“I just thought of something,” he said, rattling some loose change in his pocket, a habit of his when he was completing a train of thought. It was the perfume, of course. Daphne’s well-bred scent, so popular with her and her kind, hitting him hard when they had been in that clinch. Yes, sure, it was the perfume, drifting up to him, which had reminded him of another perfume. One he wasn’t familiar with. Equally ladylike, but different somehow. That was what had made him think of that girl.
Dinah Mason, he said triumphantly, but only in his mind. And the woman was Mrs… .
No matter. If he couldn’t manage to remember her name, at least he knew where she lived. I have to ask that girl what kind of scent she uses, he told himself … and then we can take it from there.
“Thought of what?” Daphne asked petulantly.
“Of where we can go for dinner.”
“How thrilling,” she said witheringly, and preceded him to the door.
There was that split second of unreality, that swift, charged moment of nonrecognition as the sun pricked Dinah’s eyelids and woke her up.
Where am I?
Then in the next instant, she knew. She was in Mr. Paley’s bed. It was the one nearest the window. Her back was toward the occupant of the other bed; she could hear her patient’s light, regular breathing. Mrs. Paley was still asleep. The pale sunlight indicated an early hour … eight, or a little before that. Mrs. Paley had no reason to stir before nine or ten. Or even eleven. Mrs. Paley, apparently, had no reason to get up out of bed at all.
What must it be like not wanting to live?
Try as she might, it was impossible for Dinah to stretch her imagination that far. Waking had always been a joyous experience: what would happen today? Yet the years came and went, bringing their bitter consequences.
She turned over, and just that slight sound alerted the sleeping woman. Mrs. Paley’s eyes flew open; there was a second of blank wonder and then those eyes registered pain and shock. “Oh, hi,” Mrs. Paley said, but it was as if she were saying, “Oh, God, do I have to get up and face another day?”
“Turn over and get more sleep,” Dinah said. “I’ll make us something to eat.” She pulled on her robe and went to the door. “What would you like?”
“Surprise me,” Mrs. Paley said ironically.
The freezing compartment held sausages, and Dinah tossed some flapjacks. There was honest-to-goodness maple syrup. “It was a very satisfying breakfast,” Mrs. Paley said dutifully. “You’re spoiling me.”
“More coffee?”
“Thanks.”
“Anything special you’d like to do today?”
“Nothing special.”
“Let’s go for a walk. The sun will do you good.”
“Fine.”
They dressed, got their gloves and handbags, and left the apartment. Mrs. Paley was like an obedient little girl. Whatever Dinah suggested she did, unprotestingly. “Beautiful,” she agreed, when Dinah pointed out some porcelain objects in a window. “No, I’m not tired. But are you?”
“Not a bit. I love to walk.”
“Whatever you say,” she responded when, after many blocks of strolling along Third Avenue, Dinah asked if she had any preferences about where they should go next.
“Then I have an idea.”
“Splendid.”
What can I do to snap her out of it? the girl wondered anxiously. It was dreadful the way Mrs. Paley simply followed, without will of her own, looking in shopwindows and not really seeing anything. “There’s a spot I recently discovered,” she said, chattering as she had been chattering all morning, saying perfectly inconsequential things, things without meaning. “We can go down there and look at the river. I’m sure you must have been there yourself.”
“Yes, of course I’ve been here,” Mrs. Paley agreed, as they walked down the ramp to the park below. “Many times. Ed and I used to bring the Sunday papers down here whenever the weather was good.”
Oh dear, just the place I shouldn’t have picked, Dinah thought, distressed, and then realized that there wasn’t a place, or a walk, or restaurant or store that Mrs. Paley hadn’t been to scores of times with Mr. Paley when he was still alive. You can’t win, she thought dismally. Everything in the world must remind you of the person you had loved and lost.
It was with a feeling of distinct relief that she saw the man as they crossed the sunny square. There was something comforting — and by now familiar — about the set of his shoulders as he sat cross-legged on the bench, about the shape of his strong head with its iron-gray hair, that she was instantly cheered. She glanced at Mrs. Paley. “Would you mind? There’s a friend of mine over there. Well, not exactly a friend. Someone I’ve talked to a couple of times. Would it be all right if we sat next to him? Just for a little?”
