“All right, just as soon as I can arrange it.”
“Good. Doug will feel as I do. This is your home, and you must remember that. Please visit soon, Di.”
“Yes, I will, Jean.”
“Meanwhile, have fun.”
“Yes. Thanks.”
Is that what I want? Dinah thought, as she went back to Mrs. Wallace’s room. Just fun? Am I infantile; is it that I resist settling down?
Mr. Wallace was just leaving for the office. He was sitting on the edge of his wife’s bed; both of them had their arms around each other. They weren’t acting like lovers; it wasn’t that. It was the trust and affection, the fond familiarity that shone in their faces as they broke apart at Dinah’s entrance, that struck her.
Home, she thought. I’m looking for a home, and home is really someone you love more than anything else in the world.
She didn’t love Mike that way. Why, it’s not infantilism, she thought with relief. On the contrary, it’s maturity. She knew what she needed and she was looking for it. It might not be easy, but she’d keep on looking for it.
“Take care of the missus,” Mr. Wallace said, whacking his wife’s bottom lightly with his folded copy of the Times.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Wallace, I will.”
“See you tonight, Poppy,” Mrs. Wallace said, and watched him as he went out of the room. That’s happy, Dinah thought, and felt very pleased about the whole thing. If someone else had it, chances were you might find it too. Here’s luck to you, Miss Mason, she thought, and started plumping up pillows and straightening sheets.
Thursday was slow in coming, but time did have a way of elapsing and when it did arrive it was obligingly clement. No sign of rain and not too muggy. Dinah wore a lime-green suit of raw silk with a matching shell. Mr. Wallace wanted to know where she and her young man were going, and Dick said they were having cocktails at the Drake Hotel and that he had no idea where they would wend their way after that.
“The Drake,” Mr. Wallace exclaimed. “Son of a gun. My wife and I had our first date there, to the music of Cy Walters. Barbara had a Vermouth Cassis, which she pronounced incorrectly. The ‘s’ is brought into play, you know. I said, ‘Darling, it’s Cassis,’ and she was quite miffed. We started out badly all around, as a matter of fact, arguing about the merits and deficiencies of Schönberg and Mahler. She was hip on the Teutonic composers. I wasn’t. Nor am I to this day. You can have Bruckner with my compliments. It was a bomb of a first date.” He laughed. “And here we are, with two kids. What do you think of that, Dinah?”
“I think it’s fine.”
“Me too,” Dick said. “Thanks for tipping me off. I won’t even mention the Teutonic composers.”
“I like you,” Mr. Wallace said cordially. “Which is a good thing, considering that I’m inordinately fond of Dinah. I hope you have a good time at the Drake, though I doubt if it’s Cy Walters these days. Tempus fugit, unhappily.”
Whoever the pianist was, the music was memorable. They entered to the strains of a classic French song.
“C’est un chanson qui nous resemble
Toi qui m’ aime, toi qui j’ aime …”
I have no appetite, Dinah thought. For the first time in her life she had no desire for food. The thought of it gagged her. On the drive over, Dick had suggested the Copenhagen for dinner. That meant smorgasbord. But she wouldn’t be able to eat.
“What would you like to drink?”
“How about what Mr. Wallace was talking about?”
“Vermouth Cassis?”
“Please.”
“And a J and B for me,” Dick said.
The waiter padded away.
“Et la mer efface sur le sable
Les pas des aimants desunis …”
The plaintive song came to an end. “That was lovely,” Dinah murmured.
“No, it was morbid,” he said.
“How so?”
“Know French?”
“La plume de ma tante. That’s about all.”
“I’ll translate,” He leaned back. “It’s like a song … we’re like a song … you whom I love … you who love me … We live together … you who love me, I who love you. But life separates those who love … and what is left is only a memory. And the sea erases, on the sands, the footprints of lovers who have drifted apart.”
“Yes, that’s terribly melancholy. Is that really what it means?”
