The Last Bastion

by Peter C. Wensberg

  Chapter 20

  Since it had been the way she had found her way into the Charles Club on her previous visit, Leslie walked around the corner from the spot where the cab deposited her at the foot of the front steps to the Ladies’ Entrance which, with its tidy green awning extended to the curb, was much more welcoming than the huge, unsheltered front door. She couldn’t remember if you were supposed to ring or knock. She tried the bell, but since it brought no response she rapped on the door with gloved knuckles. I’m a little zoned out, she thought. It had been a long and, she was beginning to realize, unproductive day showing a Japanese couple expensive condominiums. In addition to the impatience she felt when clients failed to recognize value when she took the trouble to point it out to them, the language barrier had been exhausting. Mr. Sekido had refused to admit by opening his mouth even once that his mastery of English was imperfect, hence the fiction accepted by the three of them that he spoke and understood only Japanese. Mrs. Sekido did most of the talking in both languages, painstakingly translating Leslie’s every comment, including what she said about the delivery truck driver who backed out of an alley in front of her BMW. Mr. Sekido’s questions to his wife, always in Japanese, quickly revealed, however, that he understood most of what was being said in English. Leslie had to remind herself through the course of the afternoon not to address him directly. By the time she dropped them at the Westin her head throbbed and her feet (in a new pair of Joan and David spiked pumps) as well.

  After parking the BMW behind her South End apartment she showered and changed into a suit, not the Fiandaca but a black number which set off her new figure. She carefully took inventory, made certain adjustments, then indulged herself by calling a cab. The short ride helped her head and her feet but it was fifteen minutes later than seven o’clock when she knocked on the door. Since that proved as unproductive as the doorbell, she turned the knob and looked inside. It was dark and silent, the hallway attended by a haughty Victorian coatrack and a little loveseat, its silk stained by generations of umbrellas. Leslie entered this ambiguous space warily. She shrugged out of her fox and glanced around for someone to accept it. Finding no one, she settled for a hanger dangling from the almost empty coatrack. As she inserted its wire shoulders in her heavy fur ones she noticed by the paper jacket that it belonged to the New Ocean House in Swampscott, an immense wooden hostelry which had burned to the cellar hole when she was ten years old. It had been featured in the Sphere, she remembered, as the greatest conflagration north of Boston in modern times. The relic of this historic event sagged but held and she walked up a small flight of steps, past a yellowed mirror which reflected her dubious expression, a crease between the symmetrical brows above the beautiful dark eyes. What is this, she asked the mirror and stepped through a padded door into the, by contrast, brightly lit lobby of the Club.

  Abel, standing behind the bar, was not too busy to smile at her. “Good evening,” he said as he handed drinks to a group of men trying unsuccessfully not to rush the growler. “May I help you?”

  “I’m looking for the …” Leslie searched her tiny beaded clutch for the invitation, “reception?”

  “Ah,” said Abel. “May I offer you something to drink? There are two receptions this evening. One for the Billiards. One for the Candidates.”

  “Thank you. I’d like a Perrier and lime. I’m not for the Billiards, so I’m quite sure I must be for the Candidates.”

  Abel deftly poured water, added fruit. “I’m sorry, we do not stock Perrier. Most of the members prefer Evian. I hope that will please you. I would like to think you were for the Candidates, but I doubt so.”

  “Well, I doubt that I’m for the Billiards, and I’m certainly for something.”

  “In any case, both receptions are on the second floor. I recommend that you walk up the flight of stairs. You can enjoy the paintings; and the elevator is not in a current state.”

  With a smile of gratitude, Leslie took a sip and started up the grand staircase. A scene of cheerful New England alcoholic activity extended below. Some forty people milled, drinks in hand, around a large table laden with cheeses, fruit, and small objects pierced with slivers of wood and nestled in grease on a Spode platter. The men spoke boldly to each other of sailboats, skiing trips, the vicissitudes of air travel. Places were dropped more often than names, since they all seemed to know the same people. “Longboat Key,” offered one; “Jackson Hole,” answered another. Leslie was pleased to see there were several women present, none within twenty years of her age, most dressed from a catalog that probably included garden shears and rubber boots. The hum of conversation suggested they saw each other often, had little need to produce the shriller variety of cocktail talk that serves to establish space and status. It sounded comfortable, even friendly. Reassured that these were indeed her customers, she continued upward, glancing at the canvases which punctuated the wall whose occupants stared back with disinterest, if not disdain. She wondered which reception room she was looking for. Ann had been so vague.