“How nice,” Mrs. Paley said with that bright, empty smile.
“Sure you don’t mind?”
“Not at all.”
They went over to the empty space on the bench. The man looked up at their approach. This time there was no lack of recognition; his smile was quick and sincere. “How nice to see you,” he said, and got up immediately, his smile including Dinah’s companion.
“All right if we sit here?”
“I’d be so pleased.”
Mrs. Paley pointedly chose the outside seat, so that Dinah was sandwiched between them. After her initial polite nod, she turned away and looked out at the water. Dinah got out her cigarettes. “Thanks, not for me,” Mrs. Paley said, and looked away again.
For just a moment Dinah was really annoyed. There was no reason why they couldn’t all have introduced themselves. Grieving or not, there was such a thing as common courtesy. Was it because her nurse’s “friend” wasn’t exactly affluent looking? She changed her mind instantly. No, Mrs. Paley wasn’t a snob. Mrs. Paley had simply kissed life off as something she didn’t want to have anything more to do with. Mrs. Paley just didn’t care. About anyone or anything.
How could you help someone like that? she thought despondently. “Yes, marvelous weather,” she said, in answer to the man’s comment. “I do love the warm weather so.”
“So do I. It’s so good to be able to stay outdoors.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I suppose we’ll make up for it by a nasty spell of rain.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Perhaps we’re mistaken. Maybe there won’t be a penalty. Just go on with perfect day following perfect day.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice?”
She tried to be her usual vivacious self, but it wasn’t working. Everything was so stiff today. They had never talked about the weather. She stole a glance at Mrs. Paley, who was looking straight ahead, without blinking an eyelash, at the East River.
“There’s one of those Circle Line boats.”
Mrs. Paley followed the direction of her eyes. “Oh, yes, so it is.”
“I’ve never been on one.”
“I haven’t either.”
“I have,” the man said. “It’s tremendous fun.”
“Really?”
“I’m sure you’d enjoy it.” He eyed the chugging craft. “They always remind me of Venetian vaporettos. I don’t know why. There’s really little resemblance. You ought to treat yourself to one of those Circle Line boat cruises sometime,” he told Dinah. “I’m sure you’d enjoy it.”
“I don’t know why I’ve never gotten around to it,” she said. “Is it the same idea as what you said? A Venetian vaporetto?”
“Oh, no, quite different. A vaporetto is simply a water taxi. Like a bus, that’s all. It’s a gondola that’s better than anything. There’s nothing more romantic than a gondola, you know. Gliding along the Grand Canal.”
“You’ve been to Venice?”
“Of course,” he went on, not seeming to hear her, “it’s the smaller canals that give the most pleasure. Narrow as needles, the water lapping gently at the sides of the gondola … there’s an almost ghostly quiet. Particularly at dusk.
But then it’s at dusk when one should ride in a gondola anyway. When the sky is between rose-pink and violet. When the water is suddenly opalescent, colored with a hundred incandescent hues. In a gondola in Venice, just before night falls, that marvelous jewel of a city is truly fairyland.” He broke off, looking a little embarrassed. “Well, that was rather purple prose,” he said, shifting in his seat.
“But it is fairyland,” Mrs. Paley said suddenly, and she wasn’t staring out at the water any longer. In fact, she had shifted in her seat too, and was looking past Dinah at the man. “If fairyland exists at all, it’s there. At dusk, yes. But in the early morning, too. And at midday. At four o’clock aperitifs at the Quadri. And at night, When the sky is never black but lit with the candlepower of a million flares. It’s not a city. It’s a never-never land.” She cleared her throat. “My husband and I always stayed at the Gabrieli. It’s a moderately-priced but excellent hotel not too far from the Danieli.”
“When my wife was alive we stayed at the Bauer.” He smiled. “Perhaps you were like us, chauvinistic. Wherever we went for the first time we went thereafter. It was a very strict rule.”
“I know what you mean. It’s a kind of loyalty. Or maybe it isn’t even that. It’s like going home each time. Like having your own haven in cities that don’t really belong to you.”
