The Storyteller

by Harold Robbins

  He thought for a moment. “No, it’s okay, I’ll manage.”

  “You’ll be more comfortable at the villa anyway,” she said.

  “Sure,” he said. “How much time to get ready?”

  “I’m ready right now,” she said.

  He nodded slowly. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  She looked up at him. “I’m sorry, Joe.”

  He smiled wryly. “That’s the way it goes. You can’t win them all.”

  34

  IT WAS FOUR days later that he waited in the Nice Airport for Laura to arrive on her connecting flight from Paris. An airport announcement bell echoed before a girl’s voice came from the loudspeakers, first in French, then in English. Laura’s flight would be delayed by two hours because of weather conditions in Paris.

  Joe looked up at the flight departure and arrival board below the giant clock. It was nine o’clock. The flight arrival that had been scheduled for nine-thirty was now posted for eleven-thirty. He swore to himself and headed for the small restaurant and bar and sat down at a table. Carefully he placed the two dozen roses he had brought for her on the table and looked up at the waiter. “Scotch whiskey and water,” he said.

  The waiter shook his head. “Sir, at the tables one must always order food.”

  “I had breakfast already,” Joe said. “What do you suggest?” Automatically he gave the waiter a hundred-franc note.

  “In that case, monsieur,” the waiter said, “I will bring you a double Scotch and water.”

  “Beautiful.” He looked out at the airport. A crowd was already waiting for the Paris flight to arrive. They waited patiently, apparently always used to delays.

  The waiter brought his two Scotches and waters, and placed them on the table. Joe stared at them. He lifted one of the glasses and tasted the Scotch. It was strong. By the time Laura arrived, he would be completely bombed. He decided to nurse the drinks as he reflected upon his last few days.

  It had been two o’clock in the afternoon when he returned to Gianpietro’s villa from Saint-Tropez. The houseman came out as he descended from the taxi. “Bonjour, Monsieur Crown,” he said in greeting. “Monsieur Gianpietro is on the telephone for you.”

  Joe paid off the taxi and followed the houseman to a telephone in the hall of the main house. “Franco,” he said.

  “Joe, my friend,” Gianpietro said. “The houseman said that you had gone with the girls to Saint-Tropez.”

  “It was not my cup of tea,” Joe said. “There was no way I could work there.”

  “You will be more comfortable at the villa,” Gianpietro said.

  “Probably,” Joe said. “But I have been thinking about your kind offer and I feel I can’t give you the kind of story you need for Mara. So I have decided to leave and begin work on my next book.”

  “You are probably right,” Gianpietro agreed, a note of relief in his voice. “Mara is a cunt. She is not serious about her work. All she wants is people to do it for her.”

  “You don’t sound very happy with her,” Joe said. “I hope I am not the reason for that.”

  “Not at all,” Gianpietro said reassuringly. “As a matter of fact, there is another girl I have had my eye on for a long time. I think that Mara will have a surprise quite soon.”

  “I’m sorry,” Joe said. “May I have your permission to telephone my editor in the States? Also, I will be leaving the villa tomorrow.”

  “Anything you want, you know that, my friend,” Gianpietro said. “If there is anything you need, please call on me.”

  “Thank you, Franco. Arrivederci.” Joe put down the telephone and turned to the houseman. “S’il vous plaît,” he asked, in about all the French he could speak, “would you place a telephone call to New York for me?”

  The houseman nodded. “Avec plaisir,” he said, handing a small paper pad and pencil to Joe. “Write the number for me, please,” he said as he picked up the phone.

  Joe wrote Laura’s telephone number on the pad and returned it to him. Quickly the houseman spoke to the operator and waited for a reply. Joe heard the scratch of a girl’s voice from the receiver. “The circuits are occupied just now. It will take about two hours to place your call.”

  “That’s okay,” Joe said. “I’ll wait.”

  The houseman spoke a few words into the telephone, then replaced the receiver. “Is there anything else, monsieur?”

