The Eastern Shore

by Ward Just

  He did promise himself to leave his work at the office. Milo Passarel had said something about it, to the effect that dinner at the Goldens’ was not a news conference. Of course the divide was not entirely clear. The line between work and pleasure was not clear. Ned never used the dinners at the Goldens’ to advance a story. The arguments and jokes were irresistible but plainly for another day. It was in the dining room of the manor house that he first heard of the liaison between Mrs. Kennedy and the dissolute Onassis. He had done nothing with it. He had never edited anything concerning Mrs. Kennedy, who deserved all the privacy she could get. And here, it had to be admitted, Ned Ayres’s memory did a little congratulatory jig.

  Milo Passarel had introduced Ned to the Goldens. I know you to be a man of discretion, Ned. Things can get—a little rowdy at the Goldens’. Nothing serious but there’s a lot of gossip, most of it bogus in my view. But the company is most unusual, always someone there you’ve wanted to meet but never had the opportunity. Milo smiled, almost paternally, Ned thought. When you get the invitation, Milo said, accept it. See what happens.

  The first time he entered the library Ned was enchanted. The books, the Alma-Tadema sketch of the Roman boys at the well, slight as it was, a masterpiece all the same, and nicely situated between the Poe and the Mencken. As if to add a touch of the occult, a Ouija board rested on a nearby card table, complementing in some strange way the Alma-Tadema and the Poe. Ned was greeted cordially as a particular friend of the publisher and his wife, known for their discretion and amiability. He was welcomed into whatever conversation was on offer, the ever-mediocre state of the National Symphony Orchestra, the plight of the captive nations of eastern Europe, the extraordinary Learplaying off-Broadway in New York. Are you a theater man, Ned? Have you seen it? You must. It’s a miracle! Ned specifically recalled the many discussions of firearms, the over-and-under versus the side-by-side, the merits of the Browning as opposed to the Purdey or the Boss. Beautiful balance, the Boss. Light as a violin. They were priming themselves for the duck blinds in the morning, five a.m. sharp. At the ding of a chime the party would dissolve into the dining room, a moment of confusion as the place cards were examined. Conversation was initiated by the senator, everyone expected to contribute, domestic politics first, foreign policy to follow, a senatorial monologue, a tour d’horizon; his table, his subjects, while Milly Bosenquet, Earl’s daughter, served the crab bisque. After twenty minutes of tour d’horizon the table more or less broke into several groups, each with its own topic.

  Henriette would turn to Ned and quietly commence a reminiscence of her youth in Beverly Hills and the scandals of the film community, so much riper than now, or her year abroad when she was twenty-one, an invitation from Milo and Lana Passarel to visit them at their villa near Granada. She was invited for a weekend but stayed for a week at their insistence. That was the beginning of her love affair with the Spanish language, the corrida, and the poems of García Lorca. Dinner never began before ten p.m. On her last day with the Passarels she met a boy and they went off for a week together to Galicia, in the west of the country. When Henriette hesitated a moment, Ned urged her to continue. He had never visited Spain and was eager to learn about it. And the Passarels. How was life at the villa? But Henriette only smiled and said that Milo and Lana were very private people, the villa a kind of sanctuary. She smiled. No raised voices. They were wonderful hosts and sad when she departed with her señorito, who had never traveled to the Spanish west and was eager to see it, Spain’s neglected region, so dour and unforgiving, the people hard as tree bark. Franco was feared and revered as savior of the nation. No one spoke of the war, and if you brought it up they changed the subject. It is not your affair, señorita. The war was a family matter, in the way of being a family secret, their national calamity. However, the Reds were finished as a national party. So there was some good after all. The boy was an aristo and wouldn’t talk about it either, except to say that Franco was misunderstood by the outside world, particularly by France and the United States. Britain. When in Spain it was not correct to speak of the war. The war was settled history. Stare decisis.

  Ned Ayres listened with care. Henriette spoke with ardor, her eyes glittering, her speech rapid. It was as if she were describing a ballet or a great European novel, sublime but difficult of entry. You had to have been there.

  Anyhow, she said, a great adventure.

  Ned said, Sounds like it, and more.

  Have you been abroad?

  Never, he said.

  Any plans?

