The Berlin Connection (20 page)

"So kiss your daughter!" cried Kostasch.

"Go ahead and kiss," called Joan laughingly.

I kissed Shirley. She was cold and stiff; unresponsive. Kostasch and Joan insisted we all take one another's arm. We smiled and laughed and the photographers snapped our pictures while Kostasch was talking incessantly. "Your husband is a very talented actor, Mrs. Jordan ... One of the best .. . We're making a movie here they are going to talk about fifty years from now . . . I'm very proud to be the producer of such a movie . . . and of working with Peter!"

Joan began to kiss me again. "My husband! If he tries he can be the best actor in all the world!"

"Come on, Joan."

"Aren't I right? Isn't that so, Mr. Kostasch?"

"That's right, Mrs. Jordan," said the poor unhappy man.

Joan's eyes were damp. Impetuously I squeezed Shirley's arm and felt her nails dig into my hand.

"Well, let's go. Charley will take care of your baggage."

Kostasch pushed through the crowd toward the stairs. Holding Joan's and Shirley's arms, I followed. Joan was laughing and stumbled once. Shirley looked straight ahead. Then I noticed that she was looking toward the stairs. On its uppermost step stood Natasha Petrovna staring at us. She continued to stare.

"I just knew the movie would go well!" cried Joan. "That's why I had a few drinks. To celebrate."

"You had a few drinks, Mrs. Jordan?"

"Don't tell me you hadn't noticed!" Joan and Kostasch bumped each other fooUshly and laughed.

"Peter."

"Yes, Shu-ley?"

"Who is that woman?"

**Woman? What woman?" Joan still laughing looked at her daughter.

"The one who is looking at us from the top of the stairs."

Joan turned her head. "At the stairs? I see no woman!" She giggled. "You are high too, Shirley darUng!"

I looked back once more. Natasha was still standing there. Many people descending the stairs were now between her and us.

"Who is the woman, Peter?" Shirley repeated.

"No idea," I answered. "I've never seen her before."

The Fourth Tape

"This is the best champagne I've ever had! Isn't it the best, Shirley?"

"Yes, mommy.'*

"I've never enjoyed champagne as much as tonight! What are we drinking, Peter?"

"Pommery Demi-Sec, 1949," I said. And with emphasis, "The third bottle."

It did not make the sUghtest difference.

"But you ordered four!"

"One is still in the cooler."

"Then open it," said Joan. She was very dmnk now. I had never seen her hke this before; she seemed a stranger. A charming woman. A gay woman. A perfectly unfamiliar woman. Her awful blonde hair had become disarranged. Her eyes were glittering; her face, shiny. Her hands moved ecstatically, her expensive bracelets jangled. She talked too much. She repeated herself. She was just another person who had drunk too much. "Oh, I'm so happy! I love you both so very much! You two are all I have! Do you love me too? TeU me you love me, Peter."

"I love you too, Joan," I said and took the fourth bottle from the cooler.

"TeU me you love me too, Shirley."

187

"I love you too, mommy."

Joan jumped up, kissed me, ran to Shirley and kissed her. "I must kiss you! I must embrace you! I'm so happy I could embrace and kiss the whole world!'*

It was late; the three of us were more or less drunk each in our own peculiar way: Joan was happy and gay; Shirley, off balance by an unaccustomed quantity of wine; I, depressed and fearful of what could happen to us in this condition.

One careless word.

One heedless look.

Then what?

It was madness, but how could I have prevented it? I, a drinker, was almost helpless; watching Joan drink because she was happy, watching Shirley drink out of desperation. Luckily Joan was too occupied with herself and her happiness to notice anything wrong with Shirley. How much longer? When would she become aware of it?

"Can I help you, darling?"

"No, thanks. I can manage." The cork would not move. I wound the napkin around the cork and tried again. Joan wore a silver-gray cocktail dress; Shirley, a gold-brown one. Joan had insisted on changing once we had arrived at the hotel. "Of course, we'll make ourselves look beautiful for our Peter! And we'E have another drink. I'm not at all tired. Are you tired, Peter?"

Shirley had said, "He has to be up early tomorrow."

But that, too, had made no difference.

