The mention of Maria’s name put everyone at the table in a wistful mood, even Isabella and Peter, for the others’ response was contagious. Everyone wore a bittersweet smile.
“What was she like?” Isabella asked.
The others glanced around at one another.
Thorndale spoke first. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “She was the only woman who ever really broke my heart.”
Rather than joshing him for this comment, the others took it seriously.
“She was so kind,” said Kakouilli. “Who would pay attention to a Greek girl? I had my aunt and uncle, but I knew nobody in America, much less at the college, and my English was poor. She befriended me; I stayed with her family. I never would have lasted without her.”
“I remember so many things about her,” said Bernard. “But she was so funny the way she was so patient with Arthur, but then made fun of him too, in just the way he needed to be made fun of. Do you know what I mean, Mrs. Beeche?”
“I certainly do!” Mrs. Beeche said, laughing. “She would say, ‘Well, Arthur, when those nice people told you about their country house, and you said, “And where are your other houses?” Well, you see, darling, not everyone has seven houses. Some don’t even have one.’ ‘Oh. Yes. I suppose you’re right,’ says Arthur.” She laughed again. “Hopeless.”
“She certainly was crazy about him,” said Eisler, “and he cared for her so much. What do you think, Mrs. Beeche — not to pry, but we’re among friends here — do you think he’ll ever marry again?”
Mrs. Beeche sighed. “I hope so.” She thought for a moment. “You know, I think he may be ready. I do. They certainly were in love. But I think he’s ready to fall in love again.”
“I wish I knew what love was,” said Eisler.
“Who does know?” said Thorndale. “I don’t, and it’s not for lack of effort to find out.”
“Mr. Russell,” said Kakouilli, “why do you not enlighten us?”
Everyone looked at Peter with indulgent, eager smiles.
He surveyed the group in one direction and then the other, and then back again. He had thought of a response. “When two people are in love,” he said solemnly, “they are parallel lines. That intersect.”
The others received this with a hush, then burst out laughing.
Peter raised his hands and shrugged. “I tried! You put a guy on the spot like that . . .”
“You did very well,” said Kakouilli. “I like it. I think it’s marvelous. Together but separate. Infinity.”
“If I’m parallel to a girl,” Thorndale said under his breath, “I bloody well hope we’ll intersect before infinity.”
“Oh, Jack,” said Eisler, laughing, and the conversation took off again.
10
The waiters were removing the dessert plates. Coffee, brandy, and cigars were to be offered in rooms beyond the Sculpture Gallery.
“Peter?” said Mrs. Beeche. “Do you by any chance have an interest in opera?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I do.”
“I thought you might.” She smiled. “I have a box, which I so often can’t fill, and it’s such a waste. I hate to say it, but at my age my cronies are not as eager — or able! — to join me as they once were. If you wouldn’t mind, perhaps I’ll track you down through Arthur sometime and ask if you would like to come along. You can bring your girl, or perhaps you’re married?”
“Yes, yes, I am,” said Peter, thinking he’d have to work out this part later. “That sounds wonderful! Of course, I’d be thrilled.” Peter could not help himself. He mentioned that there was a new production of a French opera that he was eager to see.
Mrs. Beeche’s eyes widened. “You are? Now, that surprises me. One doesn’t usually find young people who have much interest in that kind of thing. It so happens that it’s one of my favorites. It’s a date. You and your bride will join me for the first night, if that suits you both. I’ll put a call in to Arthur’s office first thing in the morning, and you both look at your books, and we’ll try to arrange it. Oh, I am so pleased!”
“But, Mrs. Beeche, I’m sure that there are others, I mean, for a premiere, you must have friends —”
“Don’t give it a thought, my dear. My friends are quite familiar with my taste, and whenever I call to invite them to an evening like that, I find that they already have plans to be on another continent.”
“Well, then, thank you, thank you very much! I’ll look forward to it.”
“Oh, what fun!”