  Roger Dormant occupied his customary corner. In each room of this club to which he had given his heartfelt allegiance—as well as the best years of his life since Harvard—he had a favorite spot. He was, he knew, a corner sort of person. In the Small Reception Room he enjoyed the northwest corner near the tall windows which faced the alley. No one had ever seen the alley from this room since heavy brocade drapes and dusty interior curtains sealed the room against undesirable drafts and views. From his corner Roger could stand gazing at the fire in the grate without roasting his legs. He could watch his friends, acquaintances, and the occasional stranger as they entered the room. Best of all, he could steal a proprietary glance at the lesser Sargent, magnificent above the mantel, glowing more from the muted radiance of its color than the reflections of the sconces or the hearth. It was one of the master’s family groups, two boys arranged with their mother on a sofa in a dark, high-ceilinged room, a young girl standing in the doorway as if awaiting permission to enter. He loved the painting. It spoke of a life whose elegance and peaceful gentility was as desirable as it was unattainable. From the moment he first saw it, the Sargent had been his room within a room. On a comfortable evening like this, when his only responsibility was to ensure in some small way the continuity of the Club, he tried to enter Sargent’s room, stand quietly in the corner admiring the beauty of the boys, the strength of the mother, the timid grace of the young woman.

  Roger caught his breath. There at the door stood a girl, almost the girl, hesitant, uncertain if she should take a step, looking for a sign of welcome, a signal. Before he knew it, he had pushed past the tiresome friend of Avery Coupon and stood in front of her. He could think of nothing to say so he smiled shyly and touched her elbow. Her bones were tiny, her scent disturbingly evident over the wood smoke, the cigars, the vapors of expensive spirits which filled the room. “May I help you?” he said with effort. Her black dress accentuated her color, complemented the dark eyes.

  They’re all so helpful, Leslie thought. “Is this the Billiards? I’m quite sure I’m not for the Billiards.”

  “This is a small reception for candidates who have been proposed for membership, my dear.” As this surprising phrase passed his lips Roger realized he had never in his life called anyone his dear, not his wife, not his daughter, certainly not his mother. He began to tremble slightly and gripped Leslie’s elbow more tightly for support.

  Hoo, boy, she thought. “Then I am in the right place,” she said brightly, transferring her glass of water to the other hand since it was slopping slightly from Roger’s tremors.

  “I would like to think you are, but these are candidates for membership in the Charles Club. I’m awaiting one myself, a friend of my daughter’s.”

  “Oh, is your daughter by any chance Ann Dormant? I’m …”

  “His name is …”

  As they spoke her name in unison, Leslie smiled her warmest, brightest smile, the smile that had moved three million of largely residential
product in the previous calendar year. Roger’s knees wobbled. At that moment she caught the eye of Avery Coupon’s odious Italian friend. Excusing herself and gently disengaging, she walked across the threadbare Oriental carpet toward him. In company with most of the other men in the room, Roger followed her progress, seized as he was in the grip of several emotions not experienced since his undergraduate days, and one with which he was very familiar.

  Avery Coupon’s friend was holding forth on the relationships between American automobile manufacturers and the Italian design houses, a subject which had not engaged his listeners beyond the lowest threshold of Charles Club civility. As he turned in mid-sentence to greet Leslie, his audience evanesced and they were left standing alone, undeniably the two most handsome specimens in the room.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I think I am going to be asked to join the Charles Club, can you believe it?”

  “No, I’m afraid I can’t, but will you have dinner with me after we escape this,” he glanced around, “tumulte? You look positively smashing,” he added with unaccustomed sincerity.

