Rosa Bonomo worshipfully entrusted her hands to the woman who had studied under the great Aristede Maillol. Mona gently manipulated them, saying: “Strong. Capable. Sculptor’s hands, without a doubt.” She knew the child’s breath was quickening and that little tremors were traveling up her arms, and she knew also when to stop. “Maillol was such a funny old fellow, in spite of his genius. He detested plaster-casters because he thought they were all robbers. There was one full-size nude he worked on and worked on and added to until naturally it was too weak to be taken to the exhibit without shattering.”
“Yes, I know,” Rosa Bonomo said breathlessly. “I read about that in Davidson’s book. Have you read it, Miss Greer—Mona?”
“Davidson? No. I was never very interested in Jo. He was witty, but those busts of his—photography, little one. Not sculpture.” Her queenly smile of affection took the sting out of the judgment. But as a matter of fact she had read Jo Davidson’s book and had got the anecdote about Maillol out of it. It was as close as she had ever come to Maillol, but the child couldn’t be expected to understand that. What a pretty little thing she was, with firm little breasts—
“Little one,” she said, “are you really interested in my sculpture?”
“Of course, Mona!”
“Then let’s run away. I have a few pieces still in my place, five minutes from here. They haven’t been admired for ages. Let’s slip out and slip back; I’d love to have you see them.”
The child was overwhelmingly flattered and flustered. “Good heavens, Mona. What a thing to do. Your own party! And what would Jack think if he looked around for me?” But she giggled.
“Let’s go, little one,” Mona smiled, and they went. There were speculative looks cast at the woman and the girl threading their way, smiling, to the cloakroom, but no looks of surprise.
The doorman whistled up a taxi for them while they stood inside. They were exposed to the icy wind off the Lake for only a few seconds.
They sat close in the taxi, talking little.
Mona was not such a fool as to think the child was entering the she-wolf’s scented den as a wide-eyed innocent. Not nowadays. Nowadays the young men were wary of the benevolent interest of an older man. The pretty little girls nowadays kept their guard up against a woman’s friendship that was in any way ambiguous. Little Miss Muffet, beside her in the taxi, knew quite well that there was a distinct possibility and was running a calculated risk. One’s fame and one’s charm were weighed against the chance that Little Miss Muffet might find herself pursued around a table by a female Harpo Marx, or having to say cutting things in order to get away intact. Of one thing Little Miss Muffet was sure: there might be an undignified scene, but of course there was no possibility at all that she would succumb. They were all very sure of that, Mona mused, smiling.
Mona let them in with a key. “No maid,” she said, smiling. “The complications an artist undergoes with servants are endless. Either they are sternly disapproving or they become emotionally involved.”
That, little one, is to let you know that I know. It’s not strong enough to send you screaming from the house, nor is it so weak that you can honestly say later that you didn’t know.
“I see,” Rosa Bonomo said after a pause. “What a nice place you have!”
“Thank you. Drop your coat and have a drink. This is Green Chartreuse, which is bad for the figure and much too strong. You’d better have a sherry.”
“Please,” the girl said. Mona poured the sherry for the girl and a pony of the fiery green syrup for herself.
They raised glasses solemnly, and Rosa Bonomo cried, startled: “Why, it’s the exact color of your eyes! How extraordinary!”
“Little one,” Mona confided, “that’s the only reason why I drink the bloody stuff.” They laughed and drank, and Mona said: “Come and see my relics.”
They were dotted about the apartment. There were seven pieces, all table-size, all carved stone. Three were abstractions, three were female nudes in the fluid Rodin manner and one was a group of two nude women, ambiguously entwined.
Rosa Bonomo took it all very seriously, studying the pieces from all angles and cocking her head much but saying little. Finally: “Technically they’re perfect, Mona. And you know what a lot that means nowadays. You didn’t try to get away with anything. I like them. They’re very serious, first-rate work. And your versatility is amazing. The technique of each piece might belong to a different sculptor.”
Mona suppressed a start. The child knew what she was talking about. A different sculptor had done each piece—a thing one could almost forget fifteen years later and an ocean away from Paris.