Otis Bell had risen and was saying a few words to each of the others before leaving the table. As he approached, Peter started to stand.
“No, no, don’t get up,” Bell said. “A pleasure, Peter, a pleasure.”
Peter stood anyway. They shook hands.
“Thank you, sir. It’s been an honor, sir.”
Bell tapped him on the arm. “If you find you’re down in DC, give us a holler.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”
Before she left, Athina Kakouilli asked Peter if he knew Greek. No, he said, neither modern nor ancient. That was a shame. She had an appointment for the second semester at a local university. Would he be interested in taking some lessons from her?
Jack Thorndale told him that in a few weeks he and others would be going after late-season pheasant in North Dakota and that he should consider coming along. “Of course,” Thorndale said, “you’ll want to bring your heavier gun.”
Lisa Eisler looked him over. “Well, Peter, I think maybe your soul can be saved. If you want to get involved somehow, call the office here.” She touched his arm and kissed him on the cheek.
Mrs. Beeche stood up. Bernard, who had already risen, helped her.
“Thank you, Seth,” she said. “I forgot to ask. How was the dollar today?”
“Quite strong again, Mrs. Beeche. It’s opened higher in Asia, too.”
“Oh, dear, and I’m short. Well, I’m not ready to fold my cards just yet. Now I must go find Arthur. Good night, Peter. I’ll be coming after you, and don’t think you can hide!”
“Oh no! I wouldn’t want to do that! Good night, Mrs. Beeche.”
They shook hands. Her palm was soft and creased.
“Oh, Seth! How is your mother?”
“She’s doing better, Mrs. Beeche.”
“I am glad. Please give her my love. I’ve been very bad and haven’t written to her.”
“She would like that, but please don’t go to any trouble. I’ll tell her that you asked after her.”
“Lovely woman. Thank you. Well, good night!”
“Good night!”
“Good night!”
Mrs. Beeche turned and slowly walked off. Her thin frame wavered, yet she nevertheless achieved a stately effect.
“She’s taking you to the opera?” Bernard said. “That should be fun.” He thought for a moment. “The first time she took me to the opera I was seven years old. Arthur misbehaved and had to be sent home after Act I. I got to stay, although ‘got to’ may not be the right way to put it. But something about Mrs. Beeche always made me want her to think well of me. That’s still true. She’s someone whose good opinion matters to you. You’ll be very lucky if you become her friend.”
Then he turned to Isabella. “Isabella,” he said, “I hope you don’t mind if Peter and I talk about business for a moment?”
“No, of course not.”
Bernard motioned for Peter to sit down and he took the chair on Peter’s right.
“Now, Peter,” Bernard said, “I ran into Mac McClernand a while back, and he was telling me about some project of his. I have to admit I wasn’t paying too much attention. But I recall that he mentioned your name. What has he got you doing?”
Peter’s entire body was trembling. So this was the end. All the good of the evening would come crashing down. Ah, well, it had been fun while it lasted. He gulped and tried to sound nonidiotic. “It’s this idea of Mac’s,” he said. “This cereal thing —”
Bernard looked surprised and interrupted him.
“You’ve been working on that?” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Really? How interesting,” Bernard said, furrowing his brow. “I thought it was Paul Fry’s shop. Paul Fry is quite a dum-dum, frankly. But McClernand?” He shook his head. “Well, how far along are you?”
What could Peter say? “Pretty far.”
“This is something that Arthur is quite interested in. Anybody who can figure out how to do it right will certainly be noticed and rewarded. I want to set up a presentation with Arthur. He won’t have an opening on his schedule for a month. I’ll send you the details.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Very good. I think that’s all I need to know for the moment. Yes, Peter, this could be a very interesting opportunity for you.” Bernard smiled broadly. “And now I think it’s about time you relieved Arthur of some cognac and one of his cigars.”
“Yes, sir,” said Peter.
