“Forget it.” A second after I had spoken, I realized that my behavior with Vivienne that evening was the clearest possible giveaway of my misery. If I wanted to prevent anyone guessing how disappointed I was that Eric’s father obviously had no intention of sharing him with me, if I wanted to ensure that no one realized my pitiable fancies of the last few months had come so abruptly to an end, I had to make an effort, and make it fast. The one nightmare of my life was that everyone would secretly think me pathetic because I had no sons of my own.
“I’m sorry,” I said rapidly. “Yes, of course I’ll buy you some champagne, but will you excuse me, please, if I don’t drink with you? The fact is, I’ve been feeling lousy all day—it’s the new medication I’ve been given for my asthma. Where would you like to go to celebrate?”
“The Plaza. You don’t have a suite there by any chance, do you?”
“No. Do you want one?”
“Oh, darling, that would be heaven! I’m sorry I said all those horrid things to you earlier—you’re now reminding me of how adorable you used to be when you were twenty-two!”
“Have you got enough money to tip the bellhop?”
“Darling, I thought you were never going to ask! Could you possibly …?”
In the Cadillac I phoned the Plaza to ensure they had a suite available, and wrote her a check for a thousand dollars.
“Well, Vivienne,” I said as the car drew up in front of the hotel, “order up whatever you like from room service, and have a good time. You’ll excuse me if I go home now, but—”
“Cornelius.”
Her hand gripped my arm, and taken by surprise, I swiveled to stare at her. In the bright light which streamed from the hotel lobby, I saw her eyes were very blue and for the first time that evening I was able to connect her with the woman I had married long ago.
“I must talk to you,” she said in a low voice. “Please come in with me.”
After a pause I said “Okay” in a voice without expression and followed her out of the car. We had already picked up Vivienne’s bags from the small drab hotel near Grand Central, and as the bellhop carried them into the lobby of the Plaza, we walked together to the reception desk. Vivienne checked in. We still did not speak to each other, and even the ride upstairs in the elevator passed in silence. In the suite I absentmindedly tipped the bellhop five dollars and moved to the phone to order the champagne.
“Will California do?” I said, glancing at the room-service wine list.
“No, Cornelius, it won’t. We used to have this conversation in the old days when we debated what wine to serve at dinner parties—I’m surprised you don’t remember. I guess Alicia just gives in to this fad of yours about not consuming anything made outside of America. I’ll have some Heidsieck, please, and make it vintage.”
“Caviar?”
“Yes, and make it Russian.”
I gave the order, hung up, and turned to face her. She was watching me. Her face was pale but calm.
“Yes?” I said politely.
“Cornelius,” she said, “we’ve got to come to terms with one another. I’ve decided to move to New York to be near Vicky and the baby—oh, I can’t afford Manhattan, of course, but that’s only one of the five boroughs, isn’t it? I’m going to get a little place in Queens. I used to think the world would end if I was reduced to living in Queens, but now I can see the world would end if I stayed away.”
There was a pause before I said carefully, “I can understand that Fort Lauderdale isn’t what you’ve been used to in the past. Perhaps if I bought you a house in Palm Beach …”
“Cornelius, it’s just no good trying to bribe me to remain in Florida. I’ve made up my mind to return to New York, and if I’m going to be living in the same city as you, I think we owe it to Vicky to make some attempt to be friends.”
“I think we owe it to Vicky to keep a thousand miles apart! Be realistic, Vivienne! Of course it would be better if we were devoted friends shedding rays of sunshine whenever we crossed Vicky’s path, but that’s not going to happen, is it? You detest me and I detest you, and whenever we meet, we fight. That’s the reality of the situation, and I only deal in realities!”
“Okay,” she said, “you only deal in realities. Then deal with this one: why did Vicky marry Sam? Wasn’t she running away not just from me but from you too—wasn’t she looking for some wise, all-powerful parent who could take care of her where we’d failed? Cornelius, so long as Vicky’s a little girl running away from us, she’ll never grow up, but if we could change, be nominal friends instead of undisguised enemies …”
“Spare me the amateur psychology! You were the parent who failed Vicky, not me! You were an unfit mother—why, Vicky begged the judge to let her come and live with me!”
