As he came through the door, the chauffeur filled it from side to side. He was a squarish man with a face set in the same pattern, broken only by the upslanted eyes. He paused inside the door; his eyes swept around, fastened on Mrs. Gruntey.
“Ah, Lincoln, put it right there in the floor,” she said. “Is it cold?”
“Right out of the cellar, madam.”
“This is my chauffeur, Abraham Lincoln Li,” Mrs. Gruntey said. “I call him Lincoln. He’s a great practical humanitarian.” She smiled. “Open the case, will you, Lincoln?”
The front door of the houseboat banged open. The student who had taken Mrs. Gruntey’s message to the chauffeur entered. He carried a cardboard box.
“Whooof!” he said, putting it down on the floor.
“What in heaven’s name is that?” Mrs. Gruntey asked.
“I went along for the ride,” the student said. “I noticed a load of grub in your cupboard, so I brought it back. Beer’s no good without something to eat.”
“You are absolutely right,” Mrs. Gruntey said. “Take it out in the kitchen.”
Pepina stood up from the arm of the chair. “Here, I’ll clear a place for it.” She went into the kitchen.
Carl Boler, a copy of Mrs. Gruntey’s play in his hands, slouched over beside Roger, taking Pepina’s place on the arm.
“Roger, this business in the second act where …”
“No more shop tonight,” Roger said. “Learn the part first.” He slumped into the chair.
Mrs. Gruntey turned to Roger. “Your wife has real talent as an artist. How long have you been married?”
Carl laughed. “They’re not married. They’ve got an open agreement, subject to change if either ever wants it. Wonderful thing.”
Roger’s indrawn breath was like a gasp of shock. He sat, unmoving, in the chair.
Lincoln, having opened the case of beer, stood up and walked to the door. “Will that be all, madam?” he asked.
“Uh …” Mrs. Gruntey’s gaze remained on Roger. “Oh, yes, Lincoln. That will be all for now.”
Lincoln gave a silent bow. “Thank you, madam.” He reached for the door knob.
The student who had accompanied Lincoln stood up from the beer case with a bottle in his hand. “Hey!” he shouted. “You’re not sending him away from the party?”
Mrs. Gruntey tore her gaze away from Roger. A look of agitation crossed her face, was quickly erased. “Of course not. This is a celebration.” She looked at Lincoln. “But mind you, Lincoln; you stay sober enough to drive us all home.”
Lincoln nodded his dark head toward her. “Of a certainty, madam,” he said. “Chung lun yu tai hyung oh yau hoy. It is written that a good wheel may do evil.”
“Lincoln is a philosopher, too,” Mrs. Gruntey said.
Lincoln turned to the student who was holding the bottle of beer. “Here. You have to be careful how you open these. They open like champagne.” He put both thumbs to the cap, flipped it off with a loud pop. Foam surged over the top of the bottle. “Shaken up a bit bringing it over,” he said. He put the bottle in his mouth and upended it.
“Hey!” the student said. “That’s quite a trick. How do you do that with just your fingers?”
Lincoln lowered the bottle and displayed a thumb. “Calluses,” he said, and put the bottle back in his mouth.
Mrs. Gruntey looked at Roger.
“You’re not married? I could have sworn you were married.”
Roger nodded his head.
Pepina returned from the kitchen, slipped an arm under Roger’s. “Marriage is for people who aren’t in love. We don’t need a contract.”
Mrs. Gruntey nodded. Her eyes were large, expressionless. “Not married.” She looked around at the room full of students.
“They’re all over twenty-one,” Pepina said.
Mrs. Gruntey looked back at Pepina. “Of course.”
From the darkness outside the houseboat, Mr. Amonto, the bullfrog, gave one basso rumble and subsided.
“Good heavens, what was that?” Mrs. Gruntey asked.
“That was Mr. Amonto, our pet bullfrog,” Pepina said.
“A pet bullfrog,” Mrs. Gruntey murmured. “How delightful.” Her voice lacked vitality.
A speedboat roared past in the river close to the houseboats. The houseboat rocked gently. Mrs. Gruntey stood up, walked over to the far side of the room. She stood there, watching the lights of the speedboat as it rushed under the bridge.
