Mortal Sins

by Anna Porter

  “I suppose you’ll have to write about the little woman, won’t you?” Brenda tilted her head in an attitude of abject meekness. “Every great man has one, lurking just offside in the shadows. Behind him. Encouraging. Supportive...” She trailed off.

  “Brenda,” Philip Masters said in a voice a teacher might use with a troublesome child.

  “Oh yes,” purred Brenda, smiling flirtatiously over the top of her glass. Her tongue darted out and licked the rim. “I love the way champagne tickles. Don’t you?”

  “Mmm,” rejoined Judith, helpfully.

  “Faithful retainers, that’s another must for all great men. In my opinion, and Hilaire Belloc’s, they ought ‘not to play the old retainer night and day.’ Nothing personal, dear Philip.” She turned to Judith. “We’re friendly rivals for our lord’s attentions.”

  “Ready for another?” Masters asked, grabbing Judith’s half-empty glass.

  “Philip’s had a bit of a head start,” Brenda confided. “Some 20 years, I think. We’ve been married 12. Met in the Bahamas. At the Colony in Nassau. One balmy night under the stars, surrounded by those fabulous white Roman columns in the garden. He was wearing a white suit. A storybook romance. Love at first sight, wasn’t it, Philip?”

  Masters smiled distractedly. “I don’t think I was with you,” he said.

  “You weren’t?” Brenda squealed. “How silly of me. Of course you weren’t. No matter how faithful, a guy can’t be expected to retain all the time. He’s allowed to miss one or two inconsequential events. Nothing major, though. Right?” she asked Judith.

  Again at a loss for a script, Judith said, “Mmm,” which appeared to have worked last time.

  “Have you met Meredith?” asked Masters.

  Relieved at the distraction, Judith admitted she hadn’t.

  Brenda clapped her hands and jingled her bracelets. “Wonderful, wonderful,” she shouted. “You can see how his mind works, all logic, and deduction. The two of us would almost add up to a whole brain—he’s all left brain, I’m all right. Intuitive, telepathic, romantic. I used to write poetry when I was young. Wasn’t very good, though. Do you read poetry?” she demanded.

  Judith remembered English 101 and the last time she had to memorize a poem. “Some,” she said cautiously. Later, there had been e.e. cummings and a brief crush on T.S. Eliot. We are the hollow men.

  Brenda took her by the hand and propelled her toward the grand piano. Judith was surprised at the physical strength of her grasp. Brenda’s silver ring left a slight indentation on Judith’s palm.

  “That’s Meredith,” she explained.

  Meredith Zimmerman was perched on the piano stool, playing Liszt energetically. Her soft ash blond hair, tied with red ribbon, cascaded down over her back and swung rhythmically as she hammered the keys. Her high forehead and emphatic cheekbones echoed her mother’s face; the wide jawline and white-blond eyelashes mirrored her father’s. The starched white collar and the blue taffeta dress spread around her reminded Judith of picture-perfect little girls on Victorian postcards with titles like “Dusk at Chichester.”

  “Isn’t she simply wonderful?” Brenda asked, gazing adoringly at her daughter.

  Meredith looked up, beamed at her mother, and carried on with the Liszt.

  “A professional,” Masters said. “Trained with Malenkov from the Warsaw Conservatoire. She has all the discipline.”

  “Amazing for a ten-year-old,” Judith said, thinking of Anne’s painful piano lessons, the hours of monotonous practice, the battles trudging along to Mrs. Moore’s on Howland Avenue. After two years of merciless persistence, Mrs. Moore had admitted defeat. “I can use the money, my dear, but I cannot sit here and rob you blind. I do have a conscience.” Jimmy had inherited the secondhand piano and the apprehensive Mrs. Moore.

  “The best,” Brenda sighed. “‘She walks in beauty like the night...all that’s best of dark and bright.’ You know it?”

  “Keats,” Judith guessed.

  “Byron. You have children?”

  Judith nodded. “Two.” She’d always had trouble keeping those damned Romantic poets apart.

  “How very fortunate,” Brenda said, and squeezed Judith’s arm. “They’re such a joy.”

  “Not invariably,” said a new voice at Judith’s elbow. “From time to time even the noblest intentions misfire—”

  Judith turned to look into the narrow face of a gawky young man wearing a dark mauve tuxedo, red bow tie, and matching cummerbund.