  “I’m leaving the villa tomorrow,” Joe said. “What is the best hotel in Nice?”

  “The Negresco, monsieur.”

  “Can you get me a double room there for a few days?”

  “It will be difficult, monsieur. This is the height of the season and they’re usually complet.”

  “Damn,” Joe said. “Is there any way you can help me?”

  “My brother-in-law is in the conciergerie. Perhaps he can arrange something?”

  “Talk to him,” Joe said. “Tell him that I will give him fifty dollars if he can get a room for me.”

  “I will try my best, monsieur,” the houseman said.

  “Thank you,” Joe said, pressing a ten-dollar bill into the man’s hand. “I’ll be down at the guest house and begin my packing. When the New York call comes through, call me there.”

  By the time he had gone into the guest house, the telephone rang. It was the houseman. “I have already spoken to my brother-in-law and your room is confirmed.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Joe said. “Thank you very much.”

  “It is my pleasure, monsieur,” the houseman said. “I will be pleased to drive you to the hotel tomorrow.”

  “Thank you again,” Joe said and put down the phone. He went to the large armoire and took out his valise. He carried it to the bed, then stared at it. Suddenly he felt very tired. It was a long drive from Saint-Tropez and the heat had already dragged him down. Almost automatically he stretched out on the bed and went to sleep.

  The sun flooded in from the west window opposite his bed, awakening him. He looked at his watch. He had been sleeping almost an hour and a half. He splashed some water on his face and began to feel better. He picked up the telephone. The houseman answered. “Any reply on my New York call yet?” Joe asked.

  “No, monsieur.” The houseman was polite. “Would monsieur like something to eat or drink?”

  Suddenly Joe realized that he had not had lunch. “Yes, I would like something.”

  “I have prepared several sandwiches, one chicken, one rosbif. What do you prefer to drink, wine or beer?”

  “Do you have any Coca-Cola?”

  “Of course, monsieur.” The houseman sounded slightly surprised.

  “That’s great,” Joe said. “With lots of ice. Very cold.”

  “I will bring it immediately, monsieur.”

  Joe put down the telephone and began unbuttoning his shirt. It was damp with perspiration. Before he had the shirt off, the telephone rang.

  “La Contessa Baroni, monsieur,” the houseman said.

  Joe was puzzled. “For me?”

  “She asked for you, monsieur.”

  “Okay,” Joe said. He heard the click in the receiver as the call was transferred. “Hello?”

  “This is Anna Baroni,” the contessa’s voice echoed in his ear. “What are you doing living with that gangster down there?”

  “I was trying to think of a movie idea for his girlfriend,” Joe said. “But I can’t make it so I’m leaving in the morning. I’m planning to meet my editor so that I can begin working on my next book.”

  The contessa laughed into the telephone. “Is your editor a man or a woman?”

  “A woman.” Joe smiled.

  “I might have guessed,” the contessa said. “Is she pretty?”

  Joe thought a moment. “More than that,” he said. “She has style.”

  “Spoken like a writer,” she said. “By the way, in case you don’t know it, I am your publisher in Italy. I own the company that is putting out your novel in Italy.”

  “
Have you read it?” he asked.

  “No,” she answered honestly. “I do not have the patience. I called to invite you on my yacht for a long weekend.”

  He hesitated. “I would love to join you, but my editor is very conservative.”

  The contessa laughed again. “There is a quiet group on the boat. Your editor might even enjoy it. The managing director of my publishing company and his wife will be along.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “But I haven’t received her arrival date yet. It might be too late for you. She’s expected either the day after tomorrow or the weekend.”

  “Either way, call me,” she said. “You can reach me on my yacht, just telephone the captain’s office at the Port d’Antibes. They will transfer the call to my boat.”

  “Okay,” he said. “You will hear from me on Friday. And thank you again.”

  “Ciao,” she laughed and hung up.