“Oh, but they do belong to you. Everything belongs to everyone. Don’t you feel, for example, that Paris belongs to you?”
“Yes, I do,” she admitted.
“It belongs to me too. We’re just very generous in allowing other people its allées and parks. And they feel the same way. The world is everyone’s living room.”
The conversation flowed over and around Dinah. She sat there, pleased and encouraged, as Mrs. Paley, with a faint flush in her cheeks, swapped reminiscences with the man to her left. Would wonders never cease? In two minutes, this kind and gentle man had succeeded where she had failed miserably to pierce the armor of Mrs. Paley’s apathy.
She took a quick look at him. So this quiet, defeated man, who came to sun himself at the Sutton Place park, had once known the glories of the world. I’m go glad, she thought. So glad he has those memories, glad his life isn’t entirely gray and impoverished.
“Only once to the Provence,” Mrs. Paley was saying. “We stayed in Nîmes, which is quite central. From there it’s only a few hours’ bus-ride to Avignon, Calvisson. Overnight to Carcassonne, or Aries. I’m so sorry we never got back there. It’s such a poetic countryside.”
The afternoon waned and the shadows lengthened as Mrs. Paley and Dinah’s friend discussed the far-flung wonders of the world. And at last the nursemaids got up to leave, the voices of the children faded. “Why, it’s five o’clock,” Mrs. Paley said, looking at her watch. “Dinah, I didn’t realize it was so late, did you?”
“No, and I suppose we have to think about shopping for dinner.”
“I’m sorry you have to go,” the man said. “It’s been such a pleasure for me.”
“For me too,” Mrs. Paley echoed, getting up. They moved away, crossing the square, and walked up the ramp. “I’m delightfully sleepy,” Mrs. Paley said. “It must be all that sun. We certainly had our dose of fresh air today, Dinah.”
“I think you even have a sunburn. He’s nice, isn’t he?”
“Your friend? Yes, I liked talking to him very much. He knows Europe well. It’s clear money was never any object to him, as it always was with Ed and me. Still … if you’re knowledgeable — and Ed certainly was that — you can always find quality quarters for very little. I have no regrets, Dinah.”
“I was so stunned,” Dinah said. “I never imagined that he could have been prosperous enough to do all those things. Obviously he must have been well off at one time.”
“At one time? Dinah, whatever do you mean? He’s without monetary worries, I can tell you that.”
“But how can you say that? You saw his shabbiness. He has no place else to go. He can sit there and be in the sun.”
They rounded the bend of the ramp and came out into Sutton Square. “Why, you saw how he was dressed,” Dinah persisted. “He’s on Welfare, don’t you think?”
“Are you serious?” Mrs. Paley stopped dead. “On Welfare? You’re serious?” She put a hand on Dinah’s arm. “His clothes? Why, his clothes are flawless. Old and knocked-around and originally tailor-made. Can’t you tell?”
“But he’s … he’s shabby,” Dinah protested, flushing.
“Oh, he’s like all rich people,” Mrs. Paley said, giving her a tolerant look. “Rich people never look rich. Rich people have holes in the soles of their shoes. It’s because they don’t care. They don’t have to care.”
“But I couldn’t have been that wrong!”
“My dear girl, he’s such a recognizable type. I’ll give you his dossier, if you’re interested. It’s not at all difficult to typecast him. He’s in brokerage or law, he owns some valuable parcels of city property, he belongs to three good clubs. He clips coupons, shows up at his office two or three days a week, and doesn’t know what need means.” Her face softened. “Though that last might be qualified. He seems to have lost his wife; at least that’s what I gathered. He seemed lonely to me.”
