“Neither have I.”
“Oh, come on. I know you’ve made a pot, but Hanscombe told me what your last couple of books have done. You haven’t been living on them.”
“Of course I have. You don’t realize—if we really pay attention we can live here for about a hundred and fifty dollars a month.”
“You’re kidding. I couldn’t keep my dogs for that.”
George cursed his habit of truth. Modesty wasn’t the line for this new Mike. “I said we could,” he pointed out. “I didn’t say we do.”
“All right. Then what’s the trick?”
George felt his grip tightening on his glass. Why couldn’t the damn fool let well enough alone? Couldn’t he conceive that a man might go on struggling to give the best of himself even though the rewards constantly diminished? He thought of the stolen money and almost hurled his glass against the wall. He was being hemmed in, his very survival threatened. And Mike sat looking cool and elegant, talking about what it cost to keep his dogs.
“For one thing, I’ve never cared all that much about money,” he said carefully, amazed that he sounded so calm. “That’s something you’re bound to remember, even though your attitude has changed. It’s pretty old-fashioned of me, but I still don’t believe in the money-success standard.”
“That’s one in the eye for old Mike. Of course, you’ve got rich parents.”
“That might make a difference. I suppose in the back of my mind the fact that someday I’ll have a steady income relieves some of the pressure, even though I can’t count on it for another fifteen or twenty years.”
“Well, since we’re having this moment of truth, I’ll tell you straight, Cosmo. I’ve been more or less commissioned by Hanscombe to bring you back alive.”
“Oh, Christ. Is that why you’re here? What does Hanscombe care? He gets my books regularly.”
“That’s not necessarily enough. Hanscombe makes no bones about it. He thinks at the rate you’re going you won’t have any public at all in a few more years.”
“Hanscombe seems to’ve been shooting his mouth off a good deal.”
“He’s just thinking of your interests. Hell, you could make a good living at home. There’re all sorts of possibilities for a prestige writer like you. Your name would mean something on the lecture circuit. If you were back where people could see you, even the movies would probably use you.”
“When am I supposed to do my work?”
“Ah, yes. The dedicated artist. There’s nothing wrong with reaching a popular audience. Even Shakespeare was a hack. What’s special about you?” As he asked the question, Mike knew there was something special about him. There was an undeniable aura that clung to his name out of all proportion to Mike’s evaluation of his accomplishments. If this weren’t true, if Leighton didn’t figure among the nation’s cultural assets, Mike wouldn’t have come. Failure embarrassed him. “I’ll tell you frankly I think you’re missing something. Your stuff’s getting remote. People want to be socked between the eyes these days. If you got back into the world, you’d feel it. I suppose it’s a matter of losing touch.”
George almost laughed out loud at the line he had so accurately anticipated. “What in hell does everybody mean by ‘losing touch’?” he demanded. “Do they expect me to write like the new kids? I’m not interested in armpits and vomit and urinals and pot. I don’t know anything about boys screwing each other. If I wanted to find out, I’d have plenty of opportunity here. What people can’t get through their heads is that life here is just as dirty and sweaty and fucked up as it is everywhere else.”
“Then why not come back where the big things are happening? The world is moving. Greece had her say two thousand years ago. It’s our turn now. Hell, the black thing alone is one of the biggest things of our time.”
“The black thing! Christ, I’m not a Negro. If a black wants to marry my daughter, he’s perfectly welcome to her. Seriously. I have nothing else to contribute to the cause.”
“But she’s not likely to meet any Negroes here, is she?”
“Why in God’s name not? The island’s crawling with them. They come off the boat in droves. Regular little Harlem we’ve got here.”
Mike laughed briefly, dismissively. “Well, Cos,” he said, “I don’t suppose even you would pretend that this is an important center of cultural and intellectual activity.”
“I might, you know. There’s an element of the eternal here that goes beyond current fads. It’s something I’m trying to get into my work. I may not be big enough to do it, but that’ll be my fault, not the fault of the place.”