Roger looked at Pepina. “Now you’ve done it,” he muttered.
“What’s wrong?” Carl asked.
“If she doesn’t take that story straight to Coleman, then I’m a monkey’s uncle,” Roger said. He lowered his head to his hands. “Get me the want ads. Gotta start looking for a job.”
Mrs. Gruntey turned from the window, came back to Roger. “It’s getting late,” she said.
“Is it?” Roger asked.
Pepina walked to the couch and sat down. “Party’s over,” she said. “Roger, ring the bell.”
Roger stood up and disappeared into the back of the house. Soon, a ship’s bell echoed over the dark waters. “Lincoln, we’ll take anyone home who needs a ride,” Mrs. Gruntey said. “See that they’re all in the car.” She turned to Pepina. “It’s been a lovely evening. Thank you so much.”
Pepina stood up, shook hands with Mrs. Gruntey. “Certainly.”
When all the guests were gone, Pepina wandered back to the couch and sank into it. She stretched out, stared up at the ceiling.
Roger came into the room, sat in a chair near her. Pepina turned her face away. One tear rolled down her cheek. She tasted salt in her mouth. She didn’t hear Roger stand up and walk over to the couch.
“Pepina! You’re crying! What’s wrong?”
Pepina rubbed her eyes dry. “I am not.”
He sat down on the couch and put his arm around her. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.
“I-I-I l-like that lady.”
Roger stared at her. “And that’s why you’re crying?”
“I’m sorry, Roger. I’m just being silly. But I feel sort of dirty … oh … I don’t know, not quite respectable or something.”
“Oh, darling.” Roger kissed her on the ear. “I did it. I made you cry.” He tried to hug her, but she pulled away. “And now I’ve made you hate me.” His voice was melodramatic.
She took his hand. “It’s just that, well … There’s something else you don’t know …”
He was alarmed. “What?”
“Oh, never mind. It’s just that I’m worried about Coleman and I do like Mrs. Gruntey. I hate to have her feel that way about us.”
Roger looked away from her, studied the toe of one shoe. Neither spoke.
Suddenly Roger stood up and hit one fist into the palm of the other hand. “I’ve had enough of it,” he said. “I’m going to tell them all we’re married. I’ll take our marriage license and frame it and hang it on the door.”
Pepina sat up on the couch and looked at him. “I won’t let you.”
Roger started pacing up and down on the straw carpet. “I won’t have them talking about my wife,” he muttered. “I’ll tell all.”
Pepina stamped her foot. “You will not! You’re just doing it for me; and all you’ll do is prove yourself pretty silly. I absolutely won’t allow it.”
Roger raised himself to his full height. “Nothing you say will stop me!”
Pepina glared back at him. “I won’t be married to a fool. If you dare tell … I’ll leave you.”
Roger’s face crumpled. “Darling, you wouldn’t!”
“I would. I won’t have you showing yourself up like that and ruining everything for yourself. You will not tell anyone.”
Roger turned away from her. He shrugged. “If you put it that way, what can I say?”
Pepina persisted. “Do you promise you won’t tell?”
Roger’s voice was low and unhappy. “I promise.”
O O O
It was
the fifth week of rehearsals for Rhythm of Life. Life had settled into an uneasy equilibrium. Roger wondered when Mrs. Gruntey was going to President Coleman with the scandal. He decided she was waiting until her play had been produced.
“She’s using me,” he thought. “I wish I could hate her.”
Roger, Pepina, and Mrs. Gruntey were in the first section seats of the campus’s Little Theater, where the rehearsals had been moved to give the cast the feel of the stage. It was a musty structure; the seats were hard. If one listened, one could hear the floorboards on the stage creak as the actors walked across them.
The theater was darkened. On stage, the dark-haired Shirley, playing Melissa, and Carl Boler, doing Leopold, were going through a scene for the ninth time. There was a wooden uncertainty about their motions, as though they were afraid to move in a way that had previously aroused Roger’s scorn. The actual lighting of the finished scene was being used, although the actors were not in costume. Shirley was wearing slacks and a white blouse. Carl wore dungarees and a blue shirt. The footlights were red, and a purple spotlight was on Shirley. The resultant blend gave a Faustian cast to the setting.