“The cigars won’t actually kill you, I can say that for them,” Bernard said. “I, on the other hand, have a video conference in half an hour. What a wonderful world, isn’t it? It’ll be breakfast time for the clients. I’m going to have to change back into a suit. Maybe I should have a cup of coffee and a couple of Danishes on the table.” He chuckled ruefully. “Good night, Peter. It’s been a pleasure. I’ll be back to you.”
“Good night, Mr. Bernard. I’ve enjoyed it very much!”
They stood up again and shook hands. Bernard said good-bye to Isabella and moved off, and Peter sat. He found himself staring at Mars and Venus and trying to think through calmly what he had just heard. He could hardly believe his ears. Had Bernard really said that Arthur Beeche knew about and took an interest in the cereal project? That it would be a good opportunity? Yes, Bernard had said those things. So rather than a wretched, pointless suicide mission, the cereal project was a path to glory (potentially)? Peter didn’t believe it was possible. But could it be that Mac McClernand was one of those eccentric geniuses who gets put in the far corner of the lab and then comes up with the revolutionary compound and that, therefore, there was at least something to his insane idea? Add that to his triumph with his fellow diners, and Peter found himself almost overwhelmed by self-confidence, happiness, and vitality. It had all come together, more satisfyingly than he could have dreamt. And then — he wanted to hold off thinking about it, delaying the pleasure — he was going to see Holly shortly, and “something would happen”! Yes, the moon had foretold it, something would happen.
Peter was completely absorbed in all these thoughts so it was some time before he realized that his inner left thigh felt strange. He thought about it for a moment, and then recognized the sensation of a hand stroking him there. He knew that the hand was a female one, for even through his trousers he could feel the fineness of its digits. He looked down and to the left, and then his gaze traveled from a bare wrist to a bare forearm, around a bare elbow, up a bare upper arm, over a bare shoulder, over a thin strap, up a long neck, around an ear (hung with sapphires), along a jawline, then following the undulant contours of a chin and mouth and nose until he was looking into two huge, liquid, glittering, chocolatey eyes.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Isabella said in a breathy whisper.
“I . . . uh . . . I . . . that is . . . uh—”
“I’ll give you mine for free.” She moved her hand from Peter’s thigh, put her arm around his shoulders, and pulled him toward her. She began to whisper to him, and as she did so, the tip of her tongue tickled his ear. “Peter,” she said, rolling her r’s and lisping slightly, “let’s go somewhere and make love right now. There are so many rooms. We can find one where we will be alone. I’ve been going crazy all night waiting to get my hands on you and I can’t stand it any longer.”
Isabella had slipped the fingers of her free hand into the front of his shirt and was stroking one of his nipples through his undershirt. “If you don’t take me away now,” she said, “I’ll start tearing off your clothes right here.”
“Isabella,” Peter said, “you know how much I like you, and you are extremely attractive. But what about Charlotte?”
Isabella blew out her lips dismissively. “Charlotte. I love Charlotte! What does she have to do with it? How are we hurting her? I’m here with someone, but that won’t stop me. Why deny ourselves what we want?”
“Isabella, your argument is very convincing, and yes, I find you extremely attractive and I do really like you. I am incredibly flattered. But it’s complicated. Charlotte isn’t here, and I brought a friend, and I have to make sure she’s okay.”
Isabella pulled away from him and smiled conspiratorially. “Ah, I see. The friend is here. I understand.”
“No, Isabella, it’s not —”
Isabella furrowed her brow and pursed her lips delectably. “No, no. Of course not. It’s not anything. She is a friend.” She put both her hands on top of Peter’s. Then she picked up her evening bag and smiled at him, revealing teeth as even and white as tiles. “Oh, well, and it would have been so much fun.”
Isabella stood up and so did Peter. She rested one wrist on his shoulder and looked to her left and right.
“Let me have one kiss,” she whispered, then pulled Peter toward her. They kissed. Well, actually, Isabella, on second thought, maybe you do have a point . . .
“Good night, Peter.”
“Good night.”
