Three Bedrooms in Manhattan (14 page)

“No, I'll—”

“I've yelled at you enough that I should pick up the tab. What has she told you, your girl? She's divorced, of course. At that age here, they've all been divorced at least once.”

Why, exactly, was Kay divorced?

“She's been around, hasn't she? Now she's looking for a little stability.”

“That's not it, not really.”

And he surrendered all self-respect, because he didn't have the strength to betray her any further.

“Can you swim?”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of. Good. In other words, if you fell in you could get out, if the water wasn't rough or too cold. But if you had to save yourself along with someone hanging on to you for dear life, could you do it? Come on, tell me.” He waved at the waiter for another round. “Well, old boy, she'll hang on, believe me. And you'll both sink like stones. The day before yesterday, when you left, I didn't say anything, because you weren't able to talk sense. Today you seem more rational.”

Combe, repentant, bit his lip.

“When I saw you stick your coin in the slot, you see … And wait for the record to start like a lovesick girl … No, old man, not you, not us. We know this business and how it works. At least let me tell you, since I'm an old friend and a good one: François, you're lost.”

Combe's change came. He drained his glass, counted out the tip, and stood up.

“Where are you headed?”

“Home.”

“God! Home, where you don't even have a phone—or do you expect producers to come track you down?”

They went out onto Madison Avenue, where the doorman stood waiting to summon a taxi.

“Look, brother, at home you only get one chance to roll the dice. Here you get two or three chances. But don't push it. I can show you girls who started out in a chorus line or behind a typewriter at sixteen, who were riding around in a Rolls-Royce at eighteen, and were back in the theater again at twenty-two, starting all over again. I've known some who hit the jackpot two, three times, then had to go back to business after having a Park Avenue penthouse and a yacht in Florida, but who still managed to get married again. Did your girl keep her jewelry, at least?”

Combe wasn't about to reply. What was there to say?

“From my limited experience, the thing to do would be to get her a job as an usherette in a cinema. Or even better! With the right connections … You hate me right now, don't you? That's a pity. Or maybe not. Everybody hates the doctor who operates on them. You deserve a lot better, old man, and when you realize it, you'll be cured. Bye-bye.”

Combe must have had too much to drink. He hadn't noticed because of how quickly one round had followed another in the noisy bar, and because of the anxious wait to talk to Laugier, which he'd allowed to go on far too long.

He remembered his wife's photo on the front page of the Paris newspaper, the fluffy hair around her head, which was a little too large for her shoulders.

The film people always said that was what made her look so young, that and her not having any hips to speak of.

Was Laugier some kind of clairvoyant? Maybe he really knew what was what. “Usherette in a cinema,” he'd said. “Or even better!”

Better, for sure. Because she wasn't healthy enough to be an usherette.

“Here you get two or three chances.”

Then, as he was walking alone in the shining light of the window displays, he experienced a revelation.

Kay had been gambling, she'd been gambling and he was her final throw of the dice.
Yes, he had come along at the very last minute. Fifteen minutes more, or if something else had grabbed his attention as he turned into the diner—if, for example, he'd chosen a different stool—then maybe one of the drunk sailors…or someone else…

But he'd had enough of his cowardice. She was very dear to him. He had to hurry home to reassure her. He wanted to tell her that no matter how condescending they acted, all the Laugiers on earth could never destroy the tenderness they felt for each other.

He was a little drunk, he realized. He'd bumped into a passerby and then elaborately doffed his hat to apologize.

But he was sincere. All the rest of them, all the Laugiers—like that rat-faced Frenchman who'd had a couple of drinks and then made off triumphantly with the young American girl—all of them, all of those people at the Ritz, at Fouquet's, they were all asswipes.

And the word, which he'd just hauled up from the depths of his memory, pleased him so much he had to say it again, out loud: “A bunch of asswipes.”

He couldn't stop.

“Asswipes, that's what they are. I'll show them …”

Show them what? He didn't know. It didn't matter.

He'd show them…

He didn't need Laugier or Hourvitch—Hourvitch, who wouldn't shake his hand and who barely seemed to recognize him—he didn't need anyone!

“Asswipes!”

His wife, too. She'd never had to roll the dice two or three times, she'd won the prize on the first throw, and she wasn't even content. And now she was using everything she'd gotten from him in order to further the career of a gigolo!

Because it was true. When he'd first brought her onto the stage, she'd been nothing, playing bit parts, awkwardly opening a door and stammering, “Dinner is served, Countess.”

And she became Marie Clairois. He'd even made up her name. Her real name was Thérèse Bourcicault, and her father sold shoes in the market in a little town in the Jura. He remembered the night he'd explained the name to her, at a restaurant called La Crémaillère, on the avenue de Clichy, over a red-checkered tablecloth and boiled lobster.

“Marie, you see, is so French. Not only French, but universal. Because it's so ordinary, no one except a housemaid would be called Marie anymore, so it's become original again. Marie …”

She had asked him to repeat it.

“Marie … And now, Clairois. There's ‘clear' in it … And ‘clarion,' sort of … There's—”

Good God! What was he thinking? He didn't give a damn about Marie Clairois or her gigolo, whose only claim to fame was going to bed with his wife.

And Laugier, that self-satisfied, condescending idiot, talking about his “girl of thirty-three,” about the jewelry she didn't have, about getting her a nice little job—if she had connections!

A few weeks earlier, before Kay, Laugier had asked him, with the monumental conceit of a man who thinks he's God Himself, “How long can you hold out, dear boy?”

“Depends what you mean.”

“Enough to have your suits dry-cleaned, your laundry done, enough money in your pocket to pick up a bar bill or hop into a taxi.”