The scene was a boudoir. Props consisted of a settee, dressing table, and chair. Melissa sat at the dressing table. Carl reclined on the settee, jangling his chain and medallion.
In the middle of the scene, Roger leaped to his feet. “Break it!” he screamed.
Shirley stopped in mid-sentence.
Roger sat down, held his head in his hands. After a long pause, he looked up at the silent stage. “The trouble with you, Shirley, is you don’t know how to be a bitch.”
The dark girl flushed. She jumped up from the chair, upsetting it with a clatter, stalked to the front of the stage. Putting both hands, fists clenched, on her hips, she glared down at Roger. “The trouble with you, Roger Corot, is that you do know how to be a bitch!”
Roger leaned back, sighed. “Exactly. That is the tone I want in this scene.” He leaned forward. “Shirley, does Melissa get the necklace?”
The girl on the stage thought a moment. “No. Of course not.”
Roger nodded. “And in this scene she knows she’s not going to get it. But she tries anyway. She is angry but tries to hide it.” Roger pivoted his head toward Carl, who still reclined on the settee. “And you, you big lump of clay. You’re not supposed to be bored. You’re amused. You don’t want this woman anymore. You’re playing with her—cat with mouse.” Roger leaned back. “Now roll through it once more, and this time wrap it up. Take it from where Melissa says, ‘My neck looks so bare.’”
On stage, the scene began to unfold anew. Roger leaned back, closed his eyes. Suddenly, he sighed, relaxed.
Pepina leaned close to him, whispered in his ear. “All right, darling. I give up.”
Roger opened his left eye and looked at her. “Yes?”
“I have been trying for five weeks to figure out something,” Pepina said. “You work on a scene and then you seem to listen; but you don’t listen to the actors. I can tell. I want to know what it is you hear.”
Roger glanced at Mrs. Gruntey, who was bent forward, staring at the stage. He put his mouth close to Pepina’s ear, whispered so low, Pepina had to strain to hear. “It’s Lincoln. He hasn’t missed a rehearsal. He’s back there in the rear. I listen for his laugh. When he laughs, the scene’s ready.”
“How do you know?”
“He’s my sample audience.”
Pepina listened. From the darkened rear of the theater there came a barely suppressed snicker. Pepina nodded her head, smiled, and slid farther down in her seat.
“You are a faker, my only.”
“A successful one,” Roger whispered.
Pepina’s eyes glistened. She looked at Roger, sighed, and put her head on his shoulder. Roger put a hand up, smoothed her hair.
On stage, the scene ended. Mrs. Gruntey sat back in her seat.
“At last. Roger, you are a genius. I thought that scene would never come right. And it was the last one we really had to work on.”
“A matter of finding the correct tone,” Roger said.
“Yes, vibrations,” Mrs. Gruntey said.
“All we need now are the bumps and grinds,” Pepina whispered.
“Did you say something, my dear?” Mrs. Gruntey asked.
Pepina took her head from Roger’s shoulder and sat up. “I said we’ve ground through all the bumps in this one.”
“Yes, haven’t we?” Mrs. Gruntey said. “Roger, we have only four more nights until we open. I’m so excited I can’t sleep at night.”
Roger slapped his palms against his knees. “That’s it. I think we’re all too finely pitched. I’m going to give the cast a two-day rest. We’ll have dress rehearsal Thursday and open Friday.” He stood up, cupped both hands beside his mouth. “Everybody on stage!”
The cast trouped onto the stage. A switch clicked backstage; the theater lights came to life.
“Well, you’re not perfect, but I think you’ll do. This is all we’re going to do until Thursday-night dress rehearsal. I don’t want you going stale before we open. We’ll start the final run at six thirty. Be here on time.”
Mrs. Gruntey arose, resting her fleshy hands on the back of the seat ahead of her. “I want to have a party Thursday after the rehearsal.” She turned to Roger. “May we use the houseboat?”
Roger hesitated. Through his mind raced a cloud of questions: Why does she want to come to the houseboat? Last time she walked out on us. What is that woman going to do to us now that the play is ready to go?
On the tip of Roger’s tongue was an excuse to avoid the party. Pepina forestalled him.
“Certainly,” Pepina said. “The houseboat is the perfect place.”