  No, he said.

  Ned, that’s appalling.

  Ned said, I’m trying to run a newspaper.

  Is a trip to Spain or France disqualifying? She heard her name and looked up, Lester waving from the other end of the table.

  Ned glanced around the room, soft in candlelight. Milly Bosenquet drifted among the diners, a bottle of wine in each hand. Ned knew it was time for the table to turn but he was in thrall to Henriette, and she seemed not to mind that their end of the table remained frozen. The others were arguing about the coming election.

  So I didn’t learn anything about the Spanish war, Henriette said, except that no one wanted to talk about it, and I suppose that’s knowledge of a sort. So we spent five days in Galicia. La Coruña, then Vigo.

  What’s Vigo? Ned asked.

  Clapped-out seaport, Henriette said.

  A random destination, Ned said.

  Not quite, Henriette said. It was fated, I think. Plus, everyone needs a Vigo. You should know that, Ned. Vigo’s a place on the map, come upon by surprise, stay awhile and never go back. When you’re there, no one knows who you are. They don’t care who you are. The chances are slim to none that you’ll meet anyone you know. It’s not a tourist destination, Neddy. There’s nothing in Vigo that a tourist would wish to see. We had a room on the top floor of a hotel overlooking the harbor. Not swank but clean. Nice view if you like maritime views. I remember a small bar in the lobby, three stools and a selection of sherries and red wines, local brandy if you could stand it. The desk clerk was rude, offended I think because Fernando and I were obviously together and just as obviously not married. Marriage mattered to them in Galicia because in those days the region was traditional. Strait-laced when it came to dirty weekends and foreigners. And I doubt if anything’s changed from then to now. The desk clerk seemed not at all impressed by Fernando’s lispy Castilian accent and his black beret. He was tall and slender, Fernando. And looked down on people, literally. The desk clerk’s manner suggested that I was not suitable, an American adventuress chasing after a conde with a fancy surname—

  So you were chasing him, Ned said.

  Definitely, Henriette said. Fernando found it all amusing until suddenly he didn’t find it amusing. He was bored. Thing about aristos is that they’re frequently bored. Don’t you agree?

  Every time, Ned said.

  Fernando gave the desk clerk a look that put an end to it, Henriette said. He rather wilted before our eyes and turned his back as we stepped to the elevator with our bags, my one and his two. Later on we found a good fish restaurant in the harbor. After midnight we heard some pretty good Gypsy music and things loosened up a little, not much. Fernando played the guitar for them and earned a good round of applause. I was so surprised. I didn’t know he played the guitar. Truth was, I didn’t know much about him at all. His family had apartments in Madrid and Majorca and an estate in Catalonia. That ever happen to you, Ned? Become involved with a girl and realize after a few dates that you know nothing about her? Henriette paused there, not waiting for an answer but seemingly way back in her memory as she toyed with her butter knife.

  All the time, Ned said untruthfully, wanting only to show solidarity. He thought he saw tears in Henriette’s eyes but that could have been the candlelight. Around them the table was aroar with conversation. An argument had broken out between the Maryland governor and Alger Hiss, something to do with a grammar school they had both attended in Baltimore. The
y had different memories of the headmaster. Alger had raised his voice, something he rarely did. As he talked he drummed his fingers on the tablecloth. Henriette listened to them a moment and then with a puzzled shake of her head turned back to Ned. She said, Thing about Vigo, Neddy, is that it’s not any place you’d choose to go to. You arrive there for the night because there’s nowhere else. Santiago de Compostela is too far away when it’s eight o’clock at night and you’re starving because you’ve been driving all day long and haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast and the man you’re with has been silent for most of that time. So you take what’s available and stay for two days and two nights, and once you leave you never return. Not random, Ned. Fated.

  Even so, you remember quite a lot.

  I do, don’t I, she said.

  And it was a long time ago.

  Yes, she said. A while back.

  I’m not so sure I like your aristo.

  Probably you wouldn’t. He was an acquired taste. Very sure of himself.

  I can’t say I’ve ever met one, Ned said. But I wonder. If you’ve met one, have you met them all?

  Henriette thought a moment. No, she said.

  You probably met them growing up in Malibu.

