Eastman Was Here

by Alex Gilvarry

  Outside his room he found Nestor, his spy, and explained that Nestor was to keep watch on Channing’s room to see if she’s still there. “If yes, notify me as soon as she leaves.”

  Eastman finally settled on an outfit, the brown shirt and khaki pants with brown leather shoes. The room boy came back soon and told him the lights were off and she wasn’t there. Eastman didn’t want to get there too early and seem overly eager, so he took one of his short walks, up to the American Embassy and then down to the basilica. Back to Lam Son Square and on to the Caravelle. He entered the hotel, which was air-conditioned and comfortable, and made his way up to the Jerome and Juliette.

  There was no sign of Channing yet, but the bar was reasonably full of newsmen.

  He found an empty table and ordered a drink to calm his nerves. Alone, he thought back to his letter to Penny. When he was away from home, abroad, he mainly thought of Penny when they were traveling together, which they used to do a lot before the boys were born. A few years into the marriage the traveling seemed to stop, and they took their respective trips separately—Penny’s psychology conferences, his literary festivals, television appearances in California, book events. They started this routine before Penny was pregnant with Lee, and then once the boys came around one of them tended to stay behind and their trips together ended. In fact, they hadn’t traveled together much in the last few years. That must have been his fault. He looked forward to seeing Meredith when he went away for a weekend. Spending time with his mistress was more exciting than spending time with his wife, simply for the novelty of it. What Meredith had over Penny was the fact that she was married to someone else. He wouldn’t see her for months, sometimes a year or more—especially when Penny was pregnant. Meredith understood and Eastman didn’t have to make excuses. A year would go by and then they would rendezvous somewhere they had never been. It was like stepping out of his life. He no longer wished Penny could be with him wherever he was—London, Berlin, Montenegro—he only felt regret when Meredith couldn’t make it. And if his mistress was detained by her marital duties to her husband, David Lazlo (lest we forget), then he would venture alone and enjoy the little bit of freedom he had to do whatever he pleased. To act like a buffoon, to ogle young women, to make advances, to drink and smoke and live like the young literary king he still thought he was.

  Did Penny know about Meredith? She had reason to believe that Eastman had a mistress. This came up rather recently, when Eastman brought Penny to a Black and White gala at the Met. It was a publishing event, which meant they would have to interact with David and Meredith Lazlo. He knew once his mistress and Penny were in the same room that he would be found out. Women always knew, not by confession, but by the actions of their husbands. The tells, the strange behavior, the pressure under fire, the need for improvisation, the quick thinking on one’s feet, the backstories. He was guilty as soon as he saw Meredith across the room while he was holding Penny’s hand. “Who is that woman?” Penny had asked right away. “Which? Who? What woman? Be more specific, there are a lot of them here.” “You know the one. Standing with your publisher. Introduce me.” “Oh, that woman! Of course! That’s David’s wife. What’s her name . . . ? Meredith, I think. Yes, Meredith.” “And you know her from where?” “Through David, of course.” “You’re using the phrase ‘of course’ a lot, as if you’re having multiple revelations because your memory has failed you so often. But your memory never fails you. But of course I shouldn’t know her because I’m only meeting these people for the first time. Now introduce me to her and we’ll discuss who she is after you do that properly.” And like that she had him pegged. His face had gone through iterations of embarrassment—pink, orange, red, purple. He was able to get it under control once they made their way around to Lazlo and Meredith. Penny was civil but unfriendly. In the limo home he scolded her for embarrassing him in front of his publisher. It was a defensive tactic, to throw her off his scent. “If there was one couple in the room I needed you to be nice to, Penny. If there was one couple. It was the Lazlos.”

  “You have some explaining to do,” she said.

  “I have some explaining to do? Oh, I think it’s the opposite.”

  “When were you last inside that woman?”

  “Oh wow. Wow. Meredith Lazlo? My publisher’s wife. My employer’s wife. When was I inside of her? You’re nuts. You know that?”

  “That wasn’t the question. I already know you were inside her. When were you last inside her?”

  He was nonplussed. He needed something. Something quick, fast, appropriate. He needed the best lie he could think of. This affair he would take to his grave. He wouldn’t allow it to ruin his life because, after all, it wasn’t as important as his marriage. Then he did it why? “Okay, I slept with her in the fifties. When I was with Barbara. She was an editor working for my first publisher and we had a little fling. It was so many years ago so I didn’t think it important to tell you. As you can see, it’s also embarrassing, because at that time she was Meredith Chase. Now she happens to be Meredith Lazlo, married to my publisher. It makes me nervous to be around her because I’m unsure whether Lazlo knows that I have slept with her and he’s just being the adult about it, or if he doesn’t know and I have a secret I’m keeping from him. I just want the whole thing out in the open already! What am I supposed to do? Yes, I’ve been inside his wife. A few times, a long time ago. This was before we even met, Penny. People as old as me come with histories. I’m a decade older than you, which means a decade more active. Sexually. I’m sure we’ve been to parties with dicks you’ve had in your mouth! Only I’m not curious enough to inquire. Why would I do that to you? The fact is there were several women there tonight who I’ve had relations with in the past. I was promiscuous in publishing circles when I was younger—fame came early to me and I dealt with it badly. I see that now. It’s the reason my marriage to Barbara failed.”