“Thank you,” she said. “Simply and humbly, thank you. I do value your criticism.”
The girl flushed with pleasure, and then looked alarmed. Mona had dropped into a chair, her face drawn. “What’s the matter?” she asked.
“An old football injury,” Mona said, smiling through the mask of pain. “When I scored the winning run against the Carlyle Indians for Harvard in ’03. You youngsters can’t take it any more. We never heard of shoulder-guards or helmets in those days.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Mona,” the girl cried crossly. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Have a drink with me and help me to bed. It’s migraine. I wouldn’t wish it on my publisher. Not even on my agent.”
Rosa Bonomo looked undecided and poured sherry and chartreuse at the cellarette. She sipped her drink nervously as Mona gulped half of hers. “Better,” said Mona. “Thank you.” There was another spasm of pain across her face and the suspended liqueur glass twitched and poured the rest of the chartreuse on her right breast.
“Messy stuff,” Mona said, lying back against the chair with her eyes closed and a half smile on her lips.
“Let me,” the girl said. She dabbed at the stain with a dinky handkerchief from her evening bag. It was not quite a caress.
“You’re being very sweet, little one,” Mona said. “Get me to bed, please.” She put her arm around the child and felt the quicker breathing. The Little Miss Muffets were all so sure they hadn’t an ounce of it in them; they were all so surprised to find themselves responding… but you must never drive them to an irrevocable act until there’s no retreat.
In the bedroom Mona sat at her vanity table and Rosa Bonomo, without words, began to unbutton her dress at the back while she leisurely removed necklace, small watch and dinner ring.
“Does it last long? The migraine?” Rosa Bonomo asked, strainedly.
Mona stepped out of her dress and sleeked her black satin slip down over her belly and thighs, slowly. “Sometimes a masseuse helps me,” she said. “I’ll be all right. You get back to the party, little one.” She drew the slip over her head and stood in bra and garter belt and stockings, shining black satin, creamy skin and the sheer caress of nylon.
She went to the bed and lay face down on the coverlet. It was better not to look at Little Miss Muffet now while she was weighing her calculated risk, troubled by the startling new thing she felt, able almost to believe that everything was quite all right, thinking that Mona Greer was the most wonderful person she had ever met—
“I could help you,” the girl said in a strained, dry voice.
Very naturally, Mona told her: “That would be very sweet of you, little one. The back of my neck, kneading, not too hard…ah, that’s very sweet… you have such clever hands, little one… it’s nice, isn’t it? Awfully nice… you’ve never done this before, have you? Are you shy?”
“A little,” the girl said almost in a whisper. Her caressing hands slid helplessly over the creamy shoulders.
“I’ll turn the light down, little one.” There was the bedside cord that turned off the dressing-table lamps.
In the warm darkness Mona said, smiling secretly: “That’s nicer, isn’t it darling? Ah, you’re very sweet …” She tur
ned over languidly. “Don’t stop, darling…ah, isn’t this nice? You aren’t shy any more, are you?”
“No,” the girl whispered in the dark. “No, no, no!”
“Let me, darling,” Mona said. Her hand climbed Rosa Bonomo’s arm like a serpent and felt it stiffen in fright and disgust for a split-second, and then the child was on the bed in her arms. Undressing her was an exciting game in which she always resisted and always yielded as Mona’s warm hands slid slowly over her firm young curves…
With a hoarse cry, it ended for Rosa Bonomo. She lay like one dead for minutes and then began to sob slowly and without hope.
“Why darling, what’s the matter?” asked Mona brightly, grinning like a she-wolf in the dark.
The child sat up on the bed, sobbing: “My God, what am I going to do? What am I going to do?”
“Darling,” yawned Mona, deliciously tired and relaxed, “you’re going to wash up, put on your little things and leave. You were perfectly delightful, but now I’m so-o-o-o sleepy.”
“You dirty old bitch!” Rosa Bonomo screamed.