  “You haven’t said what you’re doing here.”

  “Actually, I have been asked to join the Charles Club, or will be after I’ve done the rounds here tonight.”

  “So will I”

  “No, bella, they have no women members here And all candidates must have a sponsor. A very is mine,” he gestured with his glass of scotch at a group in front of the fire. “He owes me.”

  “Roger Dormant, the father of a dear friend of mine, is my sponsor. And I spoke on the phone with the head of the Membership Committee, or something,” said Leslie warmly. She turned and speared Roger with a smile. Reeling him in, she took his arm again. “Have you two met?”

  Dormant, who had been fingering a blackball in his mind like a duelist about to load his pistol, smiled nervously. Avery Coupon’s friend grabbed his free hand and pumped it twice in the European manner “Yes, I have met Mr. Norman, and it is a very great pleasure to see him once again. Leslie tells me she wishes you to sponsor her as a member. What a charming idea. I only wish it could be true. What a delicious addition to the otherwise rather austere amenities of the club.” He offered his perfect white teeth for universal inspection.

  “Of course it’s true.” Leslie felt her composure, not entirely secure since she arrived, slipping. She looked at Roger. “Ann set this up.” The arm vibrated in her grip but she would not let it go. “What’s the story?”

  As Owen entered the room, tired after another in a succession of boring, unproductive days, he noticed Roger Dormant entwined with a stunning woman who looked like she could be Owen’s ex-wife’s younger sister He smiled at the expression on his friend’s face which reminded him of nothing so much as a horse with a stone embedded in its hoof. “Evening,” Owen said as he joined them.

  “Leslie Sample, Owen Lawrence. And this is …,” Roger could not admit he did not remember the man’s name.

  “Subito. Paul Subito. I’m a friend of Avery Coupon’s. Very happy to meet you indeed.” He launched into a detailed description of his feelings about Boston, the Charles Club, and the early work of Pininfarina. Owen found himself studying Leslie.

  Dormant drew her to one side. Before he could begin, she spoke urgently into his ear, her fragrant breath the most potent stimulant he had felt in years. “Isn’t he a horrible man? I certainly hope you don’t make him a member. Won’t you introduce me to some of the others? I must say, I’m surprised to discover such an attractive group,” she glanced over her shoulder then looked deep into Dormant’s soul. “I thought you all might be sort of … like … old.” The trembling increased, setting up a harmonic in Roger’s right leg. He took a carelessly large swig of undiluted gin.

  “Miss Sample,” he croaked.

  “Oh, please, Leslie.”

  “Yes. Leslie. That, I’m afraid, is precisely the point.” He was about to attempt another sentence when he became aware of Seymour Gland’s baleful gaze. Gland stood in front of the fireplace, dancing flames rimming the kewpie figure with luminescence, wispy hair alight on the top of his head like a candle. Dormant studied the features of the club’s leading advocate of inalienable rights, personal freedom, and single-sex enjoyment of cigars and alcohol. Gland was staring intently at Leslie Sample. She retained Dormant’s sleeve firmly in her grasp. Gland gestured at Roger with a curious swivel of his head. Dormant stared back in stubborn defiance.

  “Roger,” Gland hissed. Dormant set his receding but genetically sound jaw.

  “Can I meet him?” asked Leslie, following Dormant’s gaze. As if in answer, the glowing figure detached itself from the flames and marched towards them, a small Churchill prepared, as Roger well knew, to fight on the beaches, in the fields and in the streets.

  “Please introduce me.”

  “Seymour Gland, Leslie Sample. I mean, Leslie Sample, Seymour Gland.”

  “Did I see your name on the list of candidates?”

  “Oh, I hope so. Mr. Dormant has offered to be my sponsor. His daughter and I are good friends.”

  “I do not wish to cause you any embarrassment, Miss, Mrs.? Miz Sample, but I am afraid Mr. Dormant is participating in a rather uncharacteristically cruel joke at your expense.”

  “Oh, no, not,” said Roger vehemently.

  “Not uncharacteristic?” asked Gland with eyebrows raised.

