Another Country (22 page)

“A waitress. Well, my wife’s here, so I won’t ask you where you work.” He stepped a little closer to Ida. “But what do you think about while you walk around waiting on tables?” Ida hesitated, and he smiled again, coaxing and tender. “Come
on
. You can’t tell me that all you want is to get to be head waitress.”

Ida laughed. Her lips curved rather bitterly, and she said, “No.” She hesitated and looked toward Vivaldo, and Ellis followed her look. “I’ve sometimes thought of singing. That’s what I’d like to do.”

“Aha!” he cried, triumphantly, “I knew I’d get it out of you.” He pulled a card out of his breast pocket. “When you get ready to make the break, and let it be soon, you come and see me. Don’t you forget.”

“You won’t remember my name, Mr. Ellis.” She said it lightly and the look with which she measured Ellis gave Vivaldo no clue as to what was going on in her mind.

“Your name,” he said, “is Ida Scott. Right?”

“Right.”

“Well, I never forget names or faces. Try me.”

“That’s true,” said his wife, “he never forgets a name or a face. I don’t know how he does it.”

“I,” said Vivaldo, “am not an actress.”

Ellis looked startled, then he laughed. “You could have fooled me,” he said. He took Vivaldo by the elbow. “Come and have a drink with me. Please.”

“I don’t know why I said that. I was half-kidding.”

“But only half. What’s your name?”

“Vivaldo. Vivaldo Moore.”

“And you’re not an actress—?”

“I’m a writer. Unpublished.”

“A
ha
! You’re working on something?”

“A novel.”

“What’s it about?”

“My novel’s about Brooklyn.”

“The tree? Or the kids or the murderers or the junkies?”

Vivaldo swallowed. “All of them.”

“That’s quite an assignment. And if you don’t mind my saying so, it sounds just a little bit old-fashioned.” He put his hand before his mouth and burped. “Brooklyn’s been done.
And
done.”

No it hasn’t, Vivaldo thought. “You mean,” he said, with a smile, “that it doesn’t have any TV possibilities?”

“It might have, who knows?” He looked at Vivaldo with friendly interest. “You really have a sneer in your voice when you say TV, you know that? What are you so afraid of?” He tapped Vivaldo on the chest. “Art doesn’t exist in a vacuum; it isn’t just for you and your handful of friends. Christ, if you knew how sick I am of this sensitive-young-man horseshit!”

“I’m sick of it, too,” said Vivaldo. “I don’t think of myself as a sensitive young man.”

“No? You sound like one and you act like one. You look down your nose at everybody. Yes,” he insisted, for Vivaldo looked at him in some surprise, “you think that most people are shit and you’d rather die than get yourself dirtied up in any of the
popular
arts.” Then he gave Vivaldo a deliberate, insolent once-over. “And here you are, in your best suit, and I bet you live in some dingy, ice-water apartment and you can’t even take your girl out to a night club.” His voice dropped. “The colored girl, Miss Scott, you see I do remember names, she’s your girl, isn’t she? That’s why you got pissed off at me. Man, you’re too touchy.”

“I thought you were too free.”

“I bet you wouldn’t have felt that if she were a white girl.”

“I’d have felt that about any girl who happened to be with me.”

But he wondered if Ellis were right. And he realized that he would never know, there would never be any way for him to know. He felt that Ellis had treated Ida with a subtle lack of respect. But he had spoken to her in the only way he could, and it was the way he spoke to everyone. All of the people in Ellis’ world approached each other under cover of a manner designed to hide whatever they might really be feeling, about each other or about themselves. When confronted with Ida, who was so visibly rejected from the only world they knew, this manner was forced to become relatively personal, self-conscious, and tense. It became entangled with an effort to avoid being called into judgment; with a fear that their spiritual and social promissory notes might suddenly be called up. By being pressed into the service of an impulse that was real, the manner revealed itself as totally false and because it was false, it was sinister.

Then, as Ellis poured himself another applejack and he poured himself another Scotch, he realized that the things which Ellis had, and the things which Richard was now going to have, were things that he wanted very much. Ellis could get anything he wanted by simply lifting up a phone; headwaiters were delighted to see him; his signature on a bill or a check was simply not to be questioned. If he needed a suit, he bought it; he was certainly never behind in his rent; if he decided to fly to Istanbul tomorrow, he had only to call his travel agent. He was famous, he was powerful, and he was not really much older than Vivaldo, and he worked very hard.