“Am I, now? Shall I tell you exactly what you are, little one? And not in medical language either?” She told her, spitting out the blunt harsh, anglo-saxon words.
“I’ll go to the police,” wept the girl.
“Yes, darling. You do that. Tell them all about us. Draw them diagrams if you like, clearly labeled. But first will you clear out of here? I’m leaving for San Francisco in the morning and I’m sle-e-e-epy.” She twisted luxuriously on the bed.
The child was struggling into her clothes in the dark, afraid or ashamed to ask for a light. Mona heard her stump through the apartment and slam the door.
What a lovely going-away present she had been, Mona thought drowsily. And what nice little girls might be waiting for her in San Francisco. And perhaps even on the train one might find…
Chapter VII
SNOW
The stationmaster’s office was a cool retreat from the scurrying, crowded confusion of the great vaulted concourse. Mr. Bemis looked out over the arrivals and departures in his charge for a moment before he turned again to the teletyped dispatch on his desk.
It was a weather advisory from the Western Division, which expected snow in the Rockies—possibly a hell of a lot of snow. There was no indication as to what he was supposed to do about it. Western Division was simply covering itself for the record.
Mr. Bemis watched the telautograph pencil jog out a note: GOLDEN GATE ZPRESS DEPRTURE FIVE MINS ON SKED. DELAY AWAIT DEVELOPMNTS WEATHER PICTURE? MORRIS.
And that was Mr. Morris, the dispatcher, simply covering himself for the record.
Mr. Bemis tapped his teeth with a pencil, grabbed his phone and called up the line to Denver. His opposite number in the Union Station there said to him irritably: “How should I know, Bemis? We’re completely overcast here, we have about half an inch of powdery snow so far and no sign of a let-up. All our plows are in working order and we’ve got the crews if we have to use them. That’s all I know.”
Bemis thanked him and hung up. “Hell,” he said at last. “This ain’t a God-damned airline.” He took the telautograph pencil and scribbled: THE GOLDEN GATE EXPRESS WILL LEAVE ON SCHEDULE.
And leaned back a little breathlessly, wondering if it would arrive on schedule.
Chapter VIII
LUNCHEON
Boyce settled back as the train glided smoothly out of the station. His head was aching a little from last night. And his wife had not even got out of bed to make him breakfast.
Covertly he glanced at the blonde slim girl who shared his seat. She was cloth-coated and bent a cameo-like profile over the Chicago Sun-Times editorial page. And she was frowning. I suppose, Boyce thought, I should offer her the seat by the window.
He did.
The girl said suspiciously: “No thank you.”
That was that for ten minutes.
Chuffing over the dreary west side he opened his own copy of the Sun-Times and buried himself in the misdeeds of the Republican-dominated Illinois legislature. Abruptly the girl said: “Are you from Chicago?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Are you doing anything about that sort of thing?” She pointed to the exposé article in the newspaper.
“Well, there isn’t much one person can—”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Let me tell you how the average person can do something about it. Who’s the captain of your precinct?”
“Uh—I don’t know.”
“You’re a Democrat, aren’t you?” she demanded. That was because he had been reading the Sun-Times rather than the Tribune. Actually he wasn’t so sure he was a Democrat.
“I suppose I am.”
She took out a notebook. “Would you mind giving me your address?” Weakly, he did. She jotted and muttered: “That’s Mr. McGavney’s territory. Lived there long?”
“Ah—twelve years.”
“Disgraceful!” she sputtered. “Mr. McGavney should be well acquainted with you by now and you with him. Somebody’s going to hear about this, I promise you. These older men—they get lax.”
It was going too far! “Look,” he insisted, “don’t you go getting anybody in trouble on my account! Maybe I’m not a Democrat and maybe Mr. McGavney was perfectly right to stay away from me. Just please don’t denounce him to anybody and say it’s because of me.”
She said implacably: “There must be discipline.”
“I refuse to let you use my name in this thing. That’s definite.”
She said: “Very well. I’ll use it for background only.” She snapped her notebook shut and put it away. “Now,” she went on, “you were asking what part the average person can take in politics.”