“That’s exactly what it means.”
“Still, it’s beautiful,” she said.
“Yes, but a bit bleak.” He leaned toward her. “First I thought your eyes were blue. Imagine my astonishment when I discovered that they were brown. Like sherry.”
“So far as I know, they’re just plain brown.”
“No, winy brown. I was never particularly partial to blue eyes.”
“Why?”
“Blue eyes are a dime a dozen.”
“So are brown.”
“Not sherry brown.”
And so it went. Fencing, parrying. Flirting is fun, Dinah thought. Only she hoped it wasn’t only that. There’s that scared little girl in me, she told herself, the fearful, prideful woman that’s in all females. She wanted so badly to erect an edifice, a stout bulwark against the world. It seemed so easy, when one was sixteen, but now it was like a mountain to climb.
After a while, though, the gaiety got to her, and she was part of it again, enjoying her date and not thinking beyond it. It wasn’t fair, of course, that it was a man’s world, that the affairs of men revolved around masculine dicta … but there you were, and it was something to be dealt with eternally. “I’ve thought better about the Copenhagen,” Dick said over their second drink. “There’s a fun place on Second Avenue where it will be zanier than these polite dineries. Jamaican, with a calypso singer. Want to try it?”
But I can’t eat, she thought. I’ve lost my appetite. “It sounds interesting,” she said recklessly. Whatever he wanted. If he wanted Jamaican, with a calypso singer, fine with her.
It was one of those evenings you remembered, she thought. They had the best table in the room, due not so much to Dick’s surreptitious gratuity (which didn’t escape her notice) as to their dual radiance, which she thought must signal itself to everyone in the room. It was the most shining evening of her life.
“Yellow Bird,” she said, when she was asked her preference of Island songs. So there was “Yellow Bird” and “Island in the Sun,” and afterward a few impromptu numbers as the strolling singer lingered by their table.
The food was spicy and hot, what she could eat of it, the service excellent, the music haunting. The gaiety of the atmosphere, the soft and intimate lighting, the sensual calypso lilt … all these cast their opalescent sheen over the hours that sped all too quickly.
She remembered thinking this long afterward, that the first time they spent an evening totally alone was a strange, magical evening. There was an occasion in everyone’s life that was like that, and this one was Dinah’s.
V
A JOB, Mrs. Paley thought. Some fascinating job somewhere. Perhaps in an antique shop, where they sold Tiffany glass and Eighteenth century commodes. Or with a correct Madison Avenue art gallery, such as Perls or Klejman’s. Some unusual, “different” place, where you didn’t feel you were going back to work, but instead were starting a new and absorbing life.
I don’t want to start a new life, she thought, the pain stabbing at her heart. I want to go home. But there was no home any more. Home was Edward, and Edward was gone. Where, oh where, did you go when you were dead?
The ring of the telephone took her away from the window, where the maple tree trembled in a faint, ghostly summer breeze. “Yes?” she asked expectantly. Was there always to be that moment of expectation, that tentative anticipation? How could anyone be so neurotic? As if, suddenly, his voice would come over the wires to her.
“Is this Mrs. Paley?”
“Yes, speaking.”
“This is Dick Claiborne.”
<
br /> “Who?”
Anguish knifed at her check. That voice would never come to her again … the only voice that mattered was stilled forever. She was brusque, her voice almost harsh. “I beg your pardon?”
“Dick Claiborne,” he said again. “I got in touch with her. With Dinah Mason. You told me where to reach her.”
“Dinah. Oh, I see.”
“You remember? I called you to find out where I could reach her?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I found her. Thanks to you. I just wanted to say thank you.”
“Oh, not at all,” she said automatically.
“I hope you don’t mind this second telephone call,” he said. “It was just that I wanted to tell you that I appreciate your help.”
“That’s quite all right.”
“How are you?”
“Very well, thank you.”
“I’m glad.”
