A Season in Purgatory (24 page)

“I think that’s not really for me, Mr. du Pithon,” said Harrison.

Rupert du Pithon was undeterred, or perhaps didn’t hear. “We could figure out a work schedule. I could tell you my stories a few hours each week, perhaps Friday afternoons, when everyone we know is leaving for the country and the telephone stops ringing. And then you could bring me pages that I could correct. Oh, it would be divine. Imagine! A book. Everyone’s always said to me, ‘Rupie, when are you going to write your book?’ And now here you appear out of nowhere. Esme Bland, indeed. I’m a more interesting story than Esme.”

Harrison shook his head and put up his hand. “No. No. I can’t write your book for you, Mr. du Pithon. I have my own books to write. I have no time. Besides, your sort of life is not within my area of expertise.”

“You mean you have come here just to talk to me about Esme Bland?” There was a tone of despair in his voice.

“Yes.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“You see, I thought when you telephoned that it was
me you wanted to see, to talk about me, to do an article or book about me.”

“I’m sorry if I have misled you.”

“How incredibly stupid of me.”

“I wondered if you would prevail upon her to see me,” said Harrison. “She has not replied to my letters.”

“No, no, she will see no one, and certainly not someone from the press.”

“You see, I think she has been wronged. I think there are mitigating circumstances. She knows things she has never told. I believe she is a woman with a secret. I am interested in people who carry secrets to the grave with them. I would be fair to her.”

For a moment Harrison thought that Rupert du Pithon might cry. “I need a drink,” he said weakly. “This has been quite a shock for me. I was expecting something quite different. Would you make it, please? I think Cleanie Cleanie has left out the ice and things.”

Harrison walked to the drink table. “What would you like? There’s white wine.”

“No. I want a big girl’s drink. A martini. Can you make a martini? If you can’t do it properly, just give me gin on the rocks with a twist. I hate a bad martini. Did she leave lemons? She doesn’t speak a word of English.”

“There are lemons. And I can make a martini.”

“I thought you had that look.”

Harrison, in no hurry, went about the business of preparation and handed him the drink. Rupert took a sip.

“My dear, it’s perfect. Simply perfect. So few people know how to do it, you know. They shake. They don’t stir. They pour it over rocks. No, no, no. I watched you. You stirred. You iced the glass. You served it straight up and in a stemmed glass. Wherever did you learn?”

“When I was a schoolboy, a rich man in Connecticut taught me when I was visiting one of his sons.”

“Who would that be?”

“Gerald Bradley.”

“Good heavens. You are full of surprises. That ghastly woman you met in my hall, Eloise Brazen, was once one of his mistresses. Years ago it was. Not that that’s such an honor, mind you, being the mistress of that man. She never stops talking about it, whenever anything about him, or one of his children, appears in the papers. She’s consumed with curiosity about the handsome son, Constant. Do you know what she said to me once about Constant Bradley? She said, ‘I’d love to go to bed with him. He wouldn’t even have to buy me dinner.’ That’s the type she is. I always felt Eloise had something on Gerald Bradley. I don’t know what. Do you know he’s the only man who is allowed to smoke a cigar in the Four Seasons?”

“No, I didn’t know.”

“That’s the sort of information I’m full of. And it’s of use to absolutely nobody.” He shook his head sadly.

“I had heard that you were a social gadfly.”

“That is my reputation, yes.”

“You seem deeper.”

“I am deeper, but, you see, I have wasted my opportunities. I have been idle. There were things I could have done. I could have written, I’m sure. My eye was perfect. I missed nothing. I could turn a phrase better than anyone.”

“But why didn’t you?”

On his face was a look of profound weariness that had nothing to do with being tired. He stared straight up at the ceiling. Harrison was aware of a moisture that appeared in his eyes, as if he were fighting tears. He shook his head, and the aged papery skin of his loose chin shook a little. “It is a terrible thing to come to the conclusion that your life has
been as unimportant as mine has been. What is it you wanted me to do, Mr. Burns?”

“To intercede with Esme Bland. To ask her to see me.”

“She is in the Cranston Institute in Maine. It’s where they send all the rich nuts.”

“Yes.”

“Nuns tend them.”

“Yes.”

“And you would like her to see you?”

“Yes.”

“And you think a call or letter from me might do it?”

“Yes.”

“Her father was a great friend of mine.”

