The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  “There had been so many, it could only be a lesser one. To be honest, I don’t regret losing her, or losing the eighteen years with her that went down the drain. I only regret being separated from my son and daughter. But it’s just as well. What could I have done with them?” He moved in his chair restlessly, settled back and regarded Lisa with his half smile. “Had enough, young lady?”

  She ignored his question. “Matt, how do you get along in Venice?”

  He had determined to keep his tone light from this moment on. He hated people who perpetually whined and indulged in self-pity. If he regarded himself as all but anatomically dead, he felt that this should be his secret. Since he chose to remain on earth and walk among men, he felt a responsibility toward the community of men. He would wear some caul of human dignity. And so, these years, he had tried to do this. Only, too often, his attempt did not work very well. His wit remained, but it was corroded by cynicism and bitterness. His candor, one of his better traits, was frequently blunted by the evasiveness and uncertainty of noncommitment. His intellect and learning, once pleasant attributes, were occasionally warped by prejudices spawned by his sufferings. His lucidity, long-admired, was sometimes muddled by his inner confusion. His wry, self-deprecating asides, a diplomatic asset, were more and more poisoned by a will for self-destruction.

  Yet, he tried, even when it did not matter, and he determined to try now, when somehow it did matter. He had gone too far in revealing the piteous and complaining part of his martyrdom. He determined to show her that he was more. What had she asked? Yes. Matt, how do you get along in Venice?

  “Well,” he said with a cheerful inflection, “depends on what you mean. Do you mean financially? My father left a trust in my name. It’s more than adequate. No man should be without one. Or do you mean vocationally? In the beginning I tried to get myself restored to Government. Some gall, eh? Then I tried to obtain a position in the States, social service work, teaching, busboy, anything useful. No luck. Maybe they could see I was inept. An ex-diplomat isn’t much good at anything else. Then I traveled, destination unknown. Since settling here, I’ve tried my hand at writing. No go. Didn’t know enough words. Besides, Hemingway slept here first, in your very hotel, in fact. I thought of becoming a doge and starting a small war so I could make use of my old peace-negotiating skills. But no one around here feels like fighting, and me least of all. Lately, I’ve been spending my afternoons on a little island out in the basin, an outpost for Armenian fathers who took a fancy to me—it’s called San Lazzaro—if you were staying longer I’d insist you see it—and I’ve been studying Eastern languages there. Actually, an opportunity for a job with a shady import-export firm in Genoa has come up, and since their dealings are in the Near East, a few even in the Far East, a couple of usable languages would be an advantage. I don’t know if I’ll be ready before the job is filled. But no matter. At least I’ll know Arabic and Hebrew. So there you are, dear Lisa, that’s how I get along.”

  “I really meant—how you get along emotionally?”

  Everything, he thought, came down to Freudian patter, at last. He shrugged. “I hide. I brood. I hum college songs. I cherish my hobby—collecting grievances. I’ve mounted a beautiful collection. Also, when I feel daring—Casanova was a Venetian, you know—I collect inquisitive and pretty fashion designers with a penchant for older men.”

  She laughed, suddenly vivacious, and said, “I like the last. That sounds promising, although I apologize for being too inquisitive. It only means I’m interested in you.” She lifted her dress an inch higher above her knee. “I hope I qualify for your collection.”

  “You qualify—” he said, but before he could continue with the flirtatious talk there was the resounding interruption of hammering on the big bronze bell above the clock tower. Startled, he glanced up at the moving Moors, then squinted down at his wristwatch. “Unbelievable, Lisa, but I’ve kept you here three solid hours. If you want to get any shopping done—”

  “Shopping? Did I want to shop? I completely forgot about that.” Retrieving her purse, she said, “Frankly, it’s been more fun talking to you. I can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed myself more.” She uncrossed her knees and put them together primly, swinging around to face him squarely. “I thank you, sir. I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

  He refused to recognize any parting, and remained casually slumped, one arm hooked over the back of his café chair. “If you’re worried about time, it’s my most plentiful asset, Lisa. It’s something of which I have nothing else but. And all of it is yours, if you half meant what you said. I’d enjoy helping you shop, or taking you sightseeing, or doing whatever you like.”