  “—and what you get is someone like me. Isn’t that right, Brenda?” He grinned, revealing an uneven set of shiny teeth and shiny pink gums. His skin was pale and dry, and though he could hardly have reached 30, the lines had begun to set into grooves around his mouth and eyes. His face was dominated by a thin protruding nose with pointed tip and flared nostrils. The strenuously moussed white-blond hair stood damp and rigid, in a peak over his forehead. The overall effect was that of a yellow-tufted blackbird with bright red neck feathers.

  “Well,” said Brenda, stretching the e. “Arthur.”

  “Arthur Zimmerman, Judith Hayes,” chimed Masters.

  That accounted for the watery blue eyes, the blond hair, eyelashes, and eyebrows. A watered-down version of the old man.

  “Hayes, Hayes,” mused Arthur, as though searching his memory for clues. Then he clicked his fingers. “Gotcha,” he said. “You’re the reporter person. Right?” He squinted at her.

  Judith allowed that this was so.

  “Papa suggested I should be pleasant to you. And I do so try to fit in with Papa’s plans, don’t I, Philip, old chum?” He deposited a languid hand on Masters’s shoulder. “Would you be a good sport and get me another small libation?”

  “Arthur spent some years in England,” Brenda whispered. “Harrow, I think. Hence the phony English accent.”

  Masters shrugged off the hand unobtrusively as he turned to greet a gray-haired woman in an orange gown of homespun wool. “I guess the good doctor couldn’t make it?”

  “Being pleasant is such thirsty business, don’t you think?” continued Arthur. “But then you wouldn’t know, would you, Philip? Not quite your stock-in-trade. He doesn’t exactly have to be nice to anyone,” he explained to Judith. “So he isn’t.”

  The waiter returned Arthur’s glass filled to the brim, wiped his hand on his vest, and left.

  “Bravo, darling,” Brenda shouted, clapping again. Others joined in the applause as Meredith stood, all dimply smiles, and acknowledged the adulation. She bobbed her blond head, flicked the ponytail back into place, and straightened her dress. Arnold, a vision of courtliness, appeared, proffering Meredith a silver tray and a champagne glass.

  “We allow her just a touch at a party. She’s always loved champagne,” Brenda said.

  “I used to take violin once,” Arthur said, brushing his forehead with his wrist, as if to erase an unwelcome thought. “In Vienna, mostly. Papa was determined I was the new Yehudi Menuhin. A fine try, but no Stradivarius, as you might have surmised. Must be on your side of the family,” he said sotto voce to Brenda, “all this divine perfection. Either that, or second time lucky.”

  Paul Zimmerman had suddenly appeared by Meredith’s side, gathered her in his arms, and lifted her high in the air, her head thrown back, her feet flying. Her small patent-leather shoes grazed the grand piano as he twirled her around and around, her arms firmly clasping his neck. “Oh, Daddy,” she shrieked in a voice of scolding and delight, “Daddy, put me down!”

  For a second, pictures of James and her son—his son— flittered through her mind, pictures she had long ago relegated to her mental archives: James throwing Jimmy in the air, his arms and legs spread wide, floating, then whirling him around so fast she’d been frightened he might drop the boy or hit the walls with his feet, but he never did. Jimmy had whooped and hollered with glee, curiously unafraid. Often she’d found him lingering near the door around six o’clock, making funny little gurgling noises and jiggling up and down with
suppressed excitement, waiting for his father to come home. How at age two he could sense the time, she never knew.

  Tomorrow Jimmy would be “dining” with his father at the Four Seasons Hotel. A quite unreasonable jealousy stabbed at Judith as Arnold began to usher the guests in for dinner.

  Six

  TWO TABLES HAD been prepared for dinner. Both were decorated with hyacinths and more lilies of the valley, gold-bordered tablemats, festive maroon napkins in soft cones, and an array of silver cutlery and silver plates under blue-patterned porcelain dishes. When Judith picked up her napkin, she realized it sparkled because the maroon cloth had been woven through with gold thread. An army of crystal glasses, four for every guest, glowed soft amber in the light of two giant candelabras.

  The tables were side by side, each set for eight people, six on the sides, one at each end. Paul Zimmerman occupied the head of one table and Brenda the foot of the other, a traditional Ma and Pa arrangement, once removed.

