The Small Rain
Page 25
But Pete wasn’t at the Purple Pigeon. The barkeeper recognized her as she came in, a little ahead of Mr. LeStrade, and called to her. “Pete was here, looking for you a while ago, but he’s gone on.”
“Oh. Thanks,” she said, and turned back to Mr. LeStrade.
“Well,” he said, “now what are you going to do?”
“I guess I’ll go to his hotel.”
“Where is it?”
“Forty-eighth Street.”
“I’ll take you there.”
“Oh, please don’t bother. It’s just down the street. I can walk there perfectly easily. I’m so wet it doesn’t matter if I get any wetter. Besides, I never catch cold.”
“You come along with me,” Mr. LeStrade said, and she had to follow him.
She felt trapped. It was really very singular behavior, she thought, for a star, to take a taxi and conduct a strange, drenched young woman about town on a search for a young man who had stolen the notices from him in his latest play.
The taxi pulled up in front of Pete’s hotel, and she hurried into the lobby, making for the house phone. “Mr. Burns’ room, please, 70,” she said.
No answer came from Pete’s room, and she had to hang up and go to the desk. “Did Mr. Burns leave any message for me?” she asked the night clerk, but he shook his head.
“Well?” Mr. LeStrade asked her.
“I don’t know. There’re a couple more night clubs I can try. You’ve been awfully kind to help me. Thank you ever so much.”
But he wasn’t going to leave her in the lobby of Pete’s hotel. “Perhaps he’s gone to your home?” he suggested.
“No. There wouldn’t be anyone to let him in. Aunt Manya’s in Boston with her play, and Father’s off on a lecture tour.”
“You’re all alone there at night? No servants?”
“Not till noon. And there’s no point in Dunyasha’s staying late when Aunt Manya’s not there to get supper for, because I’d expected to go out with Pete.”
“Well, you’d better come to my hotel with me and have a drink to warm you up. You’re shivering.”
“Oh, no, thank you very much. I’m all right. Truly.”
“You need a drink. Come along,” he said, taking her by the arm.
The taxi was still waiting for them when they left Pete’s hotel. She knew that Mr. LeStrade had rooms in several hotels so that there would be no trouble between any of his five ex-wives, and she wondered where they would go. Fortunately, the hotel he named was quite close, and they didn’t have a long taxi ride. The elevator in the hotel was like the lobby, all gilt and mirrors, and they went up and up. The suite he took her to was evidently one of his least personal apartments. There was nothing about it to mark it as belonging to anyone. Not a picture. Not a book. It was like a hotel room before the luggage of the new occupant has been brought in. But both the twin beds in the bedroom were turned down for the night, and a pair of black silk pajamas was laid out on one. Mr. LeStrade called downstairs for a bottle of whisky, explaining that his wife (though he didn’t say which one) was in Hollywood, while Katherine went to the window and looked down on the wet lights of the city below, which shone and quivered like reflections in a lake.
All of a sudden she felt his arm about her. “Perhaps you don’t realize it, but I’ve been watching you every evening when you’ve come back to meet your young man.”
She knew this was not true. In the first place, she was not Mr. LeStrade’s type. In the second place, he was so busy with his wife-of-the-evening and the autograph hunters who had managed to get backstage or were waiting out in the alley that he had no time for her. So she said nothing.
But he did not seem to expect an answer. “You have a very intelligent, sensitive, lovely little face. I think you must have suffered, in spite of being so young. How old are you? No, don’t tell me. You could be anywhere between fifteen and twenty-eight, and I don’t want to know where in the procession of years you come. So you don’t want to be an actress, and that incredible young actor Peter Burns is only a friend to you. I am glad of that, at any rate; you are far too good for him. So. I look at that little face and those eyes and all that wet dark hair and those eyelashes wet from rain as though from tears, and I think, if this little thing is not an actress, she must be an artist of some kind. Do you paint? Do you sing?”
“I play the piano.”
“Do you play it well?”
“Yes,” she said, for even to a famous actor like Mr. LeStrade she could not minimize her ability. She wished he would take his arm away.
“Let me see your hands,” he said. She held them out. Turning her away from the dark mirror of the window, he held her hands under a lamp. “Yes,” he said. “Those are a pianist’s hands. They have the breadth and the strength. Someday you must play for me. I have a very fine Steinway.”
A waiter came up with a tray on which were two glasses with ice, soda water, and a bottle of Scotch. Mr. LeStrade fixed her a very stiff drink, which she swallowed quickly because she felt chilled to the marrow, and her marrow, if indeed she had any by this time, was frozen solid. All this in spite of the heat that was coming up through the radiator pipes. But the whisky warmed her quickly, burning its way cleanly down her throat.
Mr. LeStrade held her face to his and tried to kiss her; turning aside, she pressed her mouth against the expensive, dark wool of his coat, so that his kiss landed on her neck. She pulled away and said firmly, although she was very frightened, “Thank you very much for the taxi and the whisky. I’ve got to go home now. I have a lesson tomorrow morning, and if I don’t get a good night’s sleep and play well, my teacher will be very angry.”