Also, he could get the highest-grade stuff going; he had only to give the girl his card. And then Vivaldo realized why he hated him. He wondered what he would have to go through to achieve a comparable eminence. He wondered how much he was willing to give— to be powerful, to be adored, to be able to make it with any girl he wanted, to be sure of holding any girl he had. And he looked around for Ida. At the same time, it occurred to him that the question was not really what he was going to “get” but how he was to discover his possibilities and become reconciled to them.

Richard, now, was talking, or, rather, listening to Mrs. Ellis; Ida was listening to Loring; Cass sat on the sofa, listening to Miss Wales. Paul stood near her, looking about the room; Cass held him absently and yet rather desperately by the elbow.

“Anyway— I’d like to keep in touch with you, maybe you’ve got something.” And Ellis handed him his card. “Why don’t you give me a ring sometime? and I meant what I said to Miss Scott, too. I produce pretty good shows, you know.” He grinned and punched Vivaldo on the shoulder. “You won’t have to lower your
artistic
standards.”

Vivaldo looked at the card, then looked at Ellis. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll bear it in mind.”

Ellis smiled. “I like you,” he said. “I’m even willing to suggest an analyst for you. Let’s join the party.”

He walked over to Richard and Mrs. Ellis. Vivaldo walked over to Ida.

“I’ve been trying to find out about your novel,” Loring said, “but your young lady here is
most
cagey. She won’t give me a clue.”

“I keep telling him that I don’t know anything about it,” Ida said, “but he won’t believe me.”

“She doesn’t know much about it,” Vivaldo said. “I’m not sure I know an awful lot about it myself.” Abruptly, he felt himself beginning to tremble with weariness. He wanted to take Ida and go home. But she seemed pleased enough to stay; it was not really late; the last rays of the setting sun were fading beyond the river.

“Well,” said Loring, “as soon as you
do
have something, I hope you’ll get in touch with me. Richard thinks you’re tremendously talented and I’d certainly trust his judgment.”

He knew that Ida was puzzled and irritated by the mediocrity of his response. He tried to pump up enthusiasm, and watching Ida’s face helped. He could not imagine what she thought of Ellis, and rage at himself, his jealousy, his fear, and his confusion, contributed a saving intensity to his evasive reply. Loring seemed more certain than ever that he was a diamond in the rough, and Ida more certain than ever that he was in need of hands to push him.

And he himself felt, in a way he had not felt before, that it was time for him to take the plunge. This was the water, the people in this room; it impressed him, certainly, as far from fine, but it was the only water there was.

Miss Wales now looked over toward him, but he avoided her eyes, giving all of his attention to Ida.

“Let’s go,” he said, in a low voice, “let’s get out of here. I’ve had it.”

“You want to go
now
? You haven’t talked to Miss Wales.” But he watched her eyes flicker toward the bar, where Ellis stood. And there was something in her face which he could not read, something speculative and hard.

“I don’t
want
to talk to Miss Wales.”

“Why on earth
not
? You’re being silly.”

“Look,” he said, “is there someone here
you
want to talk to?”
Oh, you idiot!
he groaned to himself. But the words were said.

She looked at him. “I don’t know what you mean. What are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” he said, sullenly. “I’m just crazy. Don’t mind me.”

“You were thinking something. What were you thinking?”

“Nothing,” he said, “really nothing.” He smiled. “I don’t care. We can stay if you want to.”

“I was only staying,” she said, “on account of you.”

He was about to say, Well then, we can
go,
but decided that it would be smarter not to. The doorbell rang. He said, “I just wanted to avoid getting involved in a supper deal with any of these people, that’s all.”

“But
who,
” she persisted, “did you think I wanted to talk to?”

“Oh,” he said, “I thought if you were really serious about that singing business, you might have wanted to make an appointment with Ellis. I imagine he could be helpful.”

