Belinda (2 page)

"-a good presidential nap and then you'll be fine for dinner."

"Dinner, you didn't tell me about dinner!" My shoulder ached. So did my hand. One thousand books. But I was lying. I had been told about dinner. I had been warned about everything.

The lobby of the Saint Francis swallowed us in a golden gloom, the inevitable noise of the crowd interwoven with the faint strains of an orchestra. Massive granite columns soaring to gilded Corinthian capitals. Sounds of china and silver. Smell of an ice box full of expensive flowers. Everything, even the patterns in the carpet, seemed to be moving.

"Don't do this to me," Jody was saying. "I'll tell everybody you're beat, I'll do the talking-"

"Yes, you say it all, whatever it is-"

And what is there to say anymore? How many weeks has the book been on The New York Times best-sellers list? Was it true I had an attic full of paintings nobody had ever seen? Would there be a museum show any time soon? What about the two works in the Pompidou Center? Did the French appreciate me more than the Americans? And talk about the coffee-table book, of course, and the gulf that divided it from the Saturday morning Charlotte show and the animated films that might be made by Disney. And of course the question that irritated me the most: What was new or different about the latest Looking For Bettina? Nothing. That's the trouble. Absolutely nothing.

The dread in me was building. You cannot say the same things five hundred times without becoming a windup toy. Your face goes dead, so does your voice, and they know it. And they take it personally. And lately careless statements had been coming out of my mouth. I had almost snapped at an interviewer last week that I didn't give a goddamn about the Saturday morning Charlotte show, why the hell would I be embarrassed by it?

Well, fourteen million little kids nationwide watch that show, and Charlotte's my creation. What was I talking about?

"Oh, don't look now," Jody said, "but there's your devoted fan-"

"Who?"

"Goldilocks. Waiting for you right by the elevators. I'll get rid of her."

"No, don't!"

There she was again all right, leaning against the wall as casually as she had against the book table. Only this time she had one of my books under her arm and a little cigarette in the other hand, and she took a quick drag off the cigarette in a rather casual way that made her look like a street kid.

"Goddamn, she stole that book, I know she did," Jody said. "She was hanging around all afternoon and she never bought anything."

"Drop it," I said under my breath. "We are not the San Francisco police."

She'd crushed out the cigarette in the sand of the ashtray and she was coming toward us. She had Bettina's House in her hand, a new copy but an old book. I'd written it probably around the time she was born. Didn't want to think about that. I pushed the elevator button. "Hello, Mr. Walker."

"Hello, Goldilocks."

A low voice, that made me think of caramel or melted chocolate, something delicious like that, almost a woman's voice coming out of her little girl mouth. I could scarcely stand it.

She drew a pen out of her leather mail pouch bag.

"I had to get this at another store," she said. Unbelievable blue eyes. "They sold out at the party before I realized it."

You see, she's not a thief. I took it out of her hands, took the pen. I tried to place the voice geographically, but I couldn't. Words almost British crisp but it wasn't a British accent.

"What's your name, Goldilocks? Or may I just write Goldilocks?" There were freckles on her nose, and a touch of gray mascara on her blond lashes. Skill again. Lipstick bubblegum pink and perfect on her poochy little mouth. And what a smile. Am I still breathing?

"Belinda," she said. "But you don't have to write anything. Just sign your name. That will be plenty." Poise all right. Slow, even-spaced words for all the clear articulation. And the steadiness of the gaze, amazing.

Yet she was so young. Just a baby up close, if there'd been any doubt at a distance. I reached out and stroked her hair. Nothing illegal in that, is there? It was thick, yes, but it gave under my touch as if it were full of air.

She actually had dimples. Two little dimples. "That's very sweet of you, Mr. Walker."

"Pleasure, Belinda."

'q heard them saying you'd be coming over here. I hope you don't mind "

"Not at all, sweetheart. Want to go to the party?"

Had I said that?

Jody shot me an incredulous glance. She was holding the elevator door. "Sure, Mr. Walker. If you really want me to-" Her eyes were dark blue, that was the thing. They'd never look anything but blue. She glided past me into the glass car. Small bones, very straight posture.