“I don't know. Five months, maybe six. When my son was born, I set up a trust fund that matures when he's eighteen, but I suppose I could dip into that.”

Laugier couldn't give a damn about Combe's son.

“Five or six months, good! Find a place to live, anywhere, in a slum if you have to, but at the very least get yourself a telephone.”

Hadn't Hourvitch told him the same thing today? But he wasn't going to be bothered by that. He really should have taken the bus, though there weren't a lot at this hour. But what difference would a few minutes more or less make to Kay, who'd be waiting up anyway?

Kay!

How different the name sounded now from the way it had two, three hours before, or that morning, or at noon, when they were sitting across from each other over lunch smiling at the tailor across the street, to whom Kay had had delivered, anonymously, a truly magnificent lobster.

They were so happy! No matter how Kay's name was sounded, it filled him with peace.

He'd given the taxi driver his address. The sky above the streets looked black and menacing. He leaned back sullenly against the seat. He hated Laugier. He hated the rat-faced man. He hated everybody. He was wondering if maybe he hated Kay, too, when the taxi came to a sudden stop, and before he'd had time to pull himself together, to be her lover again, he saw her outside, on the sidewalk, haggard and out of breath.

“François! Oh, at last! Come quick! Michelle …”

Then she began frantically speaking in German.

The atmosphere in the room was close and heavy. Each time he came back in from the street, it seemed even darker, though all the lights were on.

He had been up and down the stairs three times; it was nearly midnight. His coat was drenched, and his face was wet and cold. The rain had started to pour violently.

The question of the phone would not leave him alone; it had hounded him all day long. Kay couldn't be blamed for the state of her nerves right now, but she had snapped, “Why on earth don't you have a phone?”

Another coincidence: Enrico had come with the telegram in the late afternoon at almost the exact moment when Combe was sneaking guiltily into the bar at the Ritz. If only he'd come home when he'd promised…

Not that he was jealous. Though maybe Kay had cried on Enrico's shoulder, and probably he had tried to console her.

And another coincidence: the day before, while they were shopping for dinner, Kay had said, “Maybe I should give the post office my new address. Not that I get much mail, but …”

Because she was still trying hard not to make him feel jealous, she'd added, “I should have given Enrico the address, too, in case anything's showed up at Jessie's.”

“Why don't you call him?”

He had no idea, at that moment, how important his words would turn out to be. They went into the drugstore, as they had before. Through the glass he watched her lips moving but couldn't tell what she was saying.

He hadn't been jealous.

That day, Enrico had gone to Jessie's place for his things. He'd found some mail for her and Kay. There was a telegram for Kay that had come the day before.

It came from Mexico, so he brought it to her. She was alone in the room, making dinner. She had on the pale blue nightdress that made her look like a newlywed.

Larski wasn't telling her what to do. He left her free to decide. But he had foreseen that she might be short of money, and, in his chilly way, he had made the necessary arrangements.

“I didn't even know he'd brought her to America. Her last letter came four months ago.”

“Whose letter?”

“My daughter's. She doesn't write very often. I suspect she's been forbidden to and has to do it on the sly, though she doesn't admit it. Her last letter came from Hungary, and she said nothing about a trip. What could be the matter with her? Her lungs are fine. We've had her examined by the best specialists since she was a baby. Do you think she might have had an accident, François?”

Why had he had all those drinks? Just now, trying to console her, he'd been embarrassed about his breath—sure that she would notice he'd been drinking. He felt weighed down. He was unhappy.

It was as though something oppressive had settled on his shoulders even before he came home. He couldn't shake it off.

“Eat, François. You can call later.”

No. He wasn't hungry. He went downstairs to use the telephone at the Italian place.

“It won't work, you'll see. There's no overnight flight to Mexico. Enrico already tried.”

If he'd come home on time, Enrico wouldn't have stuck his nose in something that didn't concern him.

“There are two flights tomorrow morning, but all the seats are taken. It seems you have to reserve them three weeks in advance.”

He called even so, as if the miracle might come through for him.

He went back upstairs empty-handed.

“The first train's at 7:32 in the morning.”

“I'll take it.”

“I'll try to get you a sleeper.”

And again he went down to call. Everything was gray and dreary. He came and went dejectedly, like a ghost.

On the phone, they transferred him from desk to desk. He wasn't used to American railroad companies.

The rain, coming down hard, spattered the sidewalk and filled the brim of his hat. When he tipped his head, it spilled to the floor.

Why did these ridiculous details bother him so much?

“It's too late to make reservations. The man told me to be at the station half an hour before the train leaves. There's always somebody who doesn't show up.”

“I'm putting you to so much trouble, François.”

He looked at her carefully, not knowing why, and the thought struck him that it wasn't because of her daughter that Kay sounded so miserable. She was thinking about them, about how in a few hours they'd be separated.

The telegram, that horrible scrap of yellowish paper, meant bad luck. It was the sequel to Laugier's words and to Combe's own thoughts that night.

There was no escape, now, from whatever fate held in store.

Most disturbingly, he was almost resigned to its verdict.

He sensed a weakness, a passivity in himself, a dull lack of response that disheartened him.

She was packing. She said, “I don't know what to do about money. The banks were already closed when Enrico came. I could take a later train. There must be one.”

“Not till evening.”

“Enrico wanted to … Now, don't get angry! You know, nothing else matters right now! He said that if I needed money, I could call him at home, even at night. I didn't know if you—”

“Would four hundred dollars be enough?”

“Of course, François. Only …”

They still hadn't talked about money.

“It really isn't a problem.”

“Maybe I could give you a note or something, I don't know, that you could take to the bank tomorrow, and they'd give you the money instead.”

“It can wait until you get back.”