  Beverly Hills, she said. I think there was one, maybe two. In the film business. Also, there was a countess. She worked in wardrobe. There was a rumor she was born in Oklahoma, but nobody minded. She looked like a countess, tall with straight black hair. The Habsburg lip, someone said. Anyhow, she was just a wardrobe girl.

  Another reinvention, Ned said.

  I suppose, Henriette agreed. And you, Ned? Met many reinventions?

  More than I can count, Ned said.

  The business you’re in, Henriette began.

  Actually, Ned said, there’s not much room for reinvention in the newspaper business. The task is to discover other people’s reinventions. The results are not always successful. Ned heard something in his voice and took a swallow of wine. He looked at her directly and said, I had a girlfriend called Elaine. We were going to be married but she didn’t like my business. She thought it led to self-absorption, meaning there was no room in it for anyone else. And he told Henriette the story, ending with the long cable, the one that was nearly incoherent, though not so incoherent that something wouldn’t be made of it. He said, She died in Africa.

  I’m sorry, Henriette said.

  It was a while ago.

  So many things are, Henriette said with a wan smile.

  We were great with each other for a year or more. But she didn’t like my business.

  It wasn’t you. It was business?

  Me in the business, I think.

  Why didn’t you leave the business?

  It was my métier. Still is. I was fully invested.

  Was she the last serious girlfriend?

  There have been others. Elaine always cast a shadow.

  Long shadow, sounds like.

  Ned nodded. Someone made a joke and the table was wrapped in laughter.

  Ned said, So you were never tempted to return to Vigo?

  Go back to Vigo? Never. What would be the point?

  I don’t know, Ned said. See if it’s changed?

  Vigo will never change, Henriette said.

  And the Spanish boy, Ned said, the aristo so fluent at Gypsy guitar. What about him? Do you suppose he ever went back? Returned for old times’ sake? Look into the hotel bar to see if there were still three stools? Ned already had a sense of the Spaniard’s looks and bearing, the boy conquistador, probably a sixteenth-century face to go with the title, complete with a mustache and a tin helmet.

  Are you jealous, Neddy? You sound jealous.

  Ned opened his mouth to issue a denial, then laughed instead. He said, Probably.

  No need, Henriette said. That’s the end of the story.

  Not the end if Fernando went back.

  I doubt it, Henriette said. Though how can I be sure? Fernando was a sentimentalist, it’s true. More than I am. Was. Who saw himself as a kind of vagabond cavalier, so maybe he did, later on when he was married to his contessa and in charge of the family estates. Did I mention that his family owned land in Galicia? We did not stop to visit the property and, truthfully, I’m not sure he knew exactly where it was. We stayed in touch for a while and then I stopped writing. When I stopped, so did he. I did notice his name in the papers a few years ago. He was working for the government, an ambassador somewhere. Don’t tell me you’ve never had a Vigo, Neddy.

  Not one like yours, Ned said.

  You’ve missed out, then.

  So far, anyway, Ned said.

  I’ve never told that story to anyone. Not a living soul.

  It’s safe with me, Ned said.

  Well, let me know when she comes along and we’ll have a dinner in her honor. I’ll seat her next to Alger.

  Is that a promise?

  I never lie, Henriette said.

  Ned Ayres looked around the room. He and Henriette were the only ones under sixty years old. The room was drenched in nostalgia, and to understand the nostalgia you had to be of that age and of that ilk, remembering the French foreign minister who said this and the Russian spy who did that until he was unmasked by the sly woman seated next to Senator Golden, the one with her hair in a tight bun and already smoking a cigarillo, though the table was not cleared. Dessert was on the way. The truth was, this was a room full of secrets, many of them decades old. Most of the secrets remained secrets; at least they had not been fully told. They were a kind of coin of the realm and nonnegotiable. Ned was mostly in the dark as to the provenance of the coins. Ned imagined Elaine on the senator’s left, leaning in, trying to hear the payoff. Often the payoffs were themselves obscure; and for some unknown reason Ned remembered the British correspondent at William Grant’s funeral, nicely turned out in a bespoke suit and a Bailey hat. He had covered the Battle of the Somme and for that reason or some other reason was leaning heavily on a cane. He would have fit wonderfully at Henriette’s long table. He had beautiful manners and had been everywhere. He and Elaine would have gotten on well together so long as the Brit did not mention the Somme. Elaine had no interest in war stories. Politics bored her. Ned looked again at the woman with the hair bun and the cigarillo, smiling now at some story the senator was telling. Poor Elaine would not have been au courant. The names and places would fly by unacknowledged. She would think she was in a madhouse or a sinister menagerie. Ned caught some of the senator’s words: Vienna, Owen Lattimore, “Beetle” Smith, Edward Stettinius, Open City, Oak Ridge.