  “You wouldn’t mind?” she asked anxiously.

  He signaled the waiter. “Just try to get away, and see what happens.”

  Leaving Florian’s, he tendered her his arm theatrically, and quickly, she linked her arm in his, and they strolled across the Piazza, zigzagging among the gobbling pigeons, the crouching amateur photographers, the running children spraying their kernels of corn over the square, the clusters of gawking tourists in shorts, slacks, cotton dresses, chorusing their superlatives in a Babel of tongues.

  They were never apart that day and evening. They window-shopped in the shadowy Merceria and on the massive Rialto Bridge. They explored quaint squares, lolled on unexpected tiny bridges, and studied a Madonna in a niche. They sat at the foot of one of the granite columns in the Piazzetta, sunning themselves and watching the aged ganzers draw gondolas to the quayside with their poles, and both of them were mesmerized by the silhouette of the Church of San Giorgio Maggiore etched against the soft blue sky across San Marco Basin.

  Late in the afternoon, they were back in the Piazza, drawn to the old woman behind her seed stand, who was still shaking her metal can filled with maize, and they bought two bags, and laughed and laughed while pigeons lighted on their hands and in their hair, pecking for their meal of corn. They found yellow straw chairs, behind yellow tables imprinted martini, at Quadri’s outdoor café, and they drank their cocktails and held hands as they listened to the romantic music played by the orchestra on the elevated platform nearby.

  Later, they strolled back toward the Rialto, and he led her down a small dark side street to where the Albergo Ristorante al Graspo da Ua stood. Inside, at their corner table, they had scampi, and then Valpolicella, that good red wine, and then tagliatelle serenissima and another wine, and then charcoal-broiled filetto di bue and more wine. Sometimes they talked, but mostly, they were silent, and either way, they felt very close.

  They had learned more of each other, and it had been personal and important. Brennan had spoken of his former wife, and of a brief unsatisfactory affair with a secretary so long ago, and of his infrequent sexual experiences with Italian women. Lisa, in turn, had recalled the boy she’d slept with in college, to find out what it was like, and once knowing, she’d decided she would wait to be married. She had spoken of going to New York, of the brash newspaperman who interviewed her for a feature story on fashion models, of dating him and sleeping with him for a short time because she had been lonely, but disliking him really, and vowing nevermore until she was married, or at least until she was deeply in love, truly in love, if such a thing ever happened to her.

  Somehow, before midnight, they again found themselves in Florian’s on the Piazzo San Marco, with the square almost deserted, or so it seemed, and the music sweet and low, and the dots of light making it all unreal and a fairyland.

  They had finished their second round of cognacs, and Brennan had been considering a third, when suddenly, he faced her, releasing her hand. “It’s late if you have to leave tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll see you back to the Gritti.”

  She stared at him a long time, unblinking, unmoving, and then she said, carefully so that the words would not slur, “Mr. Brennan, sir, tell me why you haven’t made a pass at me.”

  He hesitated. “I suppose I care for you too much to take a chance of spoiling it. I di
dn’t think you’d want to be bothered by a man almost twice your age. And I—I didn’t want another rejection.”

  She continued to stare at him. “How could you think I’d reject you?” She covered his hand with her own. “As for your age, my age, that’s for me to decide, Matt. What would you say if I were to tell you that I love you?”

  He met her intense gaze with momentary silence. Then he said, “I wouldn’t know what to say—except—perhaps—to tell you it made me happy, and—well—to tell you I feel exactly the same way.”

  She nodded, withdrew her hand, took up her purse, and looked at him again. “I don’t want to go back to the Gritti. I want to go to your hotel, Matt.” She paused. “Have I shocked you?”

  “You—you’ve made me feel the way I haven’t felt in years—young, and hopeful, and in love—in love, Lisa, and alive.”

  They walked, arms about each other’s waists, past the Campanile, past the columns and vaulted windows of the Doge’s Palace, over the small bridge, and into the Hotel Danieli. He took his key from the night concierge, and they ascended the red-carpeted steps to the first floor, turned into a narrow passageway, and went up a second staircase to his door.

  Neither of them had spoken a word until they were inside his bedroom. Then, breathless, she came into his arms, and as he held her, kissing her hair, her brow, her closed eyelids, he heard her whisper, “I love you.”