Isabella gave his hand a squeeze. As she walked off, her progress was halted by a jam of people. While she waited for it to clear, Peter saw that her dress revealed all of her back; sharpness (her shoulder blades) contrasted with, or, rather, complemented softness (the curve of her waist), and her sleek, glossy black hair, tightly pinned behind her head, created an onyx oval that punctuated the whole structure. Now she was able to move on, but just before she did so she turned and smiled leeringly at Peter and gave him a little wave. He waved back.
There are times in life, all too rare, when one suddenly experiences such good fortune that one can almost fancy oneself a god. Not a top god, maybe — maybe the one who holds the portfolio for well-lit public areas rather than that for poetry or wisdom — but a god nevertheless. Taking mortal form, in the manner so beloved of the Olympians, one walks among members of humankind. This is fun. One stands apart from all the trials that man suffers, one carries none of his burdens, one occupies a realm where, indeed, death itself has no power, and, viewed from such a remove, man’s doings are quite satisfying to observe, since one knows that his wretchedness will be forever foreign to one. At the same time, one looks upon the mortals with great affection. One sees their basic goodness and courage, despite all their foibles. One views them with expansive benevolence.
It was in such a mood that, after his conversation with Isabella, Peter set off to obtain a drink and a cigar, and to find Holly. The guests were gathering in the Library and the Antelibrary, in the Blue Drawing Room, the Yellow Drawing Room and, grandest of all, the State Drawing Room. Grinning superiorly, Peter strolled toward them through the Sculpture Gallery, glancing at the marble nudes. A waiter appeared bearing a tray of glasses with brandy; Peter took one and had a gulp. The taste was delicious and the drink sent out little emissaries of warmth to his every nerve ending. Immediately thereafter, another servant proffered a box of cigars. Assuming a look of great concentration, Peter picked one, drew it under his nose, rolled it between his fingers next to his ear, and returned it to the box. He repeated this operation twice before he found a cigar that was acceptable to him. Of course, the cigars were all exactly the same as far as he could tell, but he enjoyed putting on this display, and it seemed to satisfy the expectation of the cigar bearer, who smiled broadly when Peter finally made his selection. He was a short, slight man with a dark olive complexion, and when he smiled, Peter wanted to embrace him. He wanted to reward him with untold riches for his hospitality (big test for mortals, how hospitable they are to gods in mortal guise). And that w
as before the man clipped the end of the cigar Peter had chosen and gave him a light. Peter drew in the smoke and let it billow in his mouth for a moment before expelling it. It tasted of the leaves’ entire history, green and gold and seasoned brown.
He entered the State Drawing Room. Huge mirrors in gilded frames hung on the walls. They alternated with paintings of earlier Arthur Beeches, shown with dogs or horses, or holding a book into which they had inserted an index finger, or resting their hand on a globe, or standing with all the members of their family and a dog or two. Peter looked at the people in the room: he was with them, but he was not of them; he was observing as if from afar; they little knew that he, Peter Russell, as he appeared, supped on ambrosia and could, if he wanted, turn any one of them into a tree. He wandered around and studied the gabbling clutches of men and women. With one hand in his pants pocket and the other holding the snifter and cigar, he swaggered. The brandy and cigar had settled him into an almost perfect equipoise of warmth, good cheer, and alertness.
How well he felt! Echoes of the meal and the wine chimed within him. He had made a great success. He had even enjoyed it. He was smoking by far the finest cigar that he had ever held. And the house was beautiful, astonishing. One’s eye met a sublime object everywhere one turned. Arthur was interested in the cereal thing! How amazing! What deliverance! Peter would take Holly with him to the opera in Mrs. Beeche’s box. Holly would love Mrs. Beeche, and Mrs. Beeche would love Holly. Then there had been Isabella, the thought of whom made him shiver; to be desired by her was absolute proof of Peter’s irresistible sexual magnetism, was it not? In all respects, what glory he had won for himself! And now, to the ultimate ascension: Holly.
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