“Do you expect to go down in history as the only American artist who wasn’t hurt by expatriation?”
“Henry James? Tom Eliot? What would they have been if they hadn’t been expatriates?”
“There’s no point in playing guessing games. The fact is, you’re an American writer. Your best work is one hundred percent American. You need the country just as much as the country needs you.”
Leighton remained silent for a moment. He was damned if he would admit that what had started as a voyage of discovery with Sarah had become an economic necessity. He wasn’t ready yet to tell Mike that he found him shockingly transformed by playing the success game. And he couldn’t tell about the curious loss of nerve he observed, with anguish, in himself. He felt already shattered by their brief exchange, uneasy and at bay. There were all the good things he had found here but when he tried to put them into words for Mike, they became terribly elusive. Too many shadows fell across them.
“You know, Mike,” he said, making a grueling effort to achieve conviction and authority, “I see a lot of people from your big world. They come limping in here, riddled with ulcers and neuroses, and it’s fascinating to watch what happens to them. They take their clothes off and lie down in the sun and they positively blossom. They can’t stop talking about what hell their lives have been wherever they’ve come from, but as soon as they get well, as soon as they’re whole and happy again, they begin creating their hells around them and sooner or later it all blows up and they go. I would like to believe that man is capable of bearing happiness, and there’s lots of material for research here. When I’ve answered that one, maybe I’ll be ready to leave.”
“You can’t be happy at home?”
“Good God. I’m not talking about my happiness.” George rose abruptly and walked over to the bookshelves to hide his face from Mike. He took a long swallow of his drink. The drink was helping, but he wasn’t going to be able to take much more of this. He looked up at his five published novels. They took up scarcely five inches on the shelf. Fifteen years of thought and feeling and plain hard labor. He had scarcely begun. If he could just hold on a little longer, if he could just get through to Sarah again, he’d show Mike and Hanscombe and all the rest of them what writing was all about. And make another pot while he was about it. He turned and managed to give his friend a composed smile.
“Come on. Let’s adjourn this meeting of the Save George Cosmo Leighton Society. We probably have time for another quick one before lunch.”
“Not for me. One more of these and I’d be flat on my face.”
“You’re getting old, Mike. The debilitating effects of civilization.” He snapped his fingers and went to his desk and began tearing typewriter paper into strips. “Just a minute,” he said over his shoulder. When he had torn what he judged to be enough, he gathered the strips together and folded them into a wad.
“Has the heat finally got you?” Mike asked.
“Just a minute. Just stay where you are.” He hurried to the head of the difficult stairs and went down them as fast as he could. He found the trousers he had been wearing the night before in a closet and quickly changed. He put the wad of paper in a pocket and climbed back up to Mike.
“Now, then. See if you can tell if I have anything in my pockets,” he instructed Mike.
“Is this the sort of game you play here? What am I supposed to do, admire your ba
sket?”
George walked back and forth in front of him. “Tell me. Can you see anything?”
“Poor old Cosmo. His brain has finally snapped. No, I can’t see if you have anything in your pockets. Maybe a pack of cigarettes in the left one?”
George put his left foot up on a rung of a chair. The wad of paper was clearly outlined under the cloth. It looked as much like a rather crushed cigarette pack as it did a wad of paper. Experiment inconclusive, but damaging for Costa. Had he put his foot on the rung of a chair?
“Will we be vouchsafed a word of explanation?” Mike asked.
“We were having a discussion this morning. It’s too complicated to explain. Come on. Let’s go down. Lunch will be ready soon.”
In apparent harmony, they retraced their steps down through the house.
“I see you have some nice pictures,” Mike said. “I’ve become quite a collector myself. The Impressionists, mostly. Do you know Peter Mills-Martin?”
“Sure. He wants to have you for dinner if you’re staying.”