  That was the first day, and the first night of their oneness, and that was the beginning.

  Vividly remembering it, as he sat on his bed on this, the fourteenth day, he was reluctant to take leave of the happier time that had come before. He ground out the butt of his cigarette, absently drew a fresh one from his pack and lighted it, found it harsh before breakfast, but continued to puff steadily as his mind groped to bring back the wonder of the days with Lisa Collins that had followed their first day together. The days from the past two weeks that he was able to restore were more difficult to separate and relive than had been that first day. There were undated experiences, and isolated snatches of conversation, but for the most these ran together and became a revival of feelings and emotions.

  At first, there were the places of their shared pleasures, and as one day merged into another, Venice was new to him again. They were in the vast Great Council Chamber of the Doge’s Palace, the Palazzo Ducale, staring up at the largest painting in the world, Tintoretto’s Paradise, covering the back wall. They were in the noisy vegetable market of the Rialto, then in San Giacomo, the oldest church in Venice, translating the Latin inscription, “May the law of the merchants around the temple be fair, the weights just, the contracts honest.” They were on the cushions of an elegant gondola at night, gliding along the Grand Canal, as the gondolier’s song brought their lips together. They were at a table in the Hotel Danieli’s roof restaurant, at night, enjoying their cannelloni alla ligure, their piccata di vitello, their coppa Danieli dessert with its ice cream, fruit, and spun sugar, and they were lost in the enchantment of the twinkling crisscrossing of slow-motion lights on the lagoon below. They were Wandering, hand in hand, amid the rustic houses and green fields of Torcello, and spending leisurely hours in Brennan’s monastery office on San Lazzaro, and sunning in the sand before his cabana on the Excelsior Lido beach.

  In the two weeks past, he had entered into Lisa’s world, a world of youth and fashion, a world of precosity and enthusiasm, but mostly a world that hummed and sang with the promise of life ahead. Lisa’s world was a whirling kaleidoscope of orange nylon stretch pants and empire bodices and pleated pink skirts and sheer chartreuse peignoirs and plaid shirtwaist dresses, and knit boleros with purple jeans, and gingham shirts with white twill slacks, and dramatic capes and chinchilla jackets and camel’s-hair sport coats and brown tweed suits and beaded evening dresses and charm bracelets and alligator bags and alligator shoes. Lisa’s world was a pinwheel of knit pullovers with wispy bikini bottoms, and transparent nude-colored nylon bras and lace-trimmed half-slips and sapphire pendants and strands of pearls and custom-made hairpieces and carmine lipstick and seductive perfume. Lisa’s world was an animated Brueghel of bicycling and tennis and skiing and surfing and moonlight and jazz records and hamburgers with thick milk shakes and doughnuts and strawberry shortcake and sweet Alexanders and rum-with-anything and sit-ups and bending-and-touching-the-toes and running fast and laughing easily. Lisa’s world was a fresh-air heaven that banished tranquilizers and sleeping capsules and energy pills and psychologists and psychoanalysts and old cracked dreams, a heaven that admitted within its realm immediate wisdom and naivete and anything-is-possible and no-one-can-be-all-bad and spontaneity and High Hopes.

  It was a world of abundant todays and infinite tomorrows and so few pasts. It was a special twenty-two-year-old world. It was Lisa’s own world. As a stranger to it, Brennan had entered it briefly, been swept up by it briefly, almost believing that he could belong.

  It was pleasurable, but it was not easy, at least not for one from an older and devastated planet. Sometimes her exuberance, more often her newness to life, inhibited Brennan. To Lisa, he knew, events, people, usages of his planet, which he had considered modern and contemporary and had grown up with, were ancient or antique. To Lisa, he knew, the Second World War and the Korean action were as unreal as the Revolutionary War; propeller-driven aircraft and early jets were as ridiculous as Montgolfier’s balloons; F.D.R. and J.F.K. were as far away as Abe Lincoln; the use of ether by a surgeon’s aide was as primitive as the incantations of a witch doctor; step-ins were as funny as bloomers. And Elvis who? Presley? Who was he?