She looked at him wearily, with mockery and pity. “Oh, Vivaldo,” she said, “what a busy little mind you’ve got.” Then her manner changed, and she said, very coldly, “You don’t really have the right, you know, to worry about who I talk to. And what you’re suggesting doesn’t flatter me at
all
.” She kept her voice low, but it had begun to shake. “Maybe, now, I’ll behave like what you think I am!” She walked over to the bar and stepped between Richard and Ellis. She was smiling. Ellis put one hand on her elbow and his face changed as he spoke to her, becoming greedier and more vulnerable. Richard went behind the bar to pour Ida a drink.

Vivaldo could have joined them, but he did not dare. Her outburst had come so mysteriously, and with such speed, that he was afraid to think of what might happen if he walked over to the bar. And she was right; he was wrong. Who she talked to was none of his business.

But her reaction had been so swift and terrible! Now, his advantage was gone. His patiently amassed and hoarded capital— of understanding and gallantry— had vanished in the twinkling of an eye.

“I’d like you to meet Sydney Ingram. This is Vivaldo Moore.”

Cass was at his shoulder, presenting the newcomer, of whose arrival he had been vaguely aware. He had come alone. Vivaldo recognized his name because the boy’s first novel had just been published and he wanted to read it. He was tall, nearly as tall as Vivaldo, with a pleasant, heavy-featured face and a great deal of black hair and, like Vivaldo, was dressed in a dark suit, probably his best one.

“I’m delighted to meet you,” Vivaldo said— sincerely, for the first time that evening.

“I’ve read his novel,” Cass said, “it’s wonderful, you must read it.”

“I want to,” said Vivaldo. Ingram smiled, looking uncomfortable, and stared into his glass as though he wished he could drown in it.

“I’ve circulated enough for the time being,” Cass said. “Let me stay with you two for a while.” She led them slowly toward the big window. It was twilight, the sun was gone, soon the street lamps would be turned on. “Somehow, I don’t think I’m cut out to be a literary hostess.”

“You looked fine to me,” said Vivaldo.

“You weren’t trying to keep up a conversation with me. My attention just keeps wandering, I can’t help it. I might as well be in a room full of physicists.”

“What are they talking about over at the bar?” Vivaldo asked.

“Steve Ellis’s responsibility to the televiewers of America,” Ingram said. They laughed. “Don’t laugh,” said Ingram, “he, too, can become President. At least, he can read and write.”

“I should think,” said Cass, “that that would disqualify him.”

She took each of them by one arm and they stood together in the darkening window, staring out at the highway and the shining water. “What a great difference there is,” she said, “between dreaming of something and dealing with it!” Neither Vivaldo nor Ingram spoke. Cass turned to Ingram and, in a voice he had never heard her use before, wistful and desirous, she asked, “Are you working on something new, Mr. Ingram? I hope you are.”

And his voice seemed, oddly, to respond to hers. They might have been calling each other across that breadth of water, seeking for each other as the darkness relentlessly fell. “Yes,” he said, “I am, it’s a new novel, it’s a love story.”

“A love story!” she said. Then, “And where does it take place?”

“Oh, here in the city. Now.”

There was a silence. Vivaldo felt her small hand, under his elbow, tighten. “I’m looking forward to reading it,” she said, “very much.”

“Not more,” he said, “than I am looking forward to finishing it and having it read, especially, if I may say so, by you.”

She turned her face to Ingram, and he could not see her smile but he could feel it. “Thank you,” she said. She turned to the window again and she sighed. “I suppose I must get back to my physicists.”

They watched the street lamps click on.

“I’m going to have a drink,” Cass said. “Will anyone join me?”

“Sure,” said Vivaldo. They walked to the bar. Richard, Ellis, and Loring were sitting on the sofa. Miss Wales and Mrs. Ellis were standing at the bar. Ida was not in the room.

“Excuse me,” said Vivaldo.

“I think somebody’s in there!” cried Miss Wales.

He walked down the hall, but did not reach the bathroom. She was sitting in the bedroom, among all the coats and hats, perfectly still.

“Ida—?”

Her hands were folded in her lap and she was staring at the floor.

“Ida, why are you mad at me? I didn’t mean anything.”

She looked up at him. Her eyes were full of tears.

“Why did you have to say what you said? Everything was fine and I was so happy until you said that. You think I’m nothing but a whore. That’s the only reason you want to see me.” The tears dripped down her face. “All you white bastards are the same.”