“You bribed the judge!”
“I goddamned well did not! Jesus, Vivienne, look at us, we’re fighting again! Now, listen to me. If you want to come and live in Queens, there’s nothing I can do to stop you, but don’t be surprised if Vicky doesn’t want to know you, don’t be surprised if Sam gives you a cool reception, and don’t be surprised if I do my best to see as little of you as possible. The truth of the whole matter is—as we both know—that you’re estranged from your daughter and you have only yourself to blame. ‘We reap what we sow,’ as my mother used to say back in Velletria—”
“And when are you going to reap what you sowed? You only wanted to take Vicky away from me because I’d outwitted you by marrying you for your money, and depriving me of Vicky was your idea of revenge!”
“That’s bullshit. My one concern was for my daughter’s welfare.”
“If you’d really been concerned for Vicky’s welfare, you wouldn’t have wrecked the happy home I’d made for her!”
“Yes—the happy home where you slept with one man after another and wound up with a Las Vegas gangster—some example for a little girl!”
“But I married Danny Diaconi! Oh, get out, damn you, get out and leave me alone! There’s just no way we can talk to each other, no way at all!”
I got out with relief. In the corridor I passed a waiter carrying a tray of champagne and caviar, but I never looked back. Making a great effort to shut out the sordid thought of my ex-wife camping on my doorstep and inevitably disrupting my tranquil family life, I rode the elevator down to the lobby and trudged wearily outside to my Cadillac.
It was time once more to go home to Alicia.
V
“Has my wife gone to bed, Carraway?” I asked the butler when I arrived home.
“No, sir, she’s in the Gold Room.”
“Bring me a Scotch and soda there, please.” I spoke in the polite neutral voice I reserved only for Carraway. I did not like English servants with their talent for making their American masters feel inferior, but this one happened to be a masterpiece of his species, and I always respect the best. Carraway in turn respected my respect. Prior experience of employment in my country had taught him about the horrors awaiting in households where the employers had only the crudest idea how to behave toward their servants, and he knew when he was well off.
We had five reception rooms on the first floor in addition to the library, the dining room, and the ballroom, but as a rule we used only the Gold Room, which was small and intimate. Vivienne had originally chosen the gold decor, but later under Alicia’s orders the golden drapes had been removed, the golden furniture had been reupholstered, and the golden carpet had been dispatched to the attics. The predominant color in the room was now pale green.
When I opened the door, Alicia and Sam jumped as violently as if I had caught them in an adulterous embrace.
“Hi,” I said, breaking the awkward silence. “I’ve just unloaded Vivienne at the Plaza and I feel I’ve earned a drink. Good to see you, Sam. Sorry about all the trouble at the hospital. Did you see Vicky again after I left?”
“No, I thought it better not to.” He sat down again uneasily, a big man in an expensive suit, his eyes wary behind his glasse
s. “I apologize too, Neil, if I was too abrupt.”
“What the hell, you were right! She’s your wife, not mine! Let’s forget the whole mess, shall we?”
“Sure, I’d be glad to.”
Carraway glided in with my Scotch and soda. He looked as if he had been born with a silver salver in his hand.
“Thank you, Carraway.”
“Thank you, sir.” The English never say “You’re welcome,” only endless thank-yous. It keeps them in control of situations which would otherwise degenerate into friendly fireside chats. The English are masters of the minor power plays, those tricks of speech which can be used to dominate any difficult scene. Sam and I were no novices at the game either. One of the ironies of any rare confrontation between us was that we each knew exactly what the other was going to do.
“Well!” I said agreeably when Carraway had gone. “What were you two plotting when I caught you in the act?”
I could see Sam thinking: Hostile question, taking the bull by the horns. Neutralize immediately.