  Wanting to be young enough for her, he would guard his speech. Time and time again he would catch himself on the verge of making a reference from his own past that might emphasize that he was already grown when she was still in her infancy. He found himself omitting the proper names of those who had peopled his past, a President, a statesman, an actress, an athlete, so that these would not date him in her eyes. But not every allusion to his years could be avoided. Once, when he had to tell her of his children, he found it hard to admit that he had a son just graduated from prep school who would be enrolled in college in the fall. He worried that she would calculate their respective ages and realize that she was closer to his son’s than to his own, and after that she would have to admit that their relationship was quite absurd. But then, having told her about Ted, his son, he was pleased at how quickly and automatically, she allied herself with his own wise years and regarded his son as “a youngster.”

  She was, he decided, remarkable. Apparently, any sensitivity about the gap of years that separated them was largely his own. Apparently, if she was aware of their differences, she was ready to blame them not on their calendar ages but on their experiences with life, her own life having been relatively sheltered, superficial, lacking in conflict as opposed to his life which had been public, engaged, and savagely damaged.

  Yet, no matter. More often than not he could ignore the physical facts. In Lisa’s world he was alive and hopeful again. For the first time in years, he disliked the waste of sleep and looked forward to companionship with another. He resumed his exercises. He refurbished his wardrobe. He remembered his haircut. He used colognes. He tried to be as erect in posture and vigorous in movement as the young males who visited Venice. He wished that he were more attractive, and wondered what there was about his relic self that pleased her. He had not appraised the external appearance he presented to the world in years, but these days, recollecting fragments of a feature story about him that had been published in the English press two years ago, less, he became conscious of how he looked.

  His aspect was that of a benevolent but disenchanted hawk. His shock of dark hair was graying ever so slightly, and a forelock hung over the scowl lines pressed into his tan brow. His angular face had become gaunt, making his brown eyes more deep-set than they used to be, making his straight nose too prominent, making his chin line excessively sharp. Where once his visage had been that of the well-bred
gentleman in a shirt advertisement, it had recently acquired a tight thinness and seaminess that made it appear older than its years. Where once the face had been keen, questing, assured, it had been altered to look aloof, remote, sardonically amused. Once, he recalled, his clothes, bearing, physique had been neat, trim, firm. Of late, pre-Lisa, he had become casual, slouching, almost sloppy, and his walk had become lethargic and aimless. In every way, he had surrendered to hopelessness and had ceased trying. His mind, as well as his body, had become soft and flabby. And desperately, he wished that he had met Lisa, as she was now, ten years before, as he was then. Several times, sunning on a mat before their awninged cabana on the Lido beach, he watched her come out of the water, an Aphrodite rising from the Adriatic, and when she approached, her smooth, taut flesh dripping, he covered himself with a towel or turned on his stomach to try to hide the first gray hairs on his chest, the slight bulge of his belly, the wrinkles and veins of ill-usage and bad times. He rarely fooled her. Lisa startled him with her perception and the directness that grew from it. Once, after lunch on the beach and two drinks, she said with nice exasperation, “Matt, will you please stop trying to hold your stomach in? I love you the way you are. I don’t give a damn if you take a hundred pills or entered college the year I was born or if you’re only a little bit younger than my parents or if you can’t climb steps without panting or if you’re only allowed to play doubles. I love you just this way, no other way, and please, please don’t Freud us out of existence with any idiotic father-image nonsense. Now, come on, take me back to the Danieli. I want to show you how much I need you.”

  The nights were the best of their times. In his bed, the blanket thrown back, with only the light of the moon coming through the windows, lying there holding her, caressing her, observing her closed eyes, her parted lips, hearing her breathing against his shoulder, her incoherent murmurings, he would close his own eyes and his ears, and possess her, at last mindless, at last fully alive. In those delicious and wild minutes, he was as twenty-two as she was, or she was as old as he was, or they were of no age countable. At the height of those minutes, the memories of Zurich, of Rostov, of Madlock, of the Congressional investigators, of Stefani, of the children, of the photographers and newspapermen and pointing tourists, of deadness, were obliterated. Then no longer was he alien to humanity, but one who belonged and who had the capacity to give and receive pleasure, one who wanted to survive because he had found a reason for living, and if tonight was possible, then tomorrow could be a day of infinite possibility.