“Yes.”

“Will you do me a favor in return?”

“Depends.”

“My death would cause grief to no one,” said Rupert. “But ending it is difficult to do, being a semi-invalid as I am. I think about it, but where do you get the pills? I haven’t the courage to jump. Oh, I’ve looked. Late at night I’ve leaned out the kitchen window at the back of the building. I’d never do it where I would land on Park Avenue, I just can’t bring myself to do that. Even in the alley. So messy, and I really wouldn’t know what to wear. Bessie Talley wore just a raincoat when she jumped out of Five Fifty Park. Fitzy Montague wore his pajamas when he jumped out of Seven Forty, and the trousers flew off on the way down, and there he was, naked from the waist down when they found him, with a big red boil on his ass. I couldn’t stand that. And it would be awful, too, if my hairpiece flew off—you probably didn’t notice that I wear a toupee—and they made jokes about me. You wouldn’t get something for me, would you? A pill that would do it, or a lot of pills?”

“No.”

“If you didn’t want to hand them to me, you’d only have to leave them on a table, and I’d find them. Would you do that?”

“I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. I’m sorry,” said Harrison.

“Are you Catholic? Is that it?”

“Lapsed.”

“I would so appreciate it.”

“No. I won’t do that.”

“I suppose Catholics are like that, even lapsed Catholics. They say it’s always in you, your guilt. You never get rid of it totally. Then there’s something else I want.”

“What is that?”

“I am a great reader of obituaries. That page is the first I turn to each morning in the
Times
. Some I have even cut out and saved over the years. Magda Lupescu’s, for instance. Alice Grenville’s. And Cecil Beaton’s. Their obituaries were works of art. So often recently, I have begun to wonder about my own, how it will read. I couldn’t bear to have a bad obituary. I have led a life that very few people would understand. It could, in the wrong hands, make me look ridiculous. ‘He went to more lunch parties and fashion shows than any man of his generation.’ Or, ‘He was especially gifted at
placement
.’ Do they mention that you knew famous people? I don’t think so. Have I told you that I was once, as a very young man, introduced to Hitler by poor mad Unity Mitford? Most people don’t know that about me. ‘He was a collector of people.’ That is the sort of thing I would like said about me. ‘He attended the legendary Beistegui Ball in Venice as Proust’s Baron de Charlus in a costume, entirely in black, designed by Balenciaga.’ I rather like the sound of that, don’t you? It was reported once in a newspaper that I had the smallest waist in the United States Army during World War II, but I suppose you ought to leave that out. That would sound silly in print, don’t you think? Would you
write my obituary for me? Would you do that? I don’t want to look like a fool after I’m gone. I don’t want to be laughed at. If you write it, it will be left here in an envelope for Mr. Mendenhall from the bank to deliver to the
Times
, after my death. If you will do that for me, Mr. Burns, I will get Esme Bland to see you. She owes me one. I did her a great favor once. Perhaps she’ll tell you that. Whether she tells you her secret, however, that is up to you. You will be kind to Esme, won’t you? And to me?”

Harrison took a plane to Bangor, Maine, where he rented a car and then drove the sixty miles to the town of Cranston. It was snowing. He checked into the Bee and Thistle Inn where he had reserved a room. There were Christmas wreaths on all the doors and Christmas lights in all the windows. Then he telephoned the Cranston Institute to verify his appointment that afternoon with Esme Bland which had been set up at the request of Rupert du Pithon. All was in order.

Esme Bland entered the visitors’ room of the Cranston Institute in a friendly but hesitant manner. She was slim, shy, and sixty-six. She was expensively but primly dressed in a matching cashmere pullover and cardigan, with a tweed skirt and single strand of pearls, an upper-class-country-lady attire that Harrison correctly figured she had dressed in for most of her adult life. In her smartly coiffed, once-blond gray hair were two gold barrettes. She possessed the sort of aristocratic good looks that may have been called pretty in her youth, but never beautiful. She looked at her guest, appraised him, offered him her hand, then withdrew it, and offered it again, with a little smile at her own awkwardness.

“Mr. Burns?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I am Esme Bland.”

“Yes, Miss Bland. It’s kind of you to see me,” said Harrison.

“It’s difficult to resist Rupie,” she replied. Her voice, governess-trained, matched her refined looks. “He’s very persuasive. How is the old thing?”