  “Not cruel?” asked Owen.

  “Not at my expense,” said Leslie flatly. They looked at Dormant.

  “Not a joke,” said he bravely, now completely out of his corner.

  Chapter 21

  “Damme,” cried Gland.

  Owen looked at him sourly. Over the length of their acquaintance, Owen had become increasingly aware of his friend’s tendency under social stress to assume rather stagey English airs. To the best of Owen’s knowledge Seymour had been to London on three occasions only. The first time had been during their last year at Harvard when an English uncle had invited Seymour to spend Christmas. Since Gland’s parents had been divorced for years and his mother spent most of her time in Palm Beach, holidays were often as much of a trial for him as for Owen. They sometimes spent Thanksgiving or spring break wandering the city of Boston together arguing about whether or not to see a movie, dining well, occasionally, on Seymour’s mother’s credit at a few good restaurants like Locke-Ober. Owen remembered that particular Christmas as one of the loneliest he had ever spent. Seymour was away, as he was at pains to put it later, a fortnight. It snowed most of the fortnight and Owen spent the time walking beside the Charles River until he caught cold. Gland discovered him in bed in his Cambridge rooming house reading old issues of the National Geographic magazine borrowed from the landlady. Seymour was wearing a double-breasted waistcoat. Owen had not found him amusing then nor in the present instance.

  Seymour was holding forth at an emergency meeting of the Strategy Committee which had been called the afternoon following the candidates’ evening. The reception itself had ended abruptly as word spread among the attending members that Leslie Sample was the Leslie Sample. Most of them disappeared from the scene, anxious to avoid a speaking part, in rapid, silent succession. The candidates were left in the hands of Gland, Owen and Roger Dormant. After a tense few minutes Leslie and Paul Subito departed to have dinner together. The others followed their lead with a few mumbled words. Most felt the need for reflection and counsel.

  The following afternoon, the Strategy Committee was convened by Gland’s secretary. Dormant was not invited.

  He had spent the morning at home trying to track down his daughter on the telephone. She proved to have erased her footprints and forded several streams. Roger could not decide whether to discuss the matter with Celia or not. He made a tentative appointment with her for dinner by calling her acupuncturist, where she was expected later in the day, then cancelled by telling her podiatrist that he could not make it because of an engagement at the Club and would she please inform his wife.
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  Thus, while the recalcitrant member sat taking rapid small sips of his second martini in the Library, an eye on the clock and the memory of Leslie’s elbow in his hand, the Strategy Committee met upstairs.

  “If you’re going to swear at us do it in American,” said Owen. He was, in fact, in a rotten mood, not entirely sure why.

  Gland looked at him in surprise. “I’m not swearing at anyone in this room,” he said, “it’s just a damnably awkward, needlessly difficult, poorly timed, utterly inexplicable, completely unexpected …” He would have continued but was overridden.

  “WHERE’S DORMANT?” asked the Eldest Member.

  “He’s hiding in the Library,” replied DePalma.

  “POOR PLACE TO HIDE,” said the patriarch. “WE’LL ALL BE DOWN THERE AS SOON AS WE CAN GET THIS PALAVER DONE WITH.”

  “Well, the Club is faced with a disastrously dangerous …”

  “Why did he put the girl up for membership?” asked Appleyard.

  No one answered. Then Owen spoke. “I was talking with them. I got the impression that he hadn’t planned to do just that. He seemed a little confused.”

  “A little confused! Of all the incredibly stupid, unbelievably obtuse …”

  Walter Junior, who had not even attempted control of the meeting, spoke up. “As you know, I have been acting as the pro tempore Chair of the Nominating Committee. When Roger Dormant spoke to me last month about this Leslie Sample, whom he identified as a, uh, friend of his daughter, I offered to call him, her, I offered to call, to, uh, extend an invitation to meet the Club membership.”

  “I knew Pinhead was involved somehow,” said Gland to Owen in an aside.

  “Dormant asked me to stand as a sponsor, as well,” volunteered the Architectural Critic, his eyes bulging, “which I readily agreed to do, little dreaming …”