  It wasn’t a great job and Penny didn’t believe everything. He was playing the victim in all of this, a victim of circumstance. She didn’t forgive him or excuse her behavior at the gala. She simply turned to look out the window at the buildings along the East River as they rolled down the FDR Drive toward home in Brooklyn. It didn’t come up again. Either she didn’t believe an affair was going on currently or she did and didn’t care to press him.

  Perhaps she was looking for a way out even back then? Or was this another strike against his character, being tallied in her mind for that inevitable day when she would leave?

  • • •

  Ungrateful evenings with his wife. These were not the memories he wanted to be thinking while he was waiting for Channing at the Jerome and Juliette. How could he help himself? He had heard that only a small percentage of animals were monogamous, which is perhaps why he kept a mistress. He needed more than the average man to keep himself sane, and he didn’t trust himself in monogamy. Perhaps he would have sabotaged the relationship himself had Meredith not been in the picture.

  The bar was filling up by the minute. He recognized some of the newsmen from television.

  Channing entered through the double doors. She saw him right away and smiled, but she was stopped by someone near the bar and forced to say hello. He could tell from the way she kept glancing over to him that she didn’t want to keep him waiting. She ended the conversation before it began and hurried to Eastman’s table.

  He got up and pulled out her chair for her. She gave him a surprised look; the formal gesture had made her feel awkward. Perhaps she was reconsidering their meeting. He should have just sat in his place and waited.

  They ordered drinks. The waiter brought them quickly, with a bowl of cocktail nuts.

  “Thank you for meeting me,” he said. He could feel that there were many eyes on their table. A stringer at the bar who was, perhaps, attracted to her.

  “Do you know what the others refer to you as?” she asked.

  “They don’t refer to me b
y my name?”

  “I mean before you arrived. What they call you.”

  “An asshole?”

  She shook her head no.

  “Scumbag?”

  “No.”

  “Male chauvinist pig,” he said.

  She laughed. “That has been said about you, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it has. Many times over. Each of these things I’ve been called before and not just in private. So what is it they call me?”

  “The celebrity.”

  “Because I’m on television.”

  “Because you’re a famous writer. And yes, a famous writer who appears on television.”

  “You want to hear a confession apropos of celebrity? Many in my position would say to you that they didn’t plan it. They didn’t ask for it. All of this just happened. But I have the hindsight of almost twenty-five years in this business. Not the news, but in literature. And I did ask for all this success. I made it happen because that’s what I wanted and I wouldn’t settle unless I was considered one of the best writers in America. I know that sounds brash, egotistical, competitive, narcissistic, even pompous. But to be called any name you have to be somebody first. I needed to be a little of all of those things. If you have ideas that are controversial people remember them.”

  “I just thought I’d let you know. Is it nice for everyone to know who you are when you walk into a room?”

  “A room like this, no one is batting an eye. It doesn’t matter. Here I’m a tourist. I feel like a tourist. That’s why I want to talk to you. You got my note.”

  “I did. I considered it.” She lit a cigarette and made him wait. “I’m afraid the answer is no.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “I don’t mind talking to you. I just don’t want to be a character in your book.”

  “Have I said something wrong?”

  “No, absolutely not. I’m flattered, I am. But I simply don’t have the time to be someone’s subject. I have too many stories of my own, and who else is going to write them?”

  Eastman didn’t handle rejection well, and it is at this point that he might have gone into one of his special accents to offset the balance of power in the conversation. But he was okay with Channing’s answer. She let him down nicely. And maybe, he thought, if he spent a little more time with her he could convince her otherwise.

  “I accept,” he said. “No harm done. I’ll find something. I’m perfectly happy just to be friends. Colleagues, rather,” he corrected himself.

  “I’m working on something now that’s a little delicate,” she said. “I’m grateful that you understand.” He was curious but decided not to press her.

  “How are you?” he said. “Considering what happened last night in the square. I saw everything from my terrace.”

  “Did you see the shooting?” she asked.

  “Yes. The square was empty and I saw the boy first. I thought he was cutting curfew, I suppose. He seemed normal. Walking maybe a hundred yards away from the two guards in the jeep. He might have gone on about his business had they not called him over. But they called him over. I thought, just leave the kid alone. I turned away and when I looked back he had a pistol drawn on them. He killed them while they fumbled for their rifles. Then he fled.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “More guards came out of the Opera House and fired till he was down. It was incredible. I mean, I have never seen anything like it unfold before my eyes. Then I see you. You’re running across the square.”