To her surprise, Mr. LeStrade made no objection. He simply dropped his hands and said without a trace of irritation, “All right, darling, if that’s the way you want it,” and poured himself another drink as she opened the door.
Once she was down on the street, she remembered again that she had no money, and it was a long walk home. This time she could not take a taxi and expect someone to pay for it, since Manya’s apartment was half of a private house and there was no doorman. Neither could she go back to Mr. LeStrade to ask for help.
The rain had settled into a steady, thin drizzle. She could feel the fresh cold and wet oozing from the pavement through the thin soles of her shoes, and soon she could feel the actual slosh of the water against her stockinged feet. Her hair kept getting heavier and heavier as it got wetter, until all she wanted was to take a pair of scissors and cut off the masses of braids. She was so exhausted that it was impossible to walk quickly. It took her over an hour to get home.
Once in the apartment, she turned on all the lights, lit the fire and drew herself a hot bath. The effect of Mr. LeStrade’s Scotch had worn off, and she was shivering and wretched again. She sat in the hot tub until her skin was bright red and she was pouring with sweat. Then she put on her pajamas, wrapped herself in an old dressing gown of her father’s and crouched in front of the fire to dry her hair. Now there were too many lights, and her eyes ached; when she got up to turn off the lights, she paused at the liquor cabinet and poured herself a stiff drink of brandy. Then she crouched in front of the fire again, holding long strands of her hair out to the blaze. Although the brandy made her drunk, she was careful not to let her hair get near the flames.—I’ve no wish to set myself on fire—she thought, and sat there, the grateful warmth pouring into her until the fire crumbled down to a few red coals. Then she stumbled into bed and fell asleep.
She was awakened by the telephone. She took off the receiver, to hear Pete’s furious voice.
“Katherine! Where were you last night?”
She thought of her frantic hunt for Pete; the inside of her throat was hot and sore; she was angry with him for being angry. “What do you mean, where was I?” Her voice was a hoarse croak.
This he didn’t seem to notice. “I kept calling till after three. A fine way for you to behave, the minute Madame Sergeievna goes out of town and leaves you a
lone. You were supposed to meet me after the show.”
“I did.”
“What do you mean, you did? I stayed till almost midnight.”
“I was practicing, and I forgot about the time. And then when I got to the theater, Bill said you’d just left.”
“Well, why the hell didn’t you come home? What did you do then? That was just midnight. I kept calling you till after three. Where were you?”
She could not tell Pete she had been hunting for him.
“I just went out and had a drink.”
“Alone?”
“No. I was with someone.”
“Who?”
“Do you have to know everyone I see, Pete?”
“Are you going to deign to meet me after the show tonight?”
“Of course. I’m awfully sorry about last night.”
“Like hell you are.”
“Honestly I am, Pete.”
“You were so sorry you couldn’t come home and wait for me the way you would have if you’d had any sense, but had to go out drinking with someone else.”
“Don’t scold me, Pete. I’ve an awful sort throat.”
“Serves you right. And drinking isn’t a glamorous thing, my girl. Causes a lot of unnecessary and stupid messes. And you do far too much of it, especially for someone your age.”
“I won’t be scolded!” she cried, and hung up.
It was a bad music lesson. It was a bad day. Her throat hurt so that she could hardly swallow; her head ached; her eyes stung; when the cook, Dunyasha, scolded her for not eating, she wanted to burst into tears or to throw something; instead, she glowered down at the bright polished surface of the table, clenching her teeth until the tears stopped trembling in her eyes. She got to the theater to meet Pete before the curtain went up on the last act.
Mr. LeStrade came out of his dressing room just as Pete came out of his. “Well, my little friend of last night,” Mr. LeStrade said, coming up to her and kissing her as though he had known her intimately all his life, “how are you tonight?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“Did you get home all right last night?”
“Oh, yes.”
“You’d better take care of this little girl, Mr. Burns,” Mr. LeStrade said to Pete. “I think she needs to have someone take care of her.”
“I’ll take care of her, you needn’t worry, Mr. LeStrade,” Pete said. “Are you ready, Katherine?”
When they were out in the alley, the cement still holding puddles from the rain the night before, Pete grabbed her arm with such ferocity that she cried out in pain. “So you were out with him last night.”
“Yes, I was. Please let go my arm, Pete. You’re hurting.”
“Where did you go with him?”
“To his hotel.”
“Which of the five?”
“That’s my own business.”
“You went up to his rooms alone with him?”
“I can take care of myself, Pete.”
“Well, it certainly doesn’t seem so.”
“He just said he’d give me a drink before I went home—after I’d missed you, of course.”
“So you stayed with him till after three. I’m ashamed of you, Katherine.”
“You haven’t anything to be ashamed of.”
“Are you sure?”
“Naturally.”
“He didn’t try any of his funny business?”
“No. He was very nice about it.”
“Nice or not, I don’t like your seeing him, and I don’t want you to go out with him again.”
“I run my own life, Pete.”
“That’s all very fine, but you’re not to go out with him again. What would Madame Sergeievna say?”
“Aunt Manya trusts me, whether you do or not.”
