Onyx (34 page)

“That's how much of the inner circle
I
am. Tom Bridger's never once invited me to eat there.” Justin heard his glottal closure—and so did Elisse.

Her fingers touched his sleeve. “You know the trouble with you, Justin? You're too upper-class and British to ever hit a woman.”

“I'd rather try that pass,” he blurted. “Sorry.”

“What for?”

“I'm not much good at this sort of thing. Banter.”

“You're doing fine,” she said, climbing into the car.

II

Philippe's was near the train depot, a large, barny cafeteria with sawdust on the floor, linoleum-topped high tables, and a long counter where elderly waitresses swiftly cut French rolls, dipping them softside into gravy before piling on meat.

“What about that hamburger sandwich?” Justin asked.

“Verona's is too rich for my blood, especially when combined with a tall, dark—”

“Isn't it time to lay that to rest?”

“Maybe I wanted to prove my power,” she said, grinning. “Look. There's two places. I'll save them—Justin, ask for double dips.”

He waited in line to order four double-dipped sandwiches, some violet pickled eggs, and bowls of coleslaw, amazingly tasty food. Elisse, whose hostility had shriveled to acerbic wit, dispatched a French dip with remarkable neatness considering the girth of the roll.

“I can't manage another,” she said.

“I'll eat, then, while you do the talking. Did you enjoy England? Elisse, tell me about yourself.”

She settled back on the stool, hooking her high heels over the rung. The trip to England, her first, had been a charm from beginning to end. Her parents were English, she divulged, and it was their graduation present to her. “Or”—she raised an eyebrow—“or maybe it was a gesture of their relief that I hadn't joined the Party while at Berkeley.” There, she had majored in literature, and was putting her education to use as a reader for Harry Cohn, who owned Columbia, one of the small, shoestring studios on Poverty Row, as Gower Street was called.

Justin asked what a reader was. Exactly what it sounded like, Elisse replied. She scanned novels and plays, typing up synopses for the reputedly illiterate Cohn. “Actually, I give them to Sam Briskin. He's the Columbia executive who can read.” She was an only child, her father played viola with the Los Angeles Philharmonic. “Mother and Daddy are complete innocents about everything. No political sense at all.” Despite her arch facial comments when she spoke of her parents, her hazel eyes projected a softness he had not seen before.

By now he had finished the third sandwich. “When I asked you out, you nearly refused. You aren't wearing an engagement ring.”

She held up her bare left hand. The small buffed nails, he noticed, had deep half-moons. “By George, I'm not,” she said.

“Is there anyone?”

“Nobody special. Hasn't another impediment occurred to you?”

“I don't understand.”

“You do realize I'm Jewish?”

“Of course. You're Rosburg's cousin.”

“I'd just as soon not be reminded—Victor's the weasel of the world,” she said. “Do you squire around Jewish girls?”

“I don't have the opportunity to meet too many in Detroit.”

“It's a big city with thousands of unattached Jewish females, some even wealthy like you. Only you've never met them. Two different worlds, Justin.” She was not being flip anymore.

“That's putting it a bit strongly.”

“Not at all. Two contiguous worlds that are never meant to mingle.”

“Come on, Elisse.” The other Jewish people with whom he came in contact circled around the subject of their Judaism. Their touchiness shaded his response now, and he sensed he was blushing.

“I shouldn't complain. There are no pogroms, no ghettos, no tall hats, but maybe it would be easier if there were. At least then you'd know where you were meant to stay. There are all sorts of boundaries. You bump them very hard when they're invisible.” The small muscles around her eyes had tensed, and he understood that this glossily suntanned, facile girl was capable of being hurt. Had been hurt.

“Elisse,” he said quietly. “You have me all wrong. I don't seem to belong either here or in England anymore. I'm not part of any circle, any world.”

“What? No arguments that I'm dead wrong?”

“I haven't thought about it enough to argue. It just doesn't apply in my case.” He set down his fork. “Religion doesn't mean much to me. Is it important to you?”

She blinked then flashed him her prettiest, most irritating smile. “Would I have brought you to one of my favorite spots if I believed in outdated bourgeois trivia?”

