Marjorie Morningstar (38 page)

“What?”

“She doesn’t remember,” he said to the ceiling. “And the words are graven on my heart.
‘You’ll get another kiss,’ you said, ‘when we find such lilacs again.’—I got it, kiddo.
No lilacs. Fooled you.”

“Well, I hope the thrill lasts,” Marjorie said. “Lilacs or no lilacs, I’m not going
to have much more to do with you, if you don’t stop behaving like an infant.”

“She does not know the secret in the poet’s heart. Exit Marchbanks,” said Wally. He
stepped out of the door and fell head first down the stairs of the bungalow, with
tremendous thumping and banging. When Marjorie came to the door in alarm, he was on
his hands and knees, brushing dead leaves and dirt off himself. “No harm done. Mere
nothing. Tell me, by the way, how did your folks like Noel?”

“Get up and get out of here, you loon, before I report you as a Peeping Tom.”

He got to his feet, blinking and peering around. His face looked oddly bare and defenseless.
“If the indictment is to stand I need my glasses. I can’t peep at my own hand without
them.”

“They’re right behind your heel. Don’t step on them.”

He put them on and squinted at her. “Ah. That’s better. Dr. Livingstone, I presume?”

“Go away.” She went inside and quickly showered. Though she had slept two hours, she
felt unrefreshed and heavy. This day was the longest, or at least the slowest-moving,
of her life. A week seemed to have passed since her talk with her father in the rowboat.
She put on a green cotton print dress and ran down the path toward the social hall.

“Let us maintain our dignity, please, Miss Morningstar,” she heard Wally say as she
came out on the lawn. “Does Katharine Cornell scamper? Did Bernhardt?”

“You again?”

He came and walked beside her. “Really, what did your folks say? Did they like our
man of a thousand perfections?”

“They liked him a lot better than they’d like you in your present state, I’ll tell
you that. You should be ashamed. A kid like you, getting drunk in the middle of the
day.”

“I have several answers to that. Six-thirty is not the middle of the day, but the
last of its declining slope. I am not drunk, I am fuddled, in the best tradition of
an English gentleman. I am not a kid, but a marvelously talented young writer. As
such I demand your respect, and I strongly advise you to consider whether your choice
of—”

“That’s something I’m going to talk to you about, Wally, when you’re a little more
sober. Your writing. You need a straightening-out, my boy.”

“Oh, indeed?” He pointed to a booth. “Excuse me while I pick up a drink. Won’t be
a moment. You too?”

“No, thanks. You’re excused for the evening. Go ahead, make a hog of yourself. Only
stay away from me.”

“Not a hog. A frog. Frog prince. Please don’t desert me. There isn’t another virgin
within a thousand miles.”

Marjorie made a face at him and walked off to the social hall. Noel was at the piano,
still in his yellow charro outfit, teaching a Mexican song to performers clustered
around him. The silver-ornamented sombrero lay on the piano top. He looked extremely
singular, with a dark brown complexion and thick wavy blond hair. “Hi, Marge, enjoying
the fiesta?”

“It’s wonderful. Except I’m half dead.”

“It has gone pretty well, hasn’t it?” He left the piano. His eyes and his teeth, set
off with peculiar brilliance by the brown grease paint, flashed in a virile grin.
“No other camp has anything like it. It’s just a lot of trivial foolishness, of course,
but it is gay.”

“Very gay.”

“Did your folks enjoy it?”

“Yes. They’ve gone. They had a marvelous time.”

“I hope so. They’re very likable, really. Your mother and I got quite friendly this
morning.”

“So she said.”

“Your chores are all done, aren’t they? There’s no more dancing scheduled.”

“That’s right. Unless there’s something you want me to do.”

“No, no, I was just wondering—why don’t you eat at my table at the torchlight supper?
With me and your uncle? I have a feeling that I haven’t seen you for a year.”

“Oh?” She laughed with relief. “Is that why you sent for me? I’ve been having somewhat
the same feeling. I’d love to, Noel, thanks. I’ll go and dress up.”

“Wait, there’s one more thing.”

Wally was at Marjorie’s elbow, thrusting a drink at her. “Here, Morningstar. Drink,
for once dead you never shall return.”

Marjorie reluctantly took the drink and said to Noel, “This fool, look at him. He
came and woke me up with a big wet rum-soaked kiss.”

Noel laughed, glancing at Wally with friendly curiosity. “Well, what’s happening to
you, Young Sobersides? South Wind’s finally gotten to you, hey?”