“Why the hell couldn’t you have gone home and waited for me?” Pete said savagely. “I wanted to talk to you last night.”
“You can talk to me tonight, can’t you?”
“I wanted to talk to you last night. I had it all planned. It was going to be a very special night. Oh, skip it. We’ll go to the Purple Pigeon, and you are not to have more than two drinks.”
“All right, Pete. I’ll do whatever you say.”
At the Purple Pigeon she sat supporting her aching head in her hands. Smoke stung her eyes; voices roared in her ears like a mighty, malignant ocean; her back ached so that she could not sit still in her chair but kept squirming miserably, trying unsuccessfully to get into a comfortable position.
“Please, Pete, let’s go to your hotel,” she wailed.
He looked at her flushed face, at her eyes with the deep circles under them, and asked anxiously, “Throat still sore?”
“Yes. Awfully. The smoke hurts it. Please let’s go to your hotel.”
“All right, kitten little. Of course. Come on. But maybe I’d better take you home to bed.”
“I want to go to your hotel and have another drink.”
He realized that she was not fit to be argued with. “All right. Come along.”
Once she got up to his room, she flung herself down on his bed. Immediately the room began to go around in slow, gentle circles. “Around and around, like the pavane of the stars,” she said.
“What?”
“Nothing. Pour me a drink, please.”
He stood by his washbasin and rinsed out a glass. The electric-light bulb that hung from the ceiling swung slightly, and his shadow on the whitewashed wall swung, too, so that he seemed to be dancing a grotesque undulating dance as he rinsed the glass and poured some whisky into it. The dance frightened her, and she closed her eyes. As darkness rushed upon her, she seemed to be sinking; the bed must somehow have disappeared, and she was falling down, down into the bottomless pit. She opened her eyes quickly. Pete was bending over her with the glass of whisky.
“Are you all right, kitten?”
“Sure, I’m fine,” she answered hoarsely, raising herself on one elbow to drink the whisky. Like fire it burnt its way down inside her, like strong, cleansing fire. The light bulb still swung from the ceiling, and the shadows of the furniture danced weirdly as the room swam around. She did not know whether it was worse to have her eyes open and to watch this grinning senseless dance (for it seemed to have a personality, to be leering at her diabolically) or to close her eyes and feel herself dropping through darkness, through unmeasured space.
“Look,” she heard Pete say. “For an actor, I can be very inarticulate. But there’s something I want to say to you.” He stood with his back to her, looking out the window, breathing quickly and audibly.
“Look,” Pete said, leaving the window to sit down on the edge of the bed beside her, and taking hold of one of her hands and twisting the fingers. “Look, I’ve wanted to say this for a long time now, and I meant to do it last night. I had it all prepared for last night. I could have done it beautifully then, but now for some reason it’s very hard. Look,” he said, and lapsed into silence again.
Katherine had barely heard him. Her mind kept swinging around in vague taunting circles, like the room and the dancing shadows, and she remembered suddenly the whirling merry-go-round at the kermesse and thought—I didn’t learn anything from Charlot, I didn’t learn anything at all, because here I am with Pete, and I don’t know anything, I don’t know anything, I don’t know what to do or what to say.—
“Look,” Pete said, “I love you and I want to marry you. Will you?”
She couldn’t say anything. She didn’t know why, but she couldn’t open her mouth to say yes, although she knew now that the answer was yes and always had been yes to Pete. She looked down at his big hand, because of the way it was twisting her fingers, and she began to cry and she thought—I’m crazy, I don’t know what’s the matter with me, I’m so happy, I’m crying, and then there’s this awful cloud coming over me, and I can’t see, I’m afraid.—
She cried very quietly, and Pete was unaware of it until his fingers became wet with her tears.
“Oh, don’t—” he whispered, his face appalled and frightened. He looked at her face drenched and blurred with tears, and she looked into his gray eyes with their thick, short, black lashes, his gray eyes that were trying to find out what was making her cry, and his face was so puckered and puzzled and loving that all of a sudden her tears stopped; the room stood still; the shadows stopped their dance against the whitewashed walls.
“I love you, too, Pete,” she said. “I want to marry you.” She pressed close to him, rubbing her face against the harsh, dark wool of his coat, until his hand came down under her chin and he raised her face and looked into her eyes for a long time before he kissed her.
When he kissed her, they both seemed to become very weak, almost to melt into each other, and they had to lean close together, gasping for breath. They kissed again with a sort of franticness, as though in a moment some terrible invisible power would tear them apart; they clung together desperately, trying to press so near that no part of their bodies would be really separate. Because they had both wanted to kiss for so long, because they had never really touched each other before, they were afraid to stop, and they strained with their whole bodies pushing against each other for a long time before Katherine moved away suddenly and said, “I keep forgetting, but my throat is very sore, and you don’t want to catch cold and have to miss a performance.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” Pete said, drawing her close to him again.
“Yes, but I am.” Katherine pulled away. “I don’t want to give you anything. I feel very funny, Pete.”
“How, funny, kitten?”
“I ache all over, not just my throat; and my head is very big, like a balloon, and I’m so hot. Could we have the window open, please?”