He relaxed back on the stool. “I'm still going to take you to a dinner with waiters and tablecloths.”

“You're very forceful in that understated way, aren't you?”

They strolled along the nearby alleys. The dimly lit, small Mexican and Chinese shops were veiled in mystery by the fog. Stepping from a curb, he took her arm. She was not using perfume but smelled of clean soap and a very delicate natural bodily odor that attracted him fiercely. He continued to cup her elbow as they sparred about the weather in Los Angeles, whether Charlie Chaplin was a genius—she maintained a movie comedian could be one—and Henry Ford's decision to go on an eight-hour day, five-day week: “Copying Tom Bridger again,” Justin asserted, then feared she might blame him for Ford's misbegotten anti-Semitic newspaper, the
Dearborn Independent
. Instead, she inquired if he had read
Swann's Way
. He admitted he had little time for novels, and she glanced at her watch. “Speaking of time, Justin, it's five past ten.”

“Is failing to read fiction another bad mark?”

“What else?” she smiled. “And you're out with a working girl.”

“I'll take you home.”

She lived in Beverly Hills on a street divided by a hedged bridle path. Her house would have been a bungalow save for one square tower room, from whose open windows floated the limpid notes of a Mozart quartet.

As she took out her door key he asked, “Shall I pick you up at work tomorrow?”

“Capitalist types
are
sure of themselves.”

“I'm not a capitalist any more than you're a downtrodden factory hand. Why pretend this is a class struggle? I've had a wonderful time and I'd like to take you to dinner again.”

The Mozart halted abruptly, a man's voice rumbled, then the viola sang the theme. Elisse's head tilted up to the strong, jubilant sound.

“If,” Justin said, “I promise it won't be Verona's, will that help?”

“I'm sorry. I have a meeting,” she said in a tone devoid of cleverness.

“This is Thursday. I'm leaving next Tuesday.”

“We could have a bite first, I guess.”

“The gate at the same time?”

She was still listening to the music. “Yes.” She touched his arm and slipped inside without a good-bye.

III

Justin was staying at the Ambassador Hotel. A telegram had been slipped under the door of his cottage:
MEET IN SEATTLE SEPTEMBER THIRTIETH TOM
. Reading it, Justin's smile held a trace of bitterness.

To the tee typical. The epitome of Tom Bridger's manner with him. Brusque. Forbiddingly businesslike. The one minor familiarity Tom Bridger conceded to him in all these years was the use of his first name.

We'll be staying at the same hotel, eating our meals together, but Tom will behave as if we're on the dais in front of the entire administrative staff, and every word he utters will be connected to Onyx
. Justin stared at the yellow paper, the grim smile still on his lips: after so long he should have adjusted to this undeviating remoteness—but he hadn't.

His old enmity toward Tom had flip-flopped to ardent admiration, loyalty—and, yes, into what he inwardly acknowledged was love, a respectful love that he kept under wraps because his white-haired, caustic liege lord remained at a purposeful distance that he, by nature reserved, could not cross. Justin rubbed at his upper arms; he felt a sudden chill. Painful. No denying it was painful. He had never been invited to the Farm, or included in any of the Bridger family's doings. Tom's attitude increased Justin's sense of being a kithless exile, but at least he was no longer shamed by an infantile envy of Caryll or embarrassed by his barmy hurt at being excluded from the executive round table when the three older Sinclair boys were routinely invited—in the old days he'd waxed pretty maudlin about
that
.

There's something too pointed about the way I've always been excluded
, he thought.
It's too unflagging
.

He lit a cigarette and gazed with an absent expression at the telegram, considering the paradox of their relationship. When they were alone, he sensed a genuine warmth emanating from Tom, a deep, mellow affection, though even at these times Tom had a stiffness, an inflexibility to his posture. It was as if he were forcing himself to keep it all business, as if he were preventing himself from reaching out or making some intensely personal revelation.

Justin's fingers closed around the yellow sheet. Warmth, deep affection, personal revelations! Fat chance—sheer wishful thinking! Tom had advanced him rapidly, so Justin obviously had his respect.
And that is that
, Justin told himself.
Respect, nothing more
. He tossed the wadded paper into the wastebasket.