  Judith had been popped onto her chair by the reluctantly dutiful Masters, who had escorted her into the dining room. In addition to the tiny wreath of red rosebuds and violets, the pink card above her plate displayed a handsome script-rendering of her name.

  “No half-measures for Paul,” Masters commented as he left her. “Either he likes you or he doesn’t. In your case, I had hoped he would make an exception.”

  “Meaning what?” Judith asked warily.

  “Wait for the jury to come in,” he cackled humorlessly. “But already he’s got you sitting on his right.”

  On his left was Jane Masters, pale and statuesque in blue lace. Judith guessed her to be at least a foot taller than Philip, but she admitted to some malice in her estimate. Above the lace Jane wore a solid gold choker with a single pearl in the center, and diamond earrings. Her constant smile was as fixed as were the diamonds in their setting. Her conversation ranged through an update on the findings of the Unfair Advertising Committee in Washington, with particular reference to cosmetics, to a plot summary of I’ll Take Manhattan, soon to be made into a five-part miniseries with joint Canadian-American financing. She modestly admitted to casting her vote for the project. As a new member of the Telefilm Canada board, she felt constrained to push for commercialism in the face of declining funds.

  “The time has come,” Zimmerman agreed with exaggerated vehemence, “for a touch of reality in the arts. So many people lining up for handouts. Haven’t we indulged them too long?”

  Judith noted that he had leaned heavily on the curved wooden arms of his chair when he sat down. His knuckles had turned white with the effort of lowering his massive body with dignity. There were tiny beads of perspiration on his forehead and upper lip.

  “On the other hand,” he continued, “when the Lorenzo de’ Medicis are all seeking other pleasures, what are the arts to do but turn to the state for nourishment?”

  He turned to Arnold and ordered the first wine to be served. “A modest little Mâcon-Lugny,” he said. “An ’83. Not a great year, but pleasant enough.” To Judith, he confided that he had once assumed mild pretensions as a wine connoisseur, even hired a man in Paris to buy him a cellarful of white Burgundy, northern Rhône, and Alsace, and to teach him the necessary vocabulary. “In the end, I couldn’t keep it up,” he said. “Felt like a fool with all that sniffing and gargling. Never cared much for the stuff anyway. May have seen too much of it when I was a child. Little town I come from in Hungary is famous for its wine. Maybe the only place in Hungary anyone has ever heard of—Eger. Makes a red wine called Egri Bikavér. Bull’s Blood, to you. Ever had it?”

  It was a cheap red and Judith had bought it fairly often, though hardly for its distinctive aroma. On a good day it was only tart, on bad days it left a sour taste in the mouth. “I’ve tried it,” she admitted. “Never knew it was famous.”

  “They ruin the flavor when they bottle it for export. The Algonquin in New York used to bring in its own. Only place in North America I’ve tasted the real thing.”

  “Last summer,” Jane said, “we donated a case of Hermitage La Chapelle to the Festival Auction. Imagine, it fetched over three thousand. It was the year, I think...’80? ’81? Philip took a wine cruise once around the Mediterranean.”

  Zimmerman glanced at Jane for a moment, preoccupied with his own thoughts. She smiled firmly. Judith worked on her cream of asparagus soup with croutons. Then Zimmerman, who hadn’t touched his soup, proposed a toast to Jack Goodman, “now freed of the restricting confines of ITT, and at the helm of Domcor—an organization with drive, promise, and a well-greased piggy bank to tap for smart investments.”

  Domcor, Judith had read, was one of Zimmerman’s older companies. Valued at $20 billion or so by Fortune, it had held onto a consistent high rating in the Top 500. Its only problem, they said, was too much cash in the treasury. It had made a grab last fall for Quaker Oats of Chicago but had backed off after a month of ugly public haggling.

  Goodman, it turned out, was sitting on Judith’s right. She recognized him as the back-to-back neighbor with the boundless interest in Florida decorating styles. He was brightly energetic, cheerful, an enthusiast. Whatever it was he had to do with the greased piggy bank, Judith had no doubt he would do it well.

  “It’s been a terrific ride, Paul,” he said. “So far. Give it a year or two and I’m going to need a new challenge, though. Trouble with Domcor is, it’s hard to improve on perfection.”