“I have gone native,” Wally said. “And when I fall, I fall like Lucifer. It will interest
you to know that I am seriously looking over the pig situation.”

“Get away from me,” Marjorie said, “I’ll never talk to you again.”

“Nonsense,” Noel said amiably. “He’s such a starry-eyed snob, if he does take up with
a pig he’ll spend the evening reading T. S. Eliot to her.”

“That shows how much you know. I shall reveal my plan of action to you,” Wally said.
“At precisely midnight I shall, after making a suitable announcement over the loudspeakers
and turning on the floodlights, ravish said pig in the middle of the lawn. Away with
this Victorian skulking, I say. Sex is beautiful.”

“You’re in bad shape,” Noel said. “Look, Marge, the other thing is, the fiesta pretty
well bogs down at night, usually. Half the people have gone home, the novelty of the
costumes is played out—even the fireworks don’t help much. We’ve had a lot of requests
for a repeat of the bullfight at supper, just the part with the bull and your uncle.
He was a terrific hit, and—”

“Gosh, Noel, I honestly think he’s done enough for one day, don’t you?”

“Well, that’s why I wanted to ask you.”

“Why? Is it so important?” She was disturbed at the sudden fall in his buoyant manner.
“I mean—well, the thing is just about over anyway, Noel, and—I know he’s looking forward
to eating at your table, it’s such a great honor in his eyes—”

“Why, he’d still do that, Marjorie. It’s just that he was so perfect—Greech wouldn’t
pay him anything more, I know. Blood from a turnip and all that. But I’d pay him another
fifty out of my own pocket.”

“Look, Noel, why don’t you ask him?” It was exceedingly distasteful to talk about
money with Noel, and to hear him confirm that the Uncle had been paid.

“Well, I will, if you don’t mind.”

“But he’ll eat with us? It would be awful if he had to give that up.”

“Of course he will. Before the show starts.”

“And then perform those didos on a full stomach,” Wally interposed. “Fun.”

“Wally, just shut up, won’t you?” Noel said in a startling tone of ragged irritation.
Then he smiled, slapped Wally’s back, and said with his usual pleasant warmth, “Sorry.
Temperament. Nerves. Overwork.” He turned and shouted to the singers, who were arguing
at the piano, “Back in five minutes, kids!” He put his arm around Marjorie’s neck
in a brief hug. “Look very beautiful tonight.” He hurried out.

Marjorie glanced at Wally, then took a deep gulp of the drink. “Say, this tastes marvelous.
There’s pineapple in it.”

“Come,” Wally said, taking her elbow.

“Where?”

“You’ll give me that talking-to.”

“Oh no. When you know what I’m saying, I will.”

“Believe me, Morningstar, every word you ever say sinks into me.”

Marjorie took another deep drink, nearly emptying the glass. “Why, it isn’t strong
at all, it’s like a fruit drink. However did you get in such shape?”

“Like another one?”

“Sure.”

“Come along.”

The gray rock behind the social hall was called Lover’s Point. They sat with drinks
in the cool breeze, under a pale green clear sky; the sun, dipping huge and orange
to the trees, threw a long rippling orange path on the lake. Wally turned his glittering
glasses toward her. “Go ahead. Drop the guillotine.”

“What?”

“The talking-to.”

“Forget it. Let’s just enjoy the sunset.” She sipped the drink.

“No, please. Lay it on. It will probably be good for me.”

“Well, all right, Wally.” The drink was beginning to warm her. “Somebody’s got to
tell you. I like you, you know that, and I say this only because I like you, and want
you to have a great future. You’re—well, you’re prostituting your talent.”

“Oh? Exactly how?” he said, blinking.

“You know very well how. By writing a lot of dirty jokes and double-meaning rhymes
to get cheap laughs.”

He stared. “But, Marge—”

“I know what you’re going to say. South Wind shows don’t matter. The audience is vulgar
and stupid, you’ve got to pander to them, and so forth. Well, that’s just where you’re
wrong. If you start by pandering here, you’ll do it the rest of your life, and you’ll
end up a hack. Now is the time to start having principles about your work. And—well,
that’s all I wanted to say, really.” His face was still turned expectantly to her.
There was a short silence. “That wasn’t too bad, was it?” she said lightly, feeling
the weight of the quiet. “But it’s true, and I hope you’ll take it to heart. You have
talent, and you should use it properly.” She drank. “Lord, look at that sun. It’s
flattening like a pumpkin.”