  “I didn’t see what happened,” she said. “I only heard the shots and I got my camera and went out.”

  “He was there to kill them.”

  “Sure.”

  “Had he kept walking.”

  “He knew they would have come over. It was past curfew. Any Vietnamese knows to avoid crossing in front of the National Assembly.”

  “How often does this happen around here?”

  “More often than not. I wouldn’t say that your life is in any more danger than it was the day before yesterday.”

  “Do you know anything about an investigation? Who was the boy? The assassin. Where did he come from? Did he have a name?”

  “I haven’t gotten ahold of it yet.”

  “Are you pursuing this?”

  “No.”

  “What about the photos you took?”

  “There weren’t any Americans involved. Therefore it’s not deemed American news.”

  “It could have a greater meaning. Would you mind if I took a crack at it? Maybe I could see your photos, too. I have some special privileges and might be able to get information. You see, I’m here because the Herald wants my impressions of what it’s like on the ground. At the same time, I don’t want to scoop you.”

  “You saw what you saw, I can’t tell you not to.”

  “If you come across any names, I’d be grateful. And again, if I can see those photos.”

  She was being generous with her time and expertise, but he had to be careful not to ask for too much. He had already exhausted the favor before the relationship had even begun. It wasn’t smart to send that note about wanting to place her in a story. He was definitely out of practice. He should have gotten to know her, to talk first, find out what she knew, cultivate the relationship, not ask up front, tell her that he wanted her to be the story. Even he would have said no. Reporters weren’t in it to become the news. It was the mistake of a novice, and hopefully Channing didn’t overthink it too much. He liked talking to her and wanted the evening to continue. She had a way about her, how she did things, like tapping into the ashtray. Her face was long and gaunt and she was a lot younger than her appearance let on. Her hair was shoulder length, silver and gray and black. Her figure could be described as lanky. She was tall, however. Taller than him. He placed her in her midthirties. He watched her light another cigarette, a habit he had given up when he was about her age.

  “May I have one of those?” he asked.

  She slid the pack of Marlboros over to him. It had been many years and he had forgotten how to hold one. He felt awkward when he lit up. He coughed an old man’s cough, which he could only suppress with a sip of beer. He put the cigarette out quickly.

  “You don’t smoke.”

  “I gave it up.” Once he felt composed, he said, “Where are you from, Channing?”

  “I’m from the Bay Area.”

  “I lived in California briefly. In late fifty-nine. I wrote screenplays for MGM. One was an adaptation of a book I wrote, which was rewritten by different hacks until it became unrecognizable. I wrote one gangster picture called To High Heaven. Damn good. Never made. But that was in LA a lifetime ago.”

  “I’ve never even been to LA, believe it or not. I moved east for college and ended up in New York.”

  “I’m not surprised. I grew up in New York and never went anywhere until college. I have no idea what the rest of the state contains. Albany, Binghamton, Rochester—these are places I’ve never seen. I have no idea what they’re like.”

  “Wheeler is from upstate New York.”

  “Let me ask you,” said Eastman. “What’s the story with Wheeler? He seems off his rocker a little. Nice guy, don’t get me wrong.”

  His inquiry was loaded; he specifically wanted to know if Channing and Wheeler were together.

  “He’s a good reporter when he’s sober. Unfortunately that’s become a rare occasion.”

  “He strikes me as somebody who has had a psychological break.”

  “None that I know of.”

  “Do you think he should be taking something?”

  “A bath,” she said and they both laughed.

  They stayed much later than he wanted to. It was past curfew when they realized that they were drunk. He had been having a good time talking with her and she was helpful when it came to a
nswering questions about Saigon. He had wondered where he should get his translator to take him and where he could get a sense of how the Saigonese were feeling about their future. He had quite a week ahead of him. There were places, sections of the city that he wanted to see for himself. He thought he would follow through and see the things that Channing recommended, this way he would have something to thank her for when he saw her next.

  Together they decided to leave the Jerome and Juliette and walk back across the square past curfew. They waited inside the lobby of the Caravelle until they thought there were fewer ARVN patrolling. He felt bigger and more courageous with all the beer he had drunk and so he went through the double doors first and Channing trailed behind him. Confident enough, he took her hand instinctually, and when she didn’t pull away he sped up his pace. They crossed in front of the old Opera House and the many ARVN guards out in front just watched them and paid them no mind. Being white, even here, got you certain privileges. They hurried and made it to the steps of the Continental when the lobby boy opened the wood doors. It wasn’t until they were inside the hotel that Channing let go of his hand. They rode the elevator together. Inside, he pressed his floor and said to her, “I’ll walk you to your room.”

  “It’s not necessary,” she said.