  It took two hours for the call to Laura to go through. By that time he had everything packed and his valises closed. Laura’s voice sounded half asleep.

  “Did I wake you?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s after midnight here.” Now she was awake. Her voice sounded concerned. “Is there anything wrong?”

  “Nothing is wrong,” he answered. “Yes, everything is wrong. You’re not here.”

  “It’s not the tenth yet,” she said. “I told you to call me on the tenth.”

  “It’s the fifth,” he said. “I’m sure you know what you want to do. I’m in Nice and it’s taken six hours for the circuits to clear so I could make this call to you. I want you to come now. The tenth will turn to the fifteenth before you get here, then before we know it, we’ll have no time together.”

  “Have you done any work on the book?”

  “No,” he answered. “I’ve been farting around with an Italian producer. Finally, I decided there was nothing in it for me. I’d rather work on the book, but I need your help to get it started.”

  She was silent.

  “Besides, I want to be with you,” he said.

  She took a deep breath. “I don’t want to be just another girl with you.”

  “You’re not just another girl,” he said. “You’re someone special to me. I know that now. All the others were yesterday, I was playing with myself. I called you because I need you. I don’t know what I can do, but I do know that I don’t want to write any more scripts. I want to be a real writer. And I need you, not only for myself but to help me work.”

  “You really mean that?” she asked softly.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “When do you want me to be there?” she asked.

  “I’d like tomorrow.”

  “This is Tuesday,” she said. “How about Friday?”

  “I’ll settle for that,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at the Nice Airport. I’ll be at the Negresco Hotel when you get the tickets. Hurry.”

  “Joe,” she said. “I don’t want to make any mistakes.”

  “You won’t,” he said. “I promise.”

  * * *

  THE HOUSEMAN’S BROTHER-IN-LAW had the right connections. Joe was given one of the best rooms in the hotel, on the fifth floor, with two wide glass doors leading to a narrow balcony over the broad expanse of the beaches and the Mediterranean. Joe looked at the twin beds.

  The room clerk who had ushered him to the room smiled. “A l’ Américaine,” he said. “Most of our American clients prefer twin beds.”

  Joe smiled. “Doesn’t bother me.” He gave the clerk a hundred francs and nodded as the clerk thanked him. The clerk had just gone when the porter came in with the valises, and right behind him came the valet, who unpacked everything. Joe watched his twenty-franc notes flying like paper airplanes. But he had a good feeling. The service was great, even if it cost.

  He opened his portable typewriter and placed it on the desk near the window. He took several sheets of paper from his brief case. He had an idea for the novel. He didn’t care that everyone said there were too many novels about Hollywood; this would be a story that no other writer had written—a story of booze, dope and broads. It has nothing to do with the movie business.

  The telephone rang. It was Laura. “Friday morning okay with you?” she asked.

  “Perfect,” he said.

  “What are you doing?” she asked after she had told him about her flight.

  “I’m trying to have something on paper to show you,” he said. “I didn’t want you to feel that I was screwing off.”

  “That’s good,” she said.

  “This is the height of the season,” he said, “and everything is filled up. But I was lucky. I got one of the best large rooms in the hotel, looking out on the sea.”

  “Sounds beautiful,” she said.

  “Only one problem,” he said. “It has twin beds.”

  She was silent for a moment. “Remember, I spent two years in France; I can handle it.”

  He laughed. “I hope I can. But I’ll be at the airport waiting for you. I’m really very excited.”

  “So am I,” she said.

  He put down the phone and then looked at the typewriter. He had already written four pages. He looked at his watch. It was eight o’clock at night and the sun was still shining. Suddenly he felt hungry. He hadn’t eaten any lunch. He called down to the concierge.

  The concierge recognized his voice. “Monsieur Crown, this is Max. We met when my brother-in-law brought you here.”

  “Max, of course,” he said. “What restaurant do you suggest for dinner?”

  “The restaurant in the hotel is very good, monsieur,” Max answered.