  The table had turned decisively, and Ned made a comment to the woman on his left, straining to read her place card and failing because the card lay face-down. Without preamble she began to talk about her father, a writer of luminous reputation. She spoke touchingly of her father’s last years, disappointments and an unruly death. But his books were still in print and that was the important thing, because if they were in print, so, in a sense, was he. She reached beyond Ned to look at his place card. She said, So, Ned Ayres, what do you do?

  Newspaper editor, Ned said.

  Are you discreet, then?

  Most of the time, Ned said.

  And your father, what did he do?

  He is a judge, Ned said.

  A judge! Where from? Is he on the Supreme Court?

  He is a circuit judge in Indiana. Herman. A small town.

  Where is it? I’ve heard the name before.

  Near Muncie, Ned said.

  That character on the radio. Did he not speak about Herman? Herrrrrrman. A radio program.

  Ed Watts, Ned said.

  Who is that?

  The radio man. His name is Ed Watts, earned his living by making a joke of Herman. A town of dullards and no-accounts. But it’s really just a small town like any other.

  So we say good riddance to Ed Watts.

  Definitely, Ned said.

  I’ve never been to Indiana. I’ve never been anywhere in the Midwest, except once t
o Chicago. Nothing ever brought me to the Midwest. It’s terra incognita to me. Isn’t that a shame. I grew up here and there, New York, Paris for a while after the war. I married an unsuitable man, and when he left I moved from London to Washington. It’s where many of my schoolgirl friends live. Now I live near the Goldens in Cleveland Park. I like them both, but my hunch is that Lester will not be with us much longer. I fear he will lose his election. He is not popular in California. Henriette will be crushed.

  She will?

  Definitely.

  Ned’s attention strayed, an argument at the other end of the table. He did not catch the drift. He did notice Alger Hiss smiling. Hiss was not part of the argument but he seemed to be enjoying it.

  Ned said, Lester will lose? How do you know that?

  She said, Because I know the woman who’s going to defeat him. Lester has not been attending to business.

  Does he know? Shouldn’t he be warned? Ned was smiling.

  He won’t listen to the people who know.

  And with that, the table began to empty. Soon Ned was sitting alone. The others were settling in at the card tables. Two tables of bridge, as it turned out, and one of poker. Ned was the odd man who played neither bridge nor poker, so he refilled his glass and slipped away to the window seat next to the piano, noting, not for the first time, that the poker table was raucous while the bridge tables were dead silent except for the murmured bids. Three hearts. One no trump. Two civilizations, Ned thought, fundamentally incompatible. The senator had offered Ned his place at the bridge table but Ned demurred. The ambiance was pleasant enough, watching the players in their various ways of concentrating, the clatter of chips as the antes were raised and raised again. Alger Hiss sat straight up like a schoolboy asked to read a text, Moby-Dick perhaps, or Lord Jim. Hiss held his cards in both hands as one might hold a Bible. The man himself was mute, his eyes narrowed, his face disclosing nothing of importance. On those hands that were beyond him, he said quietly, I’m out, and collected his busted cards with infinite patience and placed them close to the gathering pile of chips. Perhaps then an inward sigh as he watched the end of the play, when Senator Golden was called and he revealed a full house, tens with aces up. Groans around the table except for Alger Hiss, who offered a second’s worth of smile. Meanwhile, the bridge tables pressed silently on. From time to time Hiss glanced in the direction of the bridge tables, so quiet, a concentration of forces. Ned watched all this, an evening’s pantomime, the air—Ned thought the air was thin. Then Henriette was at Ned’s side, having returned from the kitchen. She insisted on helping Milly Bosenquet with the cleanup.