The high cheer he had felt with Elisse had vanished; as he caught his reflection in the mirror he saw that he looked tired, dejected.

With a purposeful gesture he loosened his tie; then he opened his briefcase for the yellow legal pad on which he had jotted notes during his inspection of the Glendale assembly. Whatever questions he nursed about Tom's fellowship toward him, there was no doubt about one thing: when he traveled, his dynamic employer demanded daily reports.

Though
Time
was correct in noting there were no titles at Onyx, Justin's sphere of responsibility was the thirty-one assembly plants. When he had returned to America three years ago, these assemblies were a maddening jumble of irregular shipments and missing freight cars: he had spent months devising an intricate clearing house capable of keeping track of every part shipped from the Hamtramck and Woodland, of synchronizing deliveries with the needs of each ancillary plant. An achievement unique in the industry. Mr. Du Pont had personally sounded him out about coming to General Motors. But he had stayed on at Onyx out of love, loyalty—and that nagging sense (or was it merely a pathetic perennial hope?) that in some unstated way Tom returned his affection.

Justin stopped and tapped his teeth thoughtfully with the end of his fountain pen before he wrote his final paragraph:

Today I was at a dealer's breakfast in the Wilshire district. It was a sad business. Our sales in southern California, too, have slumped badly. And I was shocked to hear that Kleinschmidt-Loring, our top dealership here, has gone over to Chevrolet. Kleinschmidt was embarrassed, but he told me it was becoming impossible to sell style-conscious Los Angeles on a four-cylinder, too-tall mongrel like ours. Tomorrow I am visiting there to see whether I can mend any fences.

He signed his full name. After dropping his letter, he stood by the lobby mail slot, his head tilted broodingly; then he trotted down the wide, deserted staircase to the parking lot.

The unpaved, oiled breadth of Wilshire Boulevard shone like a river in the beams of his headlights. It was after midnight, and he passed very few cars. He turned on Rodeo Drive, halting across from the Kaplans' small stucco house. A dog barked and then there were only crickets. Some bush or tree gave off a heavily sweet citrus odor that drowned all other scents of the moist, cool night. Justin rested his left arm on the rolled-down window, gazing at the mistily obscured white stucco walls. Softly, yet with surprising fidelity, he whistled a few bars of the Mozart quartet. What had the music said to her? Questions and memories rushed at him, a barrage of sensuous details about the girl and the evening. Given neither to impulsive actions nor to dramatic gestures, his act in coming to her house surprised Justin. He castigated himself for being a romantic lounge lizard, yet he sat in the Fiver dreamily smoking cigarette after cigarette.
I don't feel lonely here
, he thought.

IV

“Your meeting, is it a woman's club?”

“Do I seem the sorority type?”

“Listen, why don't I sit in the background? Then I can drive you home.”

“This is the other side of the barricade, Justin.”

He frowned, puzzled. “You've got me.”

“A union.”

“Oh.”

“Don't say it like that. They're not against the law. We're trying to organize studio grips.”

They were at the Ocotillo, a tiny café that served dishes unlike any he had ever tasted, all corn and beans, hot chili peppers, cheese, fragments of heaven-knew-what-kind-of-meat. In the crowded booth Elisse's arm occasionally brushed his: it seemed to him he had never eaten any food so delicious.

“A union organizer who wears pretty crepe de chine dresses and silk stockings?”

She smiled. “They aren't against the law either.”

“You're using cologne tonight.”

“
L'Heure Bleue
. You are observant.”

“Is it for somebody at the meeting?”

“No, you.”

“Then leave it off,” he said. He preferred that light, natural scent of hers. “Elisse, what's that address?”

“In your own calm way you're very dominating, aren't you?”

From the open windows of the small, bougainvillaea-shrouded cottage rushed a torrent of voices, so he was set for a crowd, but inside, where the air was heavy with cigarette smoke and the ripe odors of too many people on a warm night, he counted only four pairs of eyes—all staring at him. A handsome woman wearing her gray braids in a coronet, a weak-chinned man lounging on the chenille-covered daybed, a one-armed man who sat militarily erect, a stout woman whose eye twitched as she stared.