“Marge, I appreciate what you say, I truly do.” His tone was low and unexpectedly
sober. “You may well be right.”

“Good for you, Wally. I’m glad I spoke up. Laughs aren’t everything, that’s all. You
should study Noel’s writing. There are such things as charm, taste—”

“Oh my God.” He stood, and said slowly, “Let’s get this on the record now. You just
said I should study Noel’s writing. Correct?”

“I certainly did, and if you—”

“All right. Thank you.” He finished his drink. Suddenly he threw his glass at the
nearest tree. It struck and shattered, and the pieces made little orange sparkles
as they tinkled to the ground. “Marjorie, you’ve asked for this. Now you listen to
me.” He stalked up to her and stood before her, stoop-shouldered and weaving. He was
on a lower shelf of the rock, his eyes level with hers. He poked a finger out at her
and spoke with precise slowness. “For the past three weeks you have been making such
a colossal overbearing goddamned fool of yourself around Noel that you haven’t a friend
left at South Wind except me. There’s nobody, I tell you, nobody on the staff who
doesn’t regard you as a prime jackass, nobody who doesn’t laugh themselves sick over
your antics. You couldn’t have tortured this out of me, Margie, but when you have
the gall to tell me I ought to study what
Noel
writes—”

“Why, Wally, how dare you start reviling me just because I criticize your work? You
asked me, remember, you
asked
me—”

“Look, my work is crude, I know that very well, but in the name of heaven, I’m nineteen
years old. I’m still in college. Noel is practically thirty, Marjorie—he’s THIRTY,
don’t you realize that? And right now my work is better than his,
better
—”

“You’re pretty drunk, my boy—”

“Good Lord, how blind can love make a girl?” His full lower lip was trembling. “Can’t
you see that he’s hit his level, that he hit it years ago, and has never gone above
it, and never will? That he does a little of this and a little of that, a tune, a
lyric, a piano solo, an orchestra arrangement, a skit, a chess game”—he threw his
shoulders rhythmically from side to side, making sneering little gestures—”a conversation
in French, a conversation in Spanish, an argument about Freud or Spengler, and that’s
Noel Airman, the beginning and the end of him? Marjorie, take it from me, and don’t
ever forget that I told you this on the first Sunday in August, 1935—Noel Airman is
NOTHING. He will never get anywhere, never. By the time I’m thirty, Noel’s present
age, mind you, ten years from now, I’ll be FAMOUS, do you hear?”

He was leaning far forward, passionately shaking his fist at her. He actually reminded
her of a Marchbanks she had once seen in an amateur show, shrill, eager, ugly, short,
who had leaned so far forward in a tirade at Candida that she had wondered whether
he wore trick shoes fastened to the floor. The thought made her smile.

“All right, Wally. You’re a great unappreciated genius. It’ll be our little secret.
Let me have a cigarette.”

“Don’t you patronize me! I won’t stand for it!” He jerked the pack of mentholated
cigarettes from his trousers, knocked one out, and lit it for her in angry little
gestures. “Talent really doesn’t matter, though, does it? It wouldn’t matter if I’d
already written
Once in a Lifetime
and
Private Lives
. I’m not Noel. That’s all that counts. He is Noel. Therefore he’s Shaw and Coward
and Richard Rodgers and—”

Her tone was quiet, though clear, as she said, “Wally, how about
Princess Jones?
”

He stopped short in his pacing, and squinted at her. “Eh?”

“
Princess Jones
, dear.” He blinked and stared. “Come, Wally, you remember that little piece Noel
played for us the other night? The complete musical comedy he wrote, book, lyrics,
music, everything? You said yourself it was a masterpiece. How about that?”

His jaw hung slightly open. He said after a moment, “
Princess Jones
?”

“Why, yes.
Princess Jones
.”

Wally dropped down on the rock and put his head in his hand. “I’m drunker than I thought.
I’m dizzy.” He said nothing for several moments.

The sun was gone. The lake had turned purple, and the breeze, cooler and stronger,
smelled of laurel. Wally said in an altered tone, his face still in his hand, “I don’t
exactly know about
Princess Jones
. I was drunk when I heard it. But I admit—I mean, it’s certainly got charm, but as
far as a Broadway production goes—anyhow, nobody can tell about those things. I mean,
maybe I’ve been laying it on a little, but you know damned well he hasn’t done a thing
here this year that can compare with my Hitler number—”