“Frail. Not in the best of health. In financial distress, I gather. Talks of suicide, but I think it’s all talk. He’s still too interested in everything not to want to see what might happen.”

“Oh, that’s Rupie. Silly man, I suppose, but kind in his own snobbish way. I’m trying to think how old he must be. Eighty-three, or eighty-four, I suppose. He was of an age with my father. God knows what those two must have gotten up to together. Naughty, naughty, naughty is all I can say.” She smiled affectionately.

From outside the room came the screams of a crying woman. “Thief!” she shouted. “Thief, thief!”

Esme rolled her eyes. “Oh, dear,” she said. “Not again.”

Into the room ran a nun dressed in the habit of a Sacred Heart Madam. “You stole my rosary beads,” she screamed at Esme.

Esme, unperturbed, replied, “No, I didn’t steal your rosary beads, Mother Vincent.”

“Yes, you did, you did,” the nun screamed, her voice bordering on hysteria, tears streaming down her face. “They were sterling silver. They were blessed by the Holy Father in Rome.”

Esme Bland simply ignored the presence of the nun. “Go on, Mr. Burns. Rupie said you had questions for me,” she said.

“Thief!” screamed the nun again, her face now very close to Esme’s.

Esme turned to face her accuser. “Why would I want your rosary beads? I am an Episcopalian, as you know perfectly well, Agnes, and we do not use rosary beads,” she said. Her voice took on a mildly exasperated tone, as if she had had this conversation before.

A sister appeared, dressed in nurse’s white. “Come, come, Agnes,” she said. “Esme didn’t take your rosary beads. No, no, we’ve found them in the back of the drawer in your dresser, where you hid them and forgot.” She put her arm around the nun’s ample waist and started to lead her from the room.

“You found them?” asked the nun, her hysteria ceasing. “You found my rosary beads?”

“Yes. In the back of your drawer.”

“Oh, goody goody. Oh, thank you, Saint Anthony, for answering my prayers. When you lose something and pray to Saint Anthony, he will find it for you,” said the nun. Her lips moved in a grateful prayer of thanks.

“Yes, I know, Agnes. Now, come along. Esme has a visitor and has visiting-room privileges for an hour,” said the nurse.

“Oh, Sister Cagney,” said Esme.

“Yes, Esme.”

“Would you close the door behind you, please.”

“Of course, Esme.”

“Thank you.” Esme, hands folded in front of her, waited patiently until the door was closed before she spoke. “I do wish she wouldn’t call me Esme,” said Esme, “but, of course, that is part of institutional life. It’s all first names here.” She smiled. “Now, where were we?”

“We were still talking about Rupert du Pithon. May I ask something?”

“Yes?”

“Who was the nun?”

“Oh, she’s not a nun. She just dresses like a nun. She wanted to be a nun, apparently.”

“She was dressed in the habit of the Sacred Heart order,” said Harrison.

“How observant of you to have noticed that. But, of course, that’s part of your business, isn’t it, noticing details? She thinks she’s the headmistress of a Sacred Heart convent. She calls herself Mother Vincent.”

“Mother Vincent?”

“Yes. She says forty rosaries a day.”

“Oh.”

“Secrets,” said Esme, suddenly.

“What?”

“Rupie said you were interested in secrets. Secrets that people carry within them to the grave.”

“Good Lord,” said Harrison. “I didn’t know he was so specific.”

“Why are you so interested in secrets?” asked Esme.

“I don’t know that I really am.”

“But you are. It is what you write about, Rupie says. And I know why secrets interest you.”

“Why?”

“Because you are carrying a secret yourself. Am I right? Do, please, be honest with me. Or there is no point in all this. Am I right? Are you?”

Harrison stared at the woman. “Yes,” he answered finally.

“There, you see? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“No.”

“It was about my father’s death, was it not, that you wanted me to talk?” she asked.

“Well, yes, but primarily the death of Dwane Lonergan,” said Harrison.

“Oh, Dwane Lonergan,” she repeated, shuddering at the mention of his name. She crossed her arms in front of her, as if she were cold. “They are, how shall I put it, intertwined, in a way.”

She rose from her seat and walked over to the window. Outside, it was snowing. She watched the snow for a while and then turned her chair toward the window and sat down again, this time with her back to Harrison. “Do you have your tape recorder on?” she asked.