He laughed and stretched out his long legs to give the impression he was relaxing. “You flung open the door so abruptly it was small wonder we both jumped! It was nothing, Neil—we were just discussing the baby’s names again. To tell the truth, I’m having second thoughts about calling him after my cousin. Sure, I was fond of Erich, but Vicky never knew him and the name means nothing to her. I think it would be more appropriate if we called the baby Paul Cornelius after you and Paul. It would be more meaningful for Vicky as well as for myself.”
“Well!” I said, thinking: Sickly-sweet reassurance. Destroy with light acerbic touch. Keep smiling. “That’s an interesting suggestion! You want my honest opinion?”
“Why, sure!” said Sam, wanting nothing of the kind.
“I think it would be a mistake to feel sentimental about Paul, who always despised sentimentality, and as far as I’m concerned, I’m all for something original—I’m not interested in echoes from the past. No, you stick with Erich Dieter. I admit I was surprised at the hospital, but I was under the mistaken impression Vicky wanted to call him Sam after you.”
That was a bad error. I had made a statement which was obviously untrue. In the pause which followed, I watched Alicia gazing in embarrassment at the unlit logs in the fireplace, and my fingers bit into the palms of my hands as I clenched my fists behind my back.
“Well,” said Sam thinking: Got to defuse this somehow, Christ, how awkward, “if you’re sure …”
“Hell, Sam, it’s nothing to do with me! I’m just the grandfather, as Alicia never ceases to remind me!” Another bad error. I sounded both angry and jealous beneath my light-hearted manner. The sweat of humiliation trickled down my back. I had to get out. “I feel about seventy, and aging fast!” I said, trying to make a joke of it and only succeeding in making us all feel more embarrassed than ever. “I think I’ll go to bed and rejuvenate myself. Don’t rush off, Sam. Alicia, have Carraway bring Sam another drink.”
I left the room, closed the door firmly, took six paces down the corridor, and then padded back to listen. On the other side of the panels Sam was saying, “Damn! He was upset, wasn’t he? And I thought I was handling it well.”
“Well, don’t persist now with ‘Paul Cornelius’ or you’ll make everything worse …”
I crept away.
Retreating upstairs, I dismissed my valet, sat down on my bed, and interlocked my fingers tightly as I reviewed the situation. I did not understand how I could have mishandled the scene so badly. Perhaps I was emotionally upset. But no, how could I be? I had sorted myself out long ago. The trouble had arisen because they thought I was emotionally upset, and it was their suspicions, not the facts themselves, which I found upsetting. I hated them thinking I was neurotic, someone to be handled with kid gloves, when I knew without doubt how well-adjusted I was. I had known for sixteen years now that I would have no son—sixteen years, seven months, and five days, to be accurate—and if one can’t come to terms with an unfortunate fact of life after sixteen years—sixteen years, seven months, and five days—just what the hell can one come to terms with, for Christ’s sake? Of course I would have liked a son, but one can’t have everything in this life, as my mother used to say back in Velletria, and since I had damned near everything else, how could I complain? I didn’t complain, that was the answer, but Alicia kept trying to stuff her own soap-opera emotions into my head and make out I was suffering from some sort of deprivation. Of course I felt sorry for Alicia, because it was obvious she would have liked more children, but she had her two boys and I’d given her a stepdaughter, so why should she complain either? I refused to feel guilty when we were all one big happy family with so much going for us. Why should I? I didn’t believe in guilt anyway. Guilt was for maladjusted neurotics who could not cope with life. God dealt out the cards, and one played the hand as best one could, and that was that.
Sixteen years, seven months, and five days. It sounded like a jail sentence. September 7, 1933, and the sky was a steaming hazy blue. … That was when everything had come to an end, my dreams of a large family, my perfect physical relationship with my wife, my hero worship of Paul, who had filled the void left by a father I could hardly remember—and even my sister’s marriage had come to an end, leading me into an open breach with my brother-in-law, that son of a bitch Steve Sullivan …
I was taking another shower before I remembered I had had a shower only a short time earlier. I must be going out of my mind. I tried to figure out what the new shower meant. Another act of lustration? Perhaps I was trying to wash away the memory of the humiliating scene in the Gold Room. I always had good clean cheerful thoughts under the shower.