“I’ve met him once or twice, like that, at big parties. Wonderful guy. I knew he had a house here. I did a bit of business in his line while I was in Athens. I’d like to have a talk with him.”
“Nothing could be simpler. We’ll probably run into him later. Otherwise, I could send word up to him.”
They found Sarah in the garden stretched out in a chaise longue reading. George noticed with mingled surprise and pleasure she didn’t have a drink beside her.
“Have you two caught up on old times?” She greeted them with a bright smile. George noticed the way she snapped her book shut with quick nervous fingers. There was something febrile and overeager about her that puzzled him. It was different from the drink-induced tension he knew so well. There was a sort of pent-up joyousness or anticipation about it, as if she were about to perform some miracle. Perhaps she was pleased with the way lunch was turning out.
“Mike’s been paying his duty call on the house,” George said.
“It’s fantastic. The palaces of the East.”
“You’re not having a drink before lunch?” George asked her.
She shook her head. “We’re going to eat in a minute. I thought Mike would probably be hungry.”
The nearby table was already set with bright pottery and coarse linen place mats, a loaf in its basket, a bottle of wine in its ice bucket. Everything was as George would have wished it, simple but handsome, suggesting good management and rustic abundance. If the meal were ready, the miracle would be complete. They usually managed to assemble a few scraps any time between two and four. Sarah was responding to the day’s challenge like a champion. He stood over her and gave her shoulder a little caress. “Has anybody seen our son and heir?”
“I think I heard him in his room.”
George turned to the house and called up, “Jeff, about time for lunch.”
“What about your daughter?” Mike asked.
“She’s staying with a little friend in Athens,” Sarah explained. Mike continued to ask appropriate questions about the children, their ages, where they went to school and so forth, exerting great charm. Beneath it, Sarah sensed a watchfulness that puzzled her and she became defensively chatty.
In a few minutes, Chloë emerged with a platter on which lay an excellent-looking fish and Jeff came slouching after her. They were both introduced to Mike.
“What’s all this fuss about?” Jeff remarked, gazing darkly at the table. It was the sort of thing that Jeff, with almost belligerent tactlessness, could be counted on to say. But since he growled rather than spoke, George was confident that Mike hadn’t heard. Chloë fetched a great salad and took her place at table with them.
“Servants are part of the family in Greece,” George explained. “There are really no class distinctions here. It’s one of the nicest things about the place.”
“We don’t usually make much of lunch,” Sarah said accurately. “I hope this’ll be enough.”
“Good lord, have you forgotten how we eat at home? I usually have a sandwich.”
Except for a few abortive attempts by Mike to draw Jeff out, met with sullen growls, the talk was a lively triple exchange as they traded their news and gossip. Sarah only sipped at her wine instead of gulping it by the glassful as she usually did. George was quick to snatch at any hope. If she could muster such self-control for Mike, perhaps her drinking had not yet got a real grip on her. Buoyed by the good talk and the wine he had drunk, he dreamed of life resuming its old happy pattern. It could be good here; an hour or two with Mike and the glimpse he offered of the great world was enough to dispel any doubts. Nothing had been damaged yet beyond repair. If the new book had a better break than the last one, they might even have enough money to get away for a bit, to Paris perhaps, or London, and replenish themselves at the old sources—theaters, friends, exhibitions, shops. Sarah had always been fascinated by shops. He smiled to himself as he thought of her eager acquisitiveness. It had been a long time since she had been able to indulge it.
“When are you two going for your swim?” Sarah asked. “That is the plan, isn’t it?”
Jeff had excused himself, mumbling about having to see somebody; the table had been cleared, coffee had been served. She posed the question pointedly, as if to firmly mark the end of the lunch interlude. The famous swim—well, she had certainly earned her nap.
“It might cool us off,” George agreed. “How about you, Mike, my boy?”
“I think I could do with a bit of a snooze first. Fifteen minutes will do to recharge the batteries. And no more cracks about getting old. I’m simply following your example and sinking into the island torpor.”
