The bad complexion of a girl of good family. A low-cut dress on which the watery stare lingered. “You’re looking very well, Faye,” he said.
“Is the film as bad as I hear?”
“Bad? It’s a ravishing film.”
“That’s not what I hear,” she said.
“Faye is a very interesting girl,” deBeque said, glancing down again into her dress. “A lot of people say so.”
“Stop it,” she said.
“I think this evening belongs to the women,” deBeque decided.
“What do you mean by that?”
“You’re all so good-looking.”
Beyond them Viri could see a girl sitting on the edge of a couch.
“Why are you always talking in the plural?”
“It’s natural for a man.”
“What’s natural and what’s not natural?” she asked. “We’re so far from being natural… that’s the whole trouble.”
Viri was waiting to excuse himself. “Do you think of yourself as natural?” she asked him.
“We all do, don’t we?” he said. “More or less.”
“You can think anything you like,” she said. “Just name me one.”
“Do you know Arnaud Roth?”
“Who?” Suddenly she smiled, a warm, unexpected smile. “Arnaud. You’re right. I love him,” she said. “I’ve known him for years.”
In the woman who overwhelms us there must be nothing familiar. Faye was telling a story about Arnaud buying an airplane; it wouldn’t fly, she said, wasn’t that typical? It was parked near a pond. The girl on the couch had risen and was talking to someone. Viri tried not to stare. He was helpless at gatherings like this where the conversation was rapid and cynical, the encounters remote as at dancing class. He found refuge, usually, with someone grotesque, out of competition. He resisted handsome faces, he had learned not to look at them, but she was that unknown creature to whom he was dazedly vulnerable, slim, with full breasts as if she were burdened by them. Even her thumbs were bony.
He could not keep sight of her. He could not, even for a moment, imagine her life. If she had turned to him, he would have been speechless or worse, saying inane things he instantly regretted, illustrating for her a certain kind of pathetic, ordinary man fit only to be what he was: a commuter, the head of a family. But that’s not what I am, he wanted to say, that’s not what I am at all. Anyway, she was gone. She was someone’s girl friend, obviously; a girl like that was never alone.
“Where have you been?” Nedra asked.
They drank; they ate dinner with plates on their knees. A waiter was serving champagne. Someone was playing the piano, barely audible over the din. Gerald deBeque was sitting with a Japanese girl. His wife, who had a splitting headache, began to tell people it was time to go to the film.
They went down in a crowded elevator and walked three blocks to the theater in shattering cold, walked and half ran, stood in the entrance waiting for deBeque to arrive and instruct the manager to let them in. Several people had managed to get in anyway.
“Come on, Viri,” Nedra complained, “tell him that we’re from the party.”
“Everybody’s standing around waiting.”
“Oh balls, the waiting.”
She was talking to the manager herself when at last deBeque appeared. “Gerald, your film’s half over,” she said.
“Let them in,” he called to the manager. “Everybody can go in.”
Viri hung back. He touched deBeque on the elbow.
“Gerald…” he said.
“Yes?”
“The girl standing by the sign, the sort of thin girl…”
“What about her?”
“She’s wearing a leather coat.”
“Yes, with a belt.”
“Who is she? Do you know?” he said casually.
“She came with George Clutha. Her name is Kaya something… I forget.”
“Kaya…”
“He tells me she’s better than she looks.”
They were calling him; they were already partway down the aisle.
“She’s looking for a job,” deBeque remembered.
“Yes, thanks.”
“Viri.” He would not let him go. “You can do better than that.”
“It’s just that I thought I’d met her somewhere.”
Arnaud was standing at their seats, beckoning to him. It was a small theater, once respectable. They kept their coats on.
“I was trying to find out a little about the film,” Viri said. “It’s about a young woman’s sexual awakening.”
“I might have known,” Nedra said.
Arnaud yawned. “Gerald probably stars in it.”
The lights stayed on for a long time. There began to be whistles and claps. Viri looked back, as if to see if anyone else were entering. He seemed calm and at ease. He was doomed as a dog that chases cars.
“I have a feeling I’m going to go to sleep even before it begins,” Arnaud murmured.
Finally it grew dark and the film started. The many shots of a young girl with her blouse open loitering along roads and through fields or working in the kitchen in this improbable attire were not enough to rivet the viewers.
“This isn’t very interesting,” Nedra whispered.
Arnaud was asleep. Viri sat silent, made unhappy by the vague connection between the heroine and the girl who sat hidden somewhere in the bored, coughing audience. If only out of the corner of his eye he could see her a row or two ahead. He wanted to stare at her unnoticed. There are faces that subjugate one, that are turned away from with a feeling like that of giving up breath itself. In the morning I will have forgotten it, he thought; in the morning everything is different, things are real.
There was a crowd waiting on the street as they went out, people who had come for the first public screening at midnight. Arnaud had his coat turned up like an opera star or gambler.
“The book was better,” he commented as he passed through them.
“Oh, yeah? What book?”
“Save your money,” he said.
They came home after midnight, the long, flowing drive in darkness, snow on the edge of the road. The sitter had crumpled on the couch; she was soft-faced and bewildered as Viri took her home.
They went to bed in the large, cool room, their clothes scattered, the window admitting just a blade of icy air.
“Gerald deBeque is a dissolute man,” Nedra said. “And that movie was absolutely awful. There wasn’t anybody there I was interested in. Still, I had a good time. Isn’t that strange?”
He did not answer. He was asleep.
7
IT WAS A DAY OF COLD SUNLIGHT, the day on which, six years before, his parents had died. He sat at his desk. His two draftsmen were at work, the flats of their tables before them. The room was silent, that was what set him thinking; it was suddenly calm. His father and mother were lying beneath the earth, brown as the relics of saints, their funeral clothes rotting. He was thirty-two, alone in the world. Dreams and work.
Have I said he was a man of minor talent? He was born after one war and before another—in 1928, in fact, a year of crisis, a year on the path of the century. He was born in disregard of the times, like everyone; the hospital is there no longer, the doctor retired, gone south.
He believed in greatness. He believed in it as if it were a virtue, as if it could be his own. He was sensitive to lives that had, beneath their surface, like a huge rock or shadow, a glory that would be discovered, that would rise one day to the light. He was clear-eyed and exact about the value of other people’s work. Toward his own he maintained a mild respect. In his faith, at the heart of his illusions, was the structure that would appear in photographs of his time, the famous building he had created and that nothing—no criticism, no envy, not even demolition—could alter.