She laughed in spite of herself. “You’ve talked to Dinah?”
“More than that. I’ve taken her out.”
“Good for you.”
“It was due to your kindness.”
“Delighted that I could be of help,” she said.
“And you’re really feeling better?”
“Much better.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“You’re a nice person,” she said, suddenly warmed. “It was dear of you to call.”
“I wanted to,” he said. “Stay well, Mrs. Paley.”
“I shall.”
“For now, good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
A fugitive smile upturned the corners of Mrs. Paley’s mouth as she went back to the window. So I was Cupid, she thought; I’m of some use after all. That small participation in the moving order of things gave her a faint sense of accomplishment. Well, at least I helped someone, she thought.
Outdoors beckoned her suddenly. The compulsion to get out of the apartment, out of the womb and the cocoon, was abruptly overwhelming. Scooping up her handbag and gloves, she let herself out, hurrying down the corridor to the elevator. There was this compulsion to hold her face up to the sun, to breathe in the open air, get drunk with ozone, worship the sky and smell the salt of the river.
Her footsteps took her, almost without volition on her own part, to the ramp that led down to the park. It was, of course, the place to go. Handy to the apartment, a kind of adjunct to their own living quarters. How many times? she asked herself, as she walked quickly down the ramp. How many late afternoons, early summer evenings, how many bright Sunday mornings, with the weekend papers shoved in a shopping bag?
Maybe a hundred … maybe a million, she thought, and crossed the square. Part way to one of the front benches, she saw him, Dinah’s friend. Dare I? she wondered. He won’t remember me.
But he did.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “How nice to see you.”
“I thought I’d sit here and take the sun for a bit,” she said, and opened the copy of Newsweek she’d stuck under her arm. He, in turn, opened his book. She stole a glance at it. Requiem at Terazin was the title. Terazin … there was something vaguely familiar about the name.
She couldn’t ask, of course.
They sat there side by side, each reading.
Newsweek went by quite fast. Soon Mrs. Paley had digested most of it. She put the magazine down in her lap, leaned back and gazed at the river. She was soon conscious that the man beside her had closed his book.
There was an almost terrifying moment. He was going to address her.
“I’m sure you must know Verdi’s Requiem?” he asked.
“Yes, certainly.”
“I think you might like this small classic little book.”
She turned. “Oh, yes?”
“Yes. It’s a gem. Someone told me I must read it. Would you care to borrow it?”
“Why, thank you.”
The book had suddenly been transferred to her lap. “It’s very good of you.”
“I’m sure it will bring you pleasure. It did me. It’s very touching. A work of art, really.”
“I’ll be careful of it,” she said.
“Don’t worry about it. Just enjoy it.”
“I will. But of course I’ll take good care of it.”
“There are other copies,” he said. “Keep that one, please.”
“Oh, no, it’s yours.”
“It belongs to the world,” he said. “I don’t need a copy. It’s in my mind, indelibly.”
“It must be a fine piece of writing.”
“Yes. It is.”
And suddenly they were talking. Easily, without strain. About books, and then about painting. About music. When the subject of politics was broached, Mrs. Paley grimaced. “I haven’t the feel for it,” she confessed. “My husband was my guide in that respect. He told me what to read, what to think, how to evaluate. I’m quite lost without his opinions.”
“I’m quite lost without my anchor too,” the man said. “It’s a rather strange feeling, as if you don’t quite belong any more.”
“To be perfectly candid, you don’t belong any more,” she said. “One loses one’s place.”
“Yes. I suppose it’s like being cast out of Eden.”
“Only Adam and Eve were together.”
“And the human race began.” He pointed. “There’s another of those Circle Line boats.”
“I see what you mean,” Mrs. Paley said. “It does look somewhat like a vaporetto.”
“The Gabrieli, I believe you said,” the man remarked. “Near the Danieli?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Ours was the Bauer. I haven’t been back to Venice since.”