The hell he was! Was he going to be stuck with this woman for two thousand miles?
“I, for instance, am fortunate enough to have a small income. I’m able to devote my full time to politics on the local level—the unglamorous local level. You can’t be a prima donna down where I work; it’s doorbell-ringing, handbill writing, patiently getting to know the people on your beat and persuading those who have to be persuaded, reminding the ones who get lazy about registration and voting. It’s begging, too—a dollar here and a dollar there. We’re the poor party, always have been. Now, you’re obviously a professional man—”
“Assistant buyer. Floor coverings,” he said.
“Yes, a professional or business man with a full day and many contacts. Have you thought of forming a Democratic caucus in your floor-coverings department?”
His eyes bulged at the thought. He would last maybe fifteen minutes after he was detected forming a Democratic caucus in his department. Just as long as it took to compute his severance pay. The same would go for anybody caught organizing a Republican caucus, or doing anything except what conduced to bigger and better sales of floor coverings. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t be practicable,” he said.
She wagged her head pityingly. “A victim of the climate of fear that has engulfed our country,” she said. “You’re a citizen of the world’s greatest democracy and you’re afraid to speak up in its behalf.”
“I am not,” he said, quite annoyed. “I simply think there’s a time and place for politics. The time is not my boss’ time and the place is not my boss’ store.”
A sleek, elderly porpoise-like dining car attendant came in from the vestibule and announced: “First call for luncheon, ladies and gentlemen. First call.”
Thank God, thought Boyce. He got up and said: “I didn’t have much breakfast getting away. I think I’ll go to the diner.” He realized with further annoyance that this young woman was somehow causing him to eat earlier than he cared to, to tell a lie about it, and to feel guilty all at the same time.
“I believe I’ll freshen up and then have lunch myself,” she said.
&nbs
p; * * * *
Mr. Cutler stood swaying, balanced on the balls of his feet, in the dining car vestibule. His responsibility was heady in him. Seniority at last had got him on a streamliner; only talent would keep him there. Anxiously he surveyed the dining car and noted that Table Seven, four seats, was about to be vacated by a couple and their half-grown children. And the surging mob behind him, growling for lunch, contained no parties of four.
The rulebook said simply: Seat like with like. Seat soldiers with soldiers, civilians with civilians. Negroes with Negroes, whites with whites. Women with women and men with men as far as possible. That was the out.
He turned and studied the waiting crowd in the vestibule, avoiding eyes and lifted fingers, and slowly composed his group for Table Seven.
A note of elegance. He beckoned a haughty, lovely, green-eyed, mink-coated, orchid-adorned woman of the world to him and admired her as she came. “Seat you in a moment, Miss,” he said confidentially.
Now another lady. Not one who would challenge the first lady with a rival elegance, but somebody who would set it off. He beckoned a woman of perhaps thirty-two, wearing a good cloth coat over a good, slightly mannish grey suit. They’d have lots to talk about. “Seat you in a moment, Miss.”
The young man with the brooding, intelligent look forced himself on Mr. Cutler. Well-dressed, but with something of the Bohemian about him—a writer or a newspaperman, perhaps. Mr. Cutler beckoned. “Seat you in a moment, sir.”
The last choice was inevitable. The smallish fellow with the glasses who looked a little like Mr. Truman. He would be the indispensable, the Audience to the other three. Mr. Cutler beckoned. “Seat you in a moment, sir.”
His timing was perfect. As the quartet was completed, the family at Table Seven rose and blundered down the aisle. “This way, please,” said Mr. Cutler to his work of art, and seated them.
Back at his vantage-point in the vestibule he smiled for a moment at his arrangement. That was the psychology of it. They were calmly unfolding napkins, saying a tentative word or two, no hostility, no snooting of the cloth coat or envious glaring at the mink. Well, they were set for the trip, thank goodness. He would be worthy of the Golden Gate Express, Mr. Cutler vowed, or go down trying.
The 34th Golden Age of Science Fiction: C.M. Kornbluth Page 66