Putting on my pajamas, I got into bed and was just opening a book when I heard the door of Alicia’s room open. I switched off my light immediately and lay motionless in the dark.
Perhaps if she thought I was asleep she would slip into bed with me and put my hand between her thighs. She had done that once out of pity for me, and later when I had been impotent she had pitied me enough to refuse my offer to make love to her in a less conventional way. She knew I disliked such practices, and no doubt she thought it was pathetic that I should offer to do something I disliked in order to please her. I sweated at the memory but then reminded myself that I was indulging in unnecessary torment. Our sexual relationship was dead. It had taken me a long time to realize how great a hell I was putting her through by persisting in my selfish efforts to recapture our past happiness, but once I had understood how much she was suffering, I had ended the relationship at once.
I would have done anything for Alicia, anything at all. When I had first discovered we would have no children, I had offered her a divorce so that she could have children by someone else, but she had chosen to stay with me—and not just because I was rich; Alicia had her own fortune and her own inherited place in New York society. No, this unique, beautiful woman had chosen to stay with me in adverse circumstances because she had thought I was the one man who could make her happy. It was small wonder that since then I had done everything in my power to ensure her happiness. She had wanted me to love her sons; I had bent over backward to treat them as my own. She disliked charity work; I had taken great care that she should never be bothered by any of my charitable interests. She needed, naturally, the very best home I could provide for her; I maintained Paul’s Fifth Avenue home, which I loathed, specially for her benefit. She had wanted to end our sexual relationship; I had ended it. If she had wanted a divorce, I would somehow have found the strength to give her that top, though I didn’t see how I could have survived without her. I had even told her to take a lover because I had realized it was better to be a complaisant husband than a deserted one. I loved her. I wanted her more than any other woman in the world, and often when I was making love so effortlessly and emptily with Teresa my impotence with my wife did indeed seem like a jail sentence—sixteen years, seven months, and five days of imprisonment in some police state where tort
ure was rife and justice nonexistent. Every day I woke shouting inside my head: “I’ve suffered enough! Let me go!” and every day my faceless jailer would remind me that he had thrown away the key of my cell. Whoever was dealing the cards of life had tossed me an ace of spades to ruin my royal flush in diamonds, and sometimes I thought that single black spade was digging my grave.
The glow of light beneath the door which linked our bedrooms was extinguished, but nothing happened. I waited alone in the dark.
I was on the crosstown bus again, but it was an empty bus without a driver, and the loneliness was more than I could bear.
Slipping out of bed, I padded to the door and listened. Nothing. In an agony of indecision I moved away again and tried to think logically. Could I make some excuse to knock on the door? No, I couldn’t think of one. Could I be honest and just ask directly if she would object if I lay down beside her for a while and held her hand? No, I couldn’t. Her immediate reaction would be: Poor Cornelius, impotent as ever, I’d better humor him, but how pathetic. Yet the hideous irony of it all was that I wasn’t poor Cornelius, not by a long chalk. I was rich, successful, powerful Cornelius with a mistress who had told him that very evening how great he was in bed. So if I was a failure, I was a failure in one place only, and that place was the mind—Alicia’s mind, of course, not mine. There was nothing wrong with my mind. But Alicia thought I was a failure, so I was. I’d worked that one out long ago. All these stupid people who waste fortunes on psychiatrists should try a little clear-eyed self-analysis occasionally. They might save themselves some money. Anyway, I don’t believe in psychiatrists. They’re for women and queers.
I got back into bed.
Thinking of queers reminded me of Kevin, and thinking of Kevin reminded me how few people I could talk to anymore. I would never have dreamed of revealing any of my most private troubles to anyone I had met since I had inherited Paul’s money, for the whole point about power is that people must think you’re impregnable or else they lose the respect which your power extracts from them. I was hardly about to reveal my problems to anyone I didn’t trust, but I trusted very, very few people.
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