“Nor I.”
There was a long, reflective pause. “Have you children?” he asked.
“No. Have you?”
“Yes, a son.”
“That must be a blessing.”
“It should be.”
“Why — ”
“But it doesn’t help all that much.” His smile was apologetic. “It doesn’t really help at all.”
“I suppose I can understand.”
The end of the afternoon was at hand. The exodus began, as always, with carriages being wheeled away and the benches emptying. Soon the man and the woman were almost alone. “Time to go home, I suppose,” the man said finally.
“Yes, time to go home.”
There was another pause. “My son won’t be home to dinner,” the man finally announced. “He has, I believe, a date.”
“I see.”
“He has lots of dates,” the man said. “Well, he’s young. Why shouldn’t he enjoy himself?”
“Perfectly true.”
“So … it will be dinner for one, as usual. Or as almost usual … no, that’s not fair. He’s home a good deal of the time. That is, he has been, since his fiancée’s been away.”
“Oh, your son’s engaged,” she said.
“Yes. It does seem odd, doesn’t it, that no sooner do they become engaged than the girl goes off to Europe. That’s a funny way to celebrate an engagement, isn’t it?”
“There’s no accounting for the ways of the young,” she said.
“Well, he’s found someone to spend the evening with tonight. Good for him. I don’t want him to spend endless dull evenings at home. Not that he ever has. Still …”
Mrs. Paley felt a prickle at the back of her neck. She knew people and she knew men. There was a great deal of emphasis being put on dinner. This man was going to a great deal of trouble explaining that he was going to be alone for dinner. She turned away quickly and looked out at the water. Amazed and embarrassed, she felt the prickle spread to her face. Why, he wanted to get up the courage to ask her out to dinner! She was as sure of that as she was sure of anything.
“Good sense has nothing to do with it,” the man went on, and the unspoken question hung in the air. “I want my son to have his own life. It’s just that, unfortunately, that doesn’t take the sting o
ut of sitting down alone to an evening meal.”
“Sitting down alone to an evening meal is just about one of the most dreadful things there is,” Mrs. Paley said, and she was having a little trouble with her vocal chords. “There are dozens and dozens of things that make being alone difficult … and sad. But sitting down alone to a table where there’s nobody else …” She broke off.
“Is almost the worst,” the man said.
“Yes.”
There was a long silence, during which Mrs. Paley sat absolutely still. She wanted, in a way she wouldn’t have thought possible, for this man beside her to say what he hadn’t yet said. The seconds ticked by … as a matter of fact, she fancied she could actually hear them ticktock on her wristwatch. The silence persisted, and she felt she couldn’t bear it another moment. Because he wasn’t going to ask her. People simply didn’t do things like that. He was far too circumspect to …
“I must be going,” she said in a tight voice. “I’ve shopping to do. That is, if I don’t intend to starve. My refrigerator’s as bare as a bone.” She picked up her handbag from the bench. “It was very pleasant to — ”
“Must you go so soon?” The words seemed to be forced out of him. “It’s still early, and — ” Their eyes met, and once they did, neither seemed to be able to look away. The whirr of a helicopter approached overhead, echoed in the still air, and then faded.
“It does seem to me that if your refrigerator’s empty, and I’m to be alone,” he said, and leaned forward with a sudden imperativeness. “I mean to say, neither of us is keen on eating alone. Do you think we might eat together?”
Mrs. Paley’s hesitation was unavoidable. For a minute she couldn’t get any words out. She was just so grateful. With a great effort of will she kept the tears from rising to the surface. How horrible, she thought, swallowing. How horrible to be so lonely and driftless that you wanted to spill over because of a few kind words from a stranger. That an invitation to dinner could assume such proportions.
“I think it would be delightful,” she said, and mentally awarded herself a gold star. Her voice sounded perfectly natural. “It’s a nice idea, and I’d like to very much.”
Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances Page 132