In Roger’s mind was the question: “Place for what?”
“I’ll phone my caterer in the morning,” Mrs. Gruntey said. “Don’t you worry about a thing. Leave all the arrangements to me.”
Roger shuddered.
A student on stage blew Mrs. Gruntey a kiss.
Pepina tugged at Roger’s sleeve. Roger whirled and looked down. Pepina was half turned around in her seat, staring at the rear of the theater.
“Who was that?”
Roger looked toward the exit, saw the back of a woman who was walking through the curtained arch at the end of the aisle.
“She was writing in a notebook when I saw her,” Pepina said. “She was sitting back there by the end of the aisle. When she looked up, she glared at me and then got up and left.”
“It was a rather broad derriere,” Roger said. “But I confess it was unfamiliar.”
Pepina put a hand to her breast. “I have a premonition.” Her voice quavered.
Mrs. Gruntey moved up beside Roger. “Nonsense!”
Roger’s face was set in tense lines, nostrils quivering, eyes large. “You don’t know Pepina’s premonitions. The last time she had a premonition we packed up and left Vienna in exactly twenty-seven minutes. The next day, the Anschluss, and Hitler’s stormtroopers were rounding up all our friends. We were in Switzerland by that time.” Roger shivered. He looked down at Pepina. “It isn’t a very big premonition, is it, darling?”
Pepina’s eyes were wide and fearful. “Yes. Worse than Vienna.”
Roger gasped. “I shall buy some cyanide immediately! They say it is quick.”
“Good heavens!” Mrs. Gruntey said.
“I’m fey,” Pepina said. “All of the women of my family have been fey.”
Mrs. Gruntey’s nose quivered. She appeared to be smelling the air around her.
“The vibrations do feel a bit uneasy. I shall call my astrologer immediately when I get home. These things always leave me fluttery until I find out what’s going to happen.”
“We could make a pact—go out together,” Roger said.
“You know, I’ve seen her face before,” Pepina said. She brought the tips of the fingers of her left hand to her forehead and closed her eyes, thinking.
“Off the bridge into the river,” Roger said. “A quick death in the depths. Whose face?”
“That woman’s face,” Pepina said. “They are painting the bridge.”
Mrs. Gruntey looked from Roger to Pepina and back to Roger. “Must we give up hope?” she asked.
“You don’t know Pepina’s premonitions,” Roger said. “She had her first when she was thirteen. She kept her father from going to the village of Apari in Switzerland. The next day, an avalanche. Sixty killed. The village destroyed.”
“My word!” Mrs. Gruntey stared at Pepina. Suddenly, she squared her shoulders. “Whatever happens, don’t give up. That’s what Amos always said. If you’re at the bottom, there’s no place to go but up.”
“Like on a roller coaster,” Pepina said, brightening.
“Exactly,” Mrs. Gruntey said.
“I had a friend killed on a roller coaster once,” Roger muttered. “Come, Pepina, let us go home and prepare for the end.”
“I can’t let you go like this,” Mrs. Gruntey said.
Roger turned away from her, walked out to the aisle. Pepina followed. Mrs. Gruntey brought up the rear, wringing her hands. Several of the students, seeing the discussion, had come down from the stage.
“What’s wrong?” one asked.
“Pepina just had a premonition.”
“Ohhhhhhhh.”
They had heard about Pepina’s premonitions.
“Please, Roger,” Mrs. Gruntey said. “At least wait until I’ve consulted my astrologer.”
Roger turned back and stared at her, his eyes seeming to look through her. Mrs. Gruntey shivered.
“Please,” she repeated.
“If you must,” Roger said. He turned and strode up the aisle, followed by Pepina and Mrs. Gruntey. Several students trailed behind.
At the curtains, Roger turned. The procession behind him stopped.
“Life is but a walking shadow,” Roger said. He turned and strode through the curtains, and they fell in place behind him.
O O O
A listless crescent moon dangled over the hills east of the river at eleven o’clock that night. Below the bridge, the lights along the boardwalk illuminated the houseboats. The lapping of water against the float logs, the occasional splash of a jumping fish, and the despondent croaking of Mr. Amonto the bullfrog dominated the night.
Frank Herbert Page 4