"Just tonight, please! Starting tomorrow, I'll be reasonable and understanding. But today is the happiest day of my life. Our little family is together again. And Paddy's movie is going to be a success! Kostasch says everybody is delighted. Touch wood, but you'll see, this movie is going to be your comeback! Is that no reason to celebrate, Shirley?"

"Yes, mommy," she had answered. "Mommy is right. We'll have to drink to that."

It is impossible to stay sober among drinkers if one is not happy. Shiriey had begun to drink too; she could not bear to be sober on this evening. And so we drank an excellent champagne in our charming apartment in a luxury hotel.

Others were drinking elsewhere: in dives, underneath bridges, in cockpits of patroling planes flying above the Arctic, A-bombs on board, with the pilots painfully aware of them; they were drinking in king's palaces, consulates, central committees, on yachts, in steel foundries and laboratories; they drank whisky, wine, sake, vodka, cognac; poor and powerful, rich and miserable, rulers and ruled; hunters and hunted, those who feared people, and those who are feared; all drinking to escape, even though each knew there was no escape.

Suddenly, so quickly I could not stop it, the cork popped out. A stream of white froth shot out of the bottle and over Joan who stood in front of me. I grabbed a glass, but my wife's dress was soaked. It made her laugh. "Peter! My awkward Httle Peter! Do you know, Shirley, Peter never could open champagne bottles?"

"And all his life he remained an awkward little boy," said Shirley.

Joan laughed again. "I must take this dress off." She stumbled into her bedroom, separated from mine by the living room.

Joan left the door partly open and we could hear laughing and chattering. "Really, every time he opens a bottle..."

Shirley and I stared at each other.

Hoarsely, she said, "Your friend Gregory sends his regards."

I went over to her, placed a hand on her shoulder and bent down to kiss her hau: when she hissed, "Don't touch me!"

"Shirley!"

"If you touch me, I'll scream!" She was as drunk as Joan,

"PuU yourself together!"

"I can't. I can't. I feel I'm going to go mad if things go on this way. I feel as if I'm going to vomit. I have been feeling sick for weeks now. Give me another drink."

"You've had enough."

She snatched the bottle from my hand, spilling half a glass. She glared at me as though I was her worst enemy, the epitome of all she hated. She whispered, "Peter, I love you but I cannot stand this any longer!"

From her room, we heard Joan. "This darned zipper! Shirley, could you—" She laughed. "Now I've torn it. Ah, well, doesn't matter!" We heard her tripping on high heels into her bathroom.

"Have you found a doctor?"

"Are you mad? She can hear every word!"

I had stepped away just before Joan returned. She had changed into a hght, short black robe. As she wore no shoes, I had not heard her enter.

"This stupid dress!" Joan stretched. She had not noticed anything. Had she? "How nice to get out of my clothes. Why are you looking at me that way, Shirley? I've been married to this man for the past thirteen years." She kissed me and laughed happily. She went to my bedroom and switched on the radio. A combo played jazz. Joan dropped onto my bed.

"Bring me my glass, Peter."

I took it to her.

"Come in here too, Shirley."

Shirley came into my bedroom too.

"Such nonsense," said Joan.

"What is?"

"To have two bedrooms. Can you explain to me why we should need two bedrooms?"

"I have to be up at six."

"So? Do you think I can't do that too?"

I was silent. Shirley sipped her drink. I thought: She must stop drinking. We all must stop drinking. Now. Before something happens. I told myself I had to say something, do something. I did nothing. I drank.

"WeU, doyou?"

"Do I what?"

"Think that I can't get up at six."

"I know you can."

"You see. We'll use the other bedroom as a dressing room and—" She interrupted herself. Her dyed hair hung in her flushed face, her lips trembled.

"What is it?"

"Don't you hear it? They're playing our song!" And to Shirley she said, "Our song . . . when we met . . . when we were young. Shirley, some day you will know a love such as ours . . . Every bar we went to, we requested the band to play this song for us . . ." She took a drink and some champagne spilled onto her neck, on her robe. She took my hand and kissed it.

Shirley put her glass down. "You won't mind if I go to my room now?"

"I'm a Uttle drunk . . . you don't like that, do you?"

"No, it's just that I'm very tired."

"We're just among ourselves. It isn't so terrible if your mommy has had a bit too much to drink. You're not going to tell on her, are you?" She repeated, "You are not going to tell on me, are you?"