  “Fine,” Joe said. “Can you reserve a table for me at nine o’clock?”

  “Of course, monsieur. You will be alone?”

  “Yes,” Joe answered.

  “Very well, monsieur. Thank you.” The receiver clicked off and Joe put down the telephone. He showered and dressed and was ready to go downstairs when the telephone rang.

  “Joe?” It was Marissa.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Mara wants you to return to the villa.”

  “Tell her to fuck herself,” he said.

  “She said Gianpietro will be angry,” Marissa said.

  “She’s lying,” he said flatly. “I already spoke to him and he said it was okay for me to leave.”

  She was silent for a moment. “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  He lied a little. “My editor will arrive from New York tomorrow morning, then we’re beginning to work on my next book.”

  “I’m sorry, Joe,” she said. “I really like you. I’m sorry that it’s ended like this.”

  “I still like you too,” he said. “But we had a good run. Maybe there’ll be another time.”

  “I hope so,” she said sincerely. “Good luck.”

  “And good luck to you,” he said. “Ciao.”

  He went down for dinner.

  * * *

  THE AIRPORT ANNOUNCEMENT bell echoed. Quickly, Joe paid for the Scotches. Laura’s flight was on the ground.

  35

  SHE WALKED THROUGH the hotel room and walked out on the narrow balcony while the porter placed her valises on the luggage racks and left. Joe stood in the middle of the room watching her. She turned back to him. “I still can’t believe that I’m really here,” she said.

  “You can believe it,” he said, moving to the small table on which there was a bottle of champagne that stood in a silver ice bucket. Quickly he popped the cork out and filled a glass for each of them. “Welcome to the Riviera,” he toasted.

  She tasted the champagne. “It’s lovely,” she said. She met his eyes. “You’ve done everything. Roses at the airport, champagne in the room. Do you know that you’re a romantic?”

  He laughed. “I never thought that. I was just happy that you came.”

  “I’m happy too,” she said. She came to him and kissed him lightly. “Thank you.”

  He shook his head silently.

/>   “I’ve got to take a shower,” she said. “I have a feeling that my clothing is stuck to me. Eighteen hours on the plane isn’t the most relaxing way of traveling, only the fastest.”

  He held up his glass. “To modern speed,” he said. “You take your shower. You’ll feel better then.”

  She looked down at the beds. “Which one is mine?”

  “Take your pick,” he said. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

  “I’ll take the one nearest the bathroom,” she said. She placed the champagne glass down. She opened one of her valises and took out a small box that held her cosmetics. “Is there an extra bathrobe in the bathroom?”

  He nodded.

  “Good,” she said, going to the bathroom. “I won’t be too long.”

  “I’ll be here,” he said. He sat at the desk and looked down at the pages he had written. Twenty-seven pages, single-spaced. That was pretty good. She had to be pleased. Then he heard the water running in the shower. He closed his eyes. In his mind he could see her nude body, the water pouring over her. He felt the excitement throbbing through his erection. Quickly, he walked out on the balcony and looked out toward the sea. He cursed to himself at the way the Italians cut their slacks—all that was needed was a half hard, and it showed against the material.

  A few minutes later, she was beside him on the balcony. “What are you watching?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “It’s just that it’s warm and there’s no fan in the room.”

  “I think it’s great,” she said. “We had nothing but rain the last few weeks in New York.”

  He turned to her. She was wearing the terry bathrobe supplied by the hotel. “How was the shower?”

  “I feel a lot better,” she said. “But I’m still tired.”

  “That’s normal,” he said. “Why don’t you have a siesta? There’s no rush.”

  She looked up at him. “What are you going to do?”

  “The same thing,” he said. “I was too excited to sleep well.”

  He followed her into the room and hung a “Do Not Disturb,” sign outside the door. Then he took down her bedcover and threw it on a chair. “Voilà,” he said.

  “That looks good,” she said, turning back the blanket. She stretched out on the bed and covered herself with the sheet.