"Of course, I do," I said. The doors swished shut. "It's a press party, lots of people will be there."

Very official, you see, I am not a child molester, and no one is going to grab your beautiful hair in two handfuls. Streaks of yellow in it. It could have been naturally that light. Then you wouldn't call it platinum. "I thought you were all tuckered out," said Jody.

The elevator shot up soundlessly past the roof of the old building, and the city spread out around us all the way to the bay, frightening in its clarity. Union Square got smaller and smaller.

Belinda was looking up at me, and when I looked down, she smiled again and the dimples came back just for a second.

She held the book close to her side with her left hand. And with her right she fished another little cigarette out of her blouse pocket. Gauloises. Crumpled blue pack there.

I reached for my lighter.

"No, watch this," she said, letting the cigarette hang on her lip. Out of the pocket with the same hand she pulled a matchbook.

I knew this trick. But I didn't believe she was going to do it. With the one hand she opened the book, freed a match, bent it back, closed the book, and struck the match with her thumb. "See?" she said as she touched the flame to the cigarette. "I just learned that."

I started laughing. Jody was staring at her, vaguely astonished. I just couldn't stop laughing.

"Yes, that's very good," I said. "You did it perfectly."

"Are you old enough to smoke?" Jody asked. "I don't think she's old enough to smoke."

"Give her a break," I said. "We're going to a party."

Belinda was still looking up at me and she dissolved into giggles without making a sound. I stroked her hair again, touched the barrette that held it in back. Big silver barrette. She had enough hair for at least two people. I wanted to touch her cheek, touch the dimples.

She looked down, cigarette dangling from the lip again, reached into her pouch and pulled out a big pair of sunglasses.

"I don't think she's old enough to smoke," said Jody again. "Besides, she shouldn't smoke in the elevator."

"There's nobody but us in this elevator."

Belinda had the glasses on when the door opened.

"You're safe now," I said. "They'll never recognize you."

She gave me a little startled glance. Her mouth and cheeks looked even more adorable under the big square rims. Skin so brand-new. I couldn't stand it.

"You can't be too careful," she said with a little smile.

Butter, that's what the voice was, warm butter, which I happen to like better actually than caramel.

THE suite was jammed and full of smoke. I could hear Alex Clementine's deep movie-star voice rolling over the seamless chatter. Passed cookbook queen Ursula Hall utterly mobbed. I took Belinda's arm and forced my way through to the bar, acknowledging a few hellos here and there. I asked for a Scotch and water, and she whispered that she wanted the same thing. I decided to chance it.

Her cheeks looked so full and soft, I wanted to kiss them, kiss her candy mouth.

Get her off in a corner, I thought, and keep her talking as you memorize every detail of her so you can paint her later. Tell her that's what you're doing, she will understand. There is absolutely nothing lecherous about just wanting to paint her.

The fact was I could see her in the pages of a book already, and her name was making strings of words in my head, something to do with an old poem by Ogden Nash: "Belinda lived in a little white house ..."

Flash of her thin gold bracelet as she pushed at the glasses. The lenses were pink, and pale enough for me to see her eyes. Faint white fleece on her arm, barely visible. She was looking around as if she didn't like it here, and she was starting to get the inevitable glances. How could people not look at her? She bowed her head as if she was really uncomfortable. For the first time I noticed she had breasts under the white blouse, rather large ones. The collar gaped a little and the tan went all the way down-Breasts on a baby like this, imagine.

I took the two drinks. Best to move out of sight of the bartender before I gave it to her. I wished now I'd ordered gin. No way did this look like a soft drink.

Somebody touching my shoulder. Andy Fisher, columnist from the Oakland Tribune, old friend. I was trying hard not to spill the two drinks.

"just want to know one thing, one thing," he said. He gave Belinda the eye, lost a beat. "Do you even like children?"

"Very funny, Andy." Belinda was headed away. I followed her.

"No, seriously, Jeremy, you've never told me that, do you actually like kids, that's what I want to know-"

"Ask Jody, Andy. Jody knows everything."