"Joan," I said, "Joan, really!"

"You won't?"

"No, of course not."

"You swear? You swear you won't tell on me?"

Shirley looked as if she were going to throw up any moment.

"We swear," I said.

"That's good... then, I'll give you your presents ..."

"No!"

"Yes ... I was going to give them to you in the morning ... but you are both so good to me..."

"Joan! Joan, it's very late."

"Just the presents . . . then we'll go to bed ... I promise . . . Shirley, please go and fetch my jewelry case . . . and fill our glasses, Peter ... I want us to drink to something ..." I looked at Shirley and nodded. She left, I refilled the glasses, Joan sat up in bed and.pulled her knees close to her body. Shirley brought the square black alligator jewelry case.

"Take your glasses," said my wife. Now she was talking slowly and fluently and forced a smile to hide her emotion. "It sounds silly to say it but I love you both. So much that I could not live without you. For years, I had to watch you hate each other. It made me very unhappy. I thought my marriage, we all would break. And now—" She broke off, rubbed her eyes and again spilled champagne.

"Joan ... Joan, please ..."

"No, wait. I'm almost finished. Now Peter asked us to come to Europe. Before we left I had a long talk with Shirley. She was so good, and agreed to try..."

"We all win," I said.

"Yes, we all will. And that's why, for the first time in my life, I got drunk. Now I know everything is going to be all right. Sometimes I thought I was just an old mother with two children who hated each other. Now, now I feel like a woman! I have a husband. I have a daughter. So. let's drink to our little family. May God watch over us and may we always be together as happy as we are today. Cheerio, Peter!" Our glasses clinked and I too said, "Cheerio!"

"Cheerio, Shirley."

"Cheerio."

We drank. The champagne tasted bitter. Joan opened her jewelry case. She took the yellow envelope from the top and placed it to one side. She then extracted a gray case which she handed to her dauehter. "This is for you."

Shirley opened the case. I knew the ring resting on blue velvet. It was a perfect five carat diamond surrounded by baguettes.

Shirley whispered, "No ... no ..."

"Your father gave me this ring. When I was five months pregnant with you. I was not goinc to give it to you until you were expecting your first child. But you have made me so happy, I want you to have it now .. ."

Shirley stared at the ring for a few moments; then, she began to cry. Her body was shaken by her sobs. She fell to her knees before the bed, "Oh, mommy, mommy ... don't be angry ... you must forgive me ..."

This was it. The time had come.

"Foreive you? What should I forgive?"

"That I... I... mommy, I—"

I stepped behind Shirley and placed my hands under her arms. As I pulled her up roughly, I stepped hard on her foot. The pain brought her to her senses. She stammered, *Torgive ..."

"But of course, mommy forgives you for crying. She knows it is because you are overcome with joy." Joan beamed.

I nodded, "She knows you cry because you're happy."

"I understand, Shirley. I cried too when I first received the ring!"

Shirlev was sobbing hysterically.

I said to Joan, "Everything was too much of a strain." I was still holding on to Shirley or she would surely have fallen. I pushed her head down eently. "Give mommy a kiss." She did. "Thank her aeain."

"Thank you, mommy." She straightened up, still crying.

"She's overtired, overly stimulated and she has had too

much to drink. After that plane trip too." More words came from my lips, mechanically. "She has to get to bed. Right away."

"Yes, Shirley, yes . . . Paddy is right... go to bed, darling . . . good night!"

"Good night, Mommy ..." stammered Shirley.

As I led her from the room, she leaned heavily on my arm. Joan was smiling at us. I was relieved when we reached the hall. Shirley began to whimper. Sharply I said, "Pull yourself together!"

"I can't ... I can't ..." She fell silent when a waiter passed us.

"Go to your room. I'll see you later."

Before running down the hall, she looked at me, a desperate, crazed expression in her eyes. I watched her enter her room. The key was still in the lock when she closed the door. I returned to Joan.

Joan was lying on the bed. Her eyes were closed but she was smiling happily.

"What is . .. the matter with her?"

"She's all right. Just nerves. But you really are out of your mind, Joan! To give her that ring!"

"Well, why shouldn't I?" she said sleepily. "She's my child ... I won't lose her ... we three will be happy together . . . now your present . . . the . . . yellow envelope ..."