“Why don’t you stretch out here? It’ll be a little less hot than the hotel. I have some business at six, but we have plenty of time.”
He took Mike up to the guest room, and returning below, went to the kitchen and checked Sarah’s bottle of brandy. He had been right. The level had not appreciably fallen. He went back to the garden to look for her. She was stretched out in the chaise lounge again. He went around in back of her and kissed her on the top of the head and sat at the foot of her chair.
“That was wonderful, Sal. You really did us proud.”
She smiled and shrugged, but there was an edge in her voice as she said, “I usually do, don’t I?”
“Oh, of course. But I wanted it to go particularly well today. I think he was impressed.”
“I can’t stand him lording it over you. As if making a lot of money in Hollywood has anything to do with writing. He’s changed so. If I see too much of him, my act might wear a bit thin.”
“Well, you’re in the clear till this evening. Thanks for making the effort. I’d like to keep things peaceful for old time’s sake.”
“And what about all that chummy bit with Jeff?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that. Women can spot it a lot quicker than men. I saw the way he looked at him. I don’t care how many women he’s been married to. Psychiatry is turning everybody nuts in the States and they dare come here and tell us there’s something peculiar about the way we live.”
“Oh, well. He’s only going to be here one night. We probably won’t run into each other again for another twelve years.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. I’ll bet not many people bolster his self-respect the way you do. You treat him as if he were still worth something. You’re too nice to do otherwise. Now that he’s seen the house, he’ll probably become a regular visitor.”
“That might be a bit of a trial. Anyway, you were marvelous.” He put his hand on her ankle and gave it a squeeze. He dared touch her because of Mike’s presence in the house. It could lead to nothing. He dared look at her unguardedly, let his eyes be totally absorbed by her. He didn’t know if she was beautiful. He knew only that to him she was the sum of all that was attractive and desirable. The eyes that could flash fire, the mouth that had shape and meaning and expression, not a flabby orifice lik
e so many mouths, the texture of her skin, the way her neck flowed into her shoulders—if he were creating a woman, this was the way he would make her. He moved his hand back and forth on her ankle caressingly. Their eyes met. Hers were guarded but he could read an ambiguity in them, something reluctant and questioning, in which desire was somehow mingled. He felt a stirring in his sex and his breath came quicker. It was actually happening. With her. Dangerous games, too dangerous to play sober if it weren’t for Mike’s inhibiting presence.
He waited for the thought of being alone with her to have its usual effect of quelling his response, but desire continued to work through him. Was he delivered at last? There was no question of putting it to the test now, but he felt close to daring it. Tomorrow, with Mike gone, perhaps the moment would come again. Her eyes flickered in his and a taut little smile twisted her lips.
“If you’re going, shouldn’t you go?” she said sharply, shatteringly. “It must be after three-thirty.”
He stood up, thrusting his hands into his pockets to arrange his instantly shrinking sex. The link between them was totally severed. He experienced a sense of physical removal, as if he were spinning off into space. It was not an unfamiliar sensation, a sort of hallucinatory spell that seized him occasionally and into which he fell willingly, for it freed him from what seemed while it lasted the trivialities of daily existance. He felt as if he were looking into the very eye of life. He was alone, and all of life’s secrets were his.
“I’ll wander along,” he said, barely aware that he was speaking to her. “I won’t let the police keep me long. I’ll be back no later than seven.”
She waited until he was out of sight and then closed her eyes and gripped the arms of her chair and arched her back. With a long exhalation of breath she let herself go limp. How much longer must she wait? Time for George to get ready, for Mike to pull himself together. Another half hour? She was gripped by necessity; if there had been any doubt, she now knew that it had to happen. For a moment, George had looked at her in a way he hadn’t for a long time, as if he wanted her, and everything in her had recoiled from him. She despised herself for it. To restore herself to him required one further treachery.
The Peter & Charlie Trilogy Page 77