I caught a sudden glimpse of Alex's profile through the crowd.

"On the twelfth floor of this very hotel," Alex was saying, "and she was a real darling little girl, her name was Virginia Rappe, and, of course, Arbuckle was famous for these drunken-"Where the hell was Belinda?

Alex turned, caught my eye, waved. I gave him a little salute. But I'd lost Belinda.

"Mr. Walker!"

There she was. She was whispering to me from the entrance to a little hallway. She seemed to be hiding in there. But somebody had my sleeve again, a Hollywood columnist I rather loathed.

"What about the picture deal, Jeremy? This going to happen with Disney?"

"Seems like it, Barb," I said. "Ask Jody. She knows. Probably not Disney though, probably Rainbow Productions."

"Saw that sweet little suck-up piece they did on you in the Bay Bulletin this morning."

"I didn't."

Belinda turned her back to me, moved on, head down.

"Well, I heard the movie deal was dead in the water. They think you're too difficult, trying to teach their artists how to draw."

"Wrong, Barb." Fuck you, Barb. "Besides, I don't give a damn what they do with it."

"The conscientious artist."

"Of course, I am. The books are forever. They can have the movies."

"For the right price, I hear."

"And why not, I'd like to know. But why do you waste your time with this, Barb? You can write your usual lies without hearing the truth from me first, can't you?"

"Jeremy, I think you're a little too drunk to be at a publicity party."

"Not drunk at all, that's the problem." Just turn your back and she'll disappear.

Belinda reached out, tugged on my arm. Thank you, darling. We moved down the little hallway. There were two bathrooms there side by side, and the bedroom with its own bath, which I could see through the open doorway. She was looking at the bedroom. Then she looked up, her eyes dark and deceptively grownup behind the pink lenses. Could have been a woman then. Except that the pink glasses went with the candy-pink mouth.

"Listen, I want you to believe what I'm going to say," I said. "I want you to understand that I am perfectly sincere."

"About what?" Dimples. Her voice made me want to kiss her throat. "I want to paint your picture," I said. "Just really paint your picture. I'd like you to come to my house. Nothing more to it than that, honestly, I swear to you. Lots of times I use models, all on the up and up. I call reputable agencies. I'd like to paint you-"

"Why shouldn't I believe that?" she asked, almost laughing. I thought she would start giggling again, the way she had in the elevator. "I know all about you, Mr. Walker. I've read your books all my life."

She went into the open bedroom, short pleated skirt swinging tightly with her hips, showing the naked thigh right above her knees.

I slipped in after her, backing away from her a little, just watching her. Her hair was very long down her back.

The noise dropped off somewhat, and the air was cooler here. A wall of mirrors made it seem impossibly enormous. She turned to me.

"May I have my Scotch now?" she asked.

"Sure you can."

She took a deep swallow and looked around again. Then she took off the glasses and shoved them in her open bag and looked at me again. Her eyes seemed to be swimming with light that came from the low lamps and the reflections of the lamps in the mirrors.

The room seemed overdone to me, padded and draped, as it was, and stretching on through the glass into infinity. Not a sharp edge anywhere. The light was almost caressing. The hotel bed, covered in gold satin, resembled a great altar. The sheets would be smooth and cool.

I scarcely noticed that she had put down her bag and put out the cigarette. She took another swallow of the Scotch without even a wince. And she wasn't faking it. Remarkable poise actually. I don't even think she knew I was studying her.

And a sad realization drifted through my head, something to do with how young she was, how good she looked in any light, how light didn't make the slightest difference with her. And how old I was, and how all young people, even plain young people, had begun to look beautiful to me.

I didn't know whether this was a gift or a curse. It just made me sad. I didn't want to think about it. And I didn't want to stay in here with her. It was too much.

"Will you come to the house then?" I asked.

She didn't answer.

She went to the door and closed it and turned the latch, and the noise of the party simply evaporated. She stood against the door and took another swallow of the drink. No smiles, no giggles. Just that adorable poochy little mouth and the woman eyes above it and her breasts pushing against the cotton blouse.