“Yes, to me too. I agree about that. But about the other — ”
“That he’s poor? Down and out? Oh, Dinah, you really thought that?” They were at the avenue crossing now, and Mrs. Paley turned to look at her young nurse. “Why you sweet thing, I believe that’s why you befriended him. Because you thought he was on the edge of poverty. Your tender heart was wrung,” She put a hand on Dinah’s arm. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
“No, not at all,” Dinah said, unaccountably irritated. “He was reading poetry. Good poetry. It was secondary that I decided he was alone in the world, without means, and — ”
“You’re an angel,” Mrs. Paley said. “Really an angel, Dinah. And at that, you’re probably right and I’m wrong. It’s not a question of money, or position. He is poor, and you’re very perspicacious. Money doesn’t mean much if other things are lacking. Riches mean love and communal interests and a whole, satisfying way of life. And I don’t think that man has that any more. So, in a way, he’s impoverished.”
“Yes, but I thought he was a bum,” Dinah admitted baldly, and Mrs. Paley laughed delightedly. “Did you really think that?” she asked, and her laugh rang out in the nearly deserted street. “Oh, Dinah, that’s really adorable.”
“It’s shaming.”
“No, it’s sweet and lovely,” Mrs. Paley said, and laughed again.
And having laughed, really laughed, Mrs. Paley seemed to break slowly out of her dull inertia. They went to an art film that evening, and when they returned went right to bed. There was no lying awake in the dark; Mrs. Paley’s light, regular breathing, inside of five or ten minutes, told Dinah her patient was asleep. And in the morning was still asleep when Dinah called her for breakfast.
She looked softer, more relaxed, when she came to the table. And late in the afternoon, after they had come back from a walk, she told Dinah she was over it. They were sipping before-dinner martinis. “It’s been a pleasant day,” she said, setting her glass down on the table. “Yesterday I was barely conscious of what was going on around me. Today was … different, somehow.”
Her glance strayed out the window. When she looked back there was a kind of quiet acceptance in her face. “I must go on with what I have left. I see that now. I did it and it was a failure. A big, fat failure. Well, I won’t do it again. Dinah, go home. I’m not an invalid and this is pure self-indulgence. It’s time I accepted the status quo. No more wallowing in self-pity. I’ll get a job, I suppose. I’ve wasted enough time feeling sorry for myself. What happened to me happens to women every day. Now life goes on. I have to do it alone, Dinah, and I understand that now. No, don’t look like that. There’s nothing to worry about. There are plenty of sick people who need your services. I refuse to go on pretending to be one of them.”
> This time there was no hiatus between cases. No sooner had Dinah called the agency than they called her back. A Mrs. Wallace, aged thirty-two, was being released from Lenox Hill Hospital on the following day and would need nursing for at least a month. Would Miss Mason report to room 813 in the Wollman Pavilion and take over?
“No rest for the weary,” Dinah said, and left Mrs. Paley studying the want ad section. “I’ll find some interesting job,” Mrs. Paley said. “Where I’ll work so hard I won’t have time to think about myself.”
That was it, Dick thought. Television. It was the same name as someone in television, one of the network chiefs. Stanton?
Didn’t sound right.
How about Sarnoff?
Uh uh. That definitely wasn’t it.
“Ready to leave, Dick?”
He looked up. Chris Garmey was standing in the doorway.
“It’s that late?” Dick consulted his watch. Sure enough, it was lunchtime, and he and Chris were meeting friends from another law firm for a meal at Montague’s. “Our table’s for one o’clock,” Chris reminded him. “Let’s make tracks, old boy.”
It was over a plate of rare roast beef, which Montague’s served with Yorkshire pudding, that the name came to him. Paley! That was it. “Paley,” he said aloud. “It’s Paley, of course.”
“Pardon?” one of his companions said, salting a branch of celery.
“Nothing, really.”
“What’s Matt Paley want with you?” Chris demanded, and Dick laughed.
“Nothing. Forget it.” He should have remembered the name that way, though. Matthew Paley was senior partner at Chambers, Falk and Merriman. Anyway, it was Paley, and he had the address, and was already out of his chair.
“Have to make a telephone call,” he mumbled, and headed for the front. Luckily it was listed. His finger skipped over the law Paleys — Matthew, senior partner at Chambers, Falk and Merriman, and Matt’s brother George, United States Circuit Judge — coming to rest on Paley, Margaret, whose address jumped out at him in a warmly welcome way. There she was, the dear old girl … he wrote down the number and dialed.
Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances Page 129