  “Right,” a gravelly voice from the end of the table said. “Just keep it from the marauders, Jack. No more, no less. We don’t need another round of legal hassles.”

  “If I lay off all bets, Adrian,” Goodman asked, “are you and Paul going to give me a shot at Pacific Airlines?”

  “Anything you want, Jack, you name it,” Adrian rejoined. “Long as it isn’t Monarch. Paul isn’t ready to retire.”

  Judith returned her attention to Paul Zimmerman. He seemed deep in thought, not listening to the bantering between his associates.

  “It was my father who introduced me to wine,” he said at last. “On Sundays we would all gather for dinner at noon around a wooden table with my mother’s heirloom napkins you weren’t allowed to touch once your hands got messy. She washed them every week and hung them on the line to dry. My father had the only knife in the family, his bicska. A pocketknife. I saved up for mine till I was nine. He cut the bacon, and he poured the wine. Each of us had an earthenware mug, for milk, water, tea, on Sundays for wine. Not the brassy red you know, a leafy green white wine called Leányka. That means something like ‘little girl,’ but friendlier.” He wiped his damp forehead with the back of his hand, his pale blue eyes fixed somewhere over Judith’s shoulder. His voice had become soft with the memories. “My mother had been a very beautiful woman. You wouldn’t have known it by the time I arrived. I was told by my father’s friends. She had been one of those dark-eyed beauties that come along once in a while, they make a man shiver. Like Meredith.”

  “Your daughter?” Judith asked, surprised.

  “She’ll grow into one of those. I used to know another girl called Meredith when I was a boy. She was perfect...” he trailed off. Gazed around the table, as if trying to recall where he was. “Have you ever been in love, Mrs. Hayes?” he asked at last. “She made my chest ache. You know that feeling?”

  “Oh yes,” Judith said with instant recognition. “What happened to her?”

  Zimmerman sighed. “A long story, that,” he said. “Maybe I’ll tell you about it later.”

  She waited a bit, then asked about his mother. How did he remember her?

  “Dressed in black, like the peasant woman she was, thin-faced, narrow shoulders, broad hips; she wore a shawl over her head. She said very little. Those days women weren’t to speak unless they were spoken to.”

  “Barbaric,” Jane said.

  “No one could keep my mother quiet at dinner,” Judith said. “But she never allowed wine or liquor in the house. Only sherry.” Toward the end, her father had take
n to carrying around a mickey of Scotch in his breast pocket next to his crumpled pieces of paper. Like Brenda, he used to write poetry.

  The Beef Wellington was rare, the carrots and noodles overcooked, but there were some delicious mushrooms the waiter served sparingly. “Morels,” Goodman explained. “They’re difficult to find here. Paul took a fancy to them some years ago in France, when we were looking for a place he and Brenda could use in the south. The problem with those old houses is they need so much repair before you can move in, don’t you think, Jane?”

  “Worst part is coming up with the right people to do it,” Jane agreed. “Far as I can tell, the lot of them rip you off at every turn. Their little eyes light up with dollar signs as soon as they spy an American.”

  “And did you find the place?” Judith asked.

  “Eventually. Near Nice. It needed a lot of work, though, Brenda will tell you. She’s spent months getting it right.”

  The second wine was a rich smoky red. Zimmerman picked up his glass and squinted through the wine, stirring and swirling it around. “Hard to imagine that life now,” he said, “with all my guests here and all my money.” He smiled at Judith. “Money does impress. Strange, don’t you think? My father was one of the poorest men in town. Dirt poor. So poor some days we had nothing to eat but grapes. We stole fruit in the summer. In the winter we starved. You know the old joke about how to make Hungarian omelet? First you steal the eggs...”

  Zimmerman put down his glass and returned to drinking from a water tumbler of amber liquid Judith thought might be ginger ale. He hadn’t had more than a sip of wine all evening. Nor had he eaten his food. He had pushed the meat about on his plate, shoved the vegetables to the sides, played with them, as a child might.

  “He worked in the vineyards,” Zimmerman continued. “Picking grapes. That’s what my father did. In the late fall, after the harvest, there were these great wooden vats full of grapes and all the men and boys in our part of town would take turns climbing into the vats to squish around the grapes and trample out the juice with our bare feet. For days afterward our legs were purple up to our knees. Little kids waded in up to their waists.”