to sit still for silly women, Miss Niceness, just as you’re too old to be one. I’m going to leave you to the luck of the draw.”
Maldonado replaced their cards.
“I want to sit here,” he said heavily. Miss Armitage pursed her lips and looked at the ground. The Mexican took his chair and slowly undid the knot of his dress black tie.
“You’re welcome here, Mr. Maldonado,” Lu Anne said.
Maldonado looked at her.
“Am I?”
“Oh yes,” Lu Anne said. “You and your companion are both welcome. You have the good opinion of my friends.”
Maldonado graciously inclined his head. Ann Armitage gave a comic grimace. “Well, praise God and shut my mouth. If that’s not …”
The painter raised a flabby hand, bidding his friend to silence.
“You all are admired in secret places,” Lu Anne told them. “In quarters that you mustn’t imagine, they think well of you and they give good report.”
“How very mysterious,” Maldonado said. “What does it mean?”
Lu Anne was at a loss to explain. Never in her life had she seen the Long Friends so unafraid of sound or light, almost ready, it seemed, to join her in her greater world and make the two worlds one. Seeing them gathered round, shyly peering from between their lace-like wings, murmuring encouragement, she could only conclude that they approved of her new acquaintanceship with Charlie’s two friends. Moreover, they were beautiful, the two, the elegant old actress and the sad-faced handsome man who had removed his dinner jacket. They were as beautiful and charged with grace as Lowndes was hideous and unclean.
Charlie Freitag came to their table like a man seeking refuge from the field of defeat. There was a meager ration of salad and beans on his plate. He looked sweaty and unwell. Lu Anne, who loved him as her friend, was concerned.
“What’s this?” Charlie asked. “No one’s eating?”
“Charlie,” she asked, “Charlie, dear, aren’t you well, my poor friend?”
He took her by the hand. “Me? I’m fine. I’m thinking of you.”
“I’m well enough, Charles.” She smiled. “A little tired.”
“You must be wiped out, for Christ’s sake,” Charlie said. “We have you in and out of the water thirty times a day. You’re living on hotel food and missing your family.” He looked about the torchlit patio uneasily. “Everyone’s overworked. But I thought, what the hell, we’re over the hump. I thought since Gordon was coming down and we had this man from New York Arts … and I thought we could all use a lift.”
“Indeed we could,” Lu Anne said. “And it’s my birthday.”
Charlie was surprised. “Well, for heaven’s sake,” he said. “But I thought your birthday was last month.”
Lu Anne gave him a conspiratorial wink. Ann Armitage stared at her, unblinking.
“Where is Gordon?” Charlie asked quickly.
“Well, he was just here,” Lu Anne said. She could not remember his leaving; she was suddenly anxious. “I don’t know.” To her horror she saw Dongan Lowndes approaching the table, followed with a vigor bordering on pursuit by Axelrod.
“Isn’t anyone going to eat?” Charlie asked them in mounting distress.
As though in benison, Walter Drogue junior and Patty arrived, their plates piled high. Charlie and Patty Drogue exchanged kisses.
“Where’s your old man?” Charlie asked young Drogue. “Won’t he be joining us?”
Patty, who had hastened to stuff her mouth with food, attempted unsuccessfully to speak.
“He’s having a little trouble with his date,” young Drogue said.
“Yeah?” Charlie asked. “Who’s the lucky lady?”
“You must have seen her, Charlie,” Drogue said. “The little Australian job with the dirty mouth?”
Freitag covered his eyes with his hand for a moment.
“Hilarious,” he said softly. He looked about guiltily as though old Drogue might catch him gossiping. “What a riot!”
“Best body on the unit,” young Drogue said. “Present company excepted.”
“That’s Wally,” Ann Armitage said. “I take it he’s in good health?”
“He damn well better be,” Freitag said. “I had a look at that little dollop.”
Lu Anne, knowing that in time she must, turned toward Dongan Lowndes. As she did so she felt what could only be his hand against her knee.
“Walking the bones, Mr. Lowndes?” she asked him.
His damp hand slithered off like a cemetery rat. She watched his face as the rat-hand fled home to him. His blunt features were momentarily elongated and rodentine as he reabsorbed it, the rat within. For all the effort in the world she could not tear her eyes from his nor could she feel a grain of pity. Let the rat stay wherein it dwelled, she thought. Let it gnaw his guts forever, feed behind his eyes. So long as she was safe from it.
Lowndes’s eyes were moist as he stared down her rebuke. She saw in them what he himself must take for human passion, desire, infatuation, an impulse to master the beloved. The trouble was that he was not a man. Not human.
“Mr. Lowndes,” she heard Axelrod say in a low voice, “you want to look at me when I talk to you?”
At last she tore her eyes free from Lowndes’s, a rending.
“Mr. Maldonado,” she asked the man across the table from her, “are you a good pa
inter?”
Miss Armitage started to speak but fell silent.
“One’s never asked,” Maldonado said.
“Lu Anne,” Charlie said sternly, “Raúl is one of Mexico’s very finest painters. He shows throughout the world.”
“I should say so,” Miss Armitage said.
“I myself,” Charlie declared, “own some choice Maldonados. They’re on display in my home and to me—they mean Mexico. The sunshine, the sea. The whole enchilada.”
Maldonado and Miss Armitage looked at him coldly.
“You know what I mean,” he stammered. “Everything we so admire about …” He fell silent, looked at his plate and mopped his brow.
“Dad owns about a ton and a half of them,” young Drogue said.
“In bohemian company,” Lu Anne said, “or some equivalent, in some demimonde like ours—one faces the deliberately tactless question.”
Maldonado smiled faintly. “Mierda,” he said.
“You better believe it,” Ann Armitage said.
“Everybody here knows whether they’re good or not,” Lu Anne told him. “Given the least encouragement, everybody here is ready to say.”
“I am not a good painter,” Maldonado told the company. There was a momentary silence, then a chorus of demurrers.
“The great ones,” Charlie said with an uneasy chuckle, “they’re never happy with their work. They need us to encourage them.”
“I wish you were a good painter,” Lu Anne said to Maldonado. “Maybe you are, after all.”
“If for you I could be,” Maldonado said gallantly, “you may be sure that I would. Maybe for myself as well. But I think it would make my life difficult.”
Lowndes’s presence had quieted the Long Friends; they were out of temper again, out where she could not control them and where they might cause her some embarrassment. She began to feel panicky.
“Oh God,” she said, “where’s Gordon? I need him.”
“Jon,” Freitag said to Axelrod, “would you do me a favor and find your friend Walker? Be a pal.”
Even in the unsteady light it was apparent that Axelrod was red-faced with anger.
“Sure, Charlie,” he said. He put a hand on Lowndes’s shoulder again. “What do you say, Dongan? Want to help me find our pal Gordo?”