When Graham Greene, twenty years her elder, had introduced himself and talked with her for almost an hour, Haddie had fallen in love (in a Helvetian sense). She adored (venerating him expectantly) his life, his adventures, his accomplishments and his power. She saw in Graham all the liberties of a life she wished to lead, a life of repose, of excess, of parties and dinners and balls, a life of opera nights, world travel, and leisure. If she could be his wife, she would have all the money she needed, a perfectly fashionable husband that would please her father, her friends, and the society pages, a home that rivaled anyone’s on the planet, a name that was close to royalty, she would have the absolute ideal (…the sovereign does as he pleases so long as he pleases the assassins). Nothing in Haddie’s life would change. In fact, it would be improved. Haddie knew what kind of quest she was beginning, she knew about Graham’s girlfriends and independence. The trick was to make herself appear like the only other person in the world for him, as though she was the rib that covered his heart.
Graham wiped his razor clean and inspected his face. He was Graham Greene, he looked like him. If he wanted to see Haddie Springfield, all he needed to do was to go see her. Why the hesitation, why the nervousness? He was not usually so uncertain, Graham had only been nervous once in his life, that he could remember. But, for the life of him, he couldn’t remember when it was, what had happened that made him feel like his insides were boiling. He just knew that he had felt apprehension before. I’ve got to be confident; no one likes a coward. She’ll see right through me if I don’t retain my composure. I’ll go see her under a pretense of some sort. We’ll both know that it’s completely fictitious but that won’t matter. What really matters is how she reacts to my visit.
Graham was not at all certain why he wanted to see the young woman so badly. He knew, of course, that there was some interest he had for her, but he wasn’t sure how to qualify the feeling. He wasn’t sure if he was in love with her because she had immediately meant something to him or if it had more to do with her age. Haddie was eighteen years old, she was eighteen years old in a definitive way. Haddie did not appear older, nor did she seem to want to look older, like so many women her age. She acted eighteen and made no apologies for her ignorance. Haddie was the epitome of every teenage girl Graham had ever known, Gödelian and unapologetic. She was self-absorbed, knew nothing about anything, treated anyone older than forty like they belonged in a geriatric ward, had seen nothing, and had been all over the world and had misunderstood it completely. She was passionately involved in herself, she was like a child sitting at the grown-up’s table.
Graham found this attractive. He just wasn’t sure if he liked it because of its inherent innocence or because he, himself, had lost it long before. When Haddie had given her hand to him, Graham had taken it and put his other hand on her elbow to assist her out of her chair. He remembered the texture of her skin, he remembered the smell of her skin on his fingers, he remembered the way his hand had slid up her arm, he remembered how she had looked at him with a smile that seemed to know more about the event than he was prepared to admit. Graham had wanted to embrace her, kiss her, touch her skin, bury his face in her hair, feel himself inside her, feel himself battering against her ignorance, tearing her open so that he could explore her. And Haddie, with one glance, had seemed to know what he was thinking and seemed to find it amusing.
Graham doused his temples with hot water. She will be enticing for years to come, not like an older woman. Even after children, she’s young enough to regain her form. Graham wouldn’t admit it, not to the face in the mirror, but he wanted Haddie for far less than he gave her credit for. He finished dressing and left his home like a man who’s fought with himself and finally resolved to go to the whorehouse.
The Springfield’s lived very close to the Greene’s. All the families lived in the same area of the city, some in old homes, others in penthouses, others in fashionable flats surrounded by gardens, separated from the civil and industrial districts in a Howardian feat of urban planning. Graham walked the three blocks to the Springfield home and knocked on the door. I am Graham Greene, Graham Greene, damn it.
“Good day, sir,” a servant said after opening the door.
“Hello, is Miss Haddie Springfield in?”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Mr. Graham Greene, of the conservation Greene’s.”
“One moment, please sir.” And the servant, a small, passive woman in her early twenties, disappeared, not closing the door and not inviting Graham in, either. Graham waited on the front stoop. The apprehension began to bother him, he looked down the street, fearing another family might see him waiting on the front steps of the Springfield house like a common messenger.
“This is unacceptable,” he muttered Humely. “Either I’m invited in or turned away. I swear, leaving a man standing outside.”
“Sir,” the servant said, opening the door wider and poking her head out, “the missus would like to know the purpose of the visit.”
“What?” Graham replied. A sudden rush of heat seemed to flee from the pores of his face. “What is the meaning of this? Please announce to Miss Springfield that I am here, waiting on her front porch, and wish to see her.”
“Yes, sir. Miss Springfield understands that, she was hoping you might be so kind as to inform her of the purpose of your visit.”
“Since when does a Greene need a specific purpose to see another family? When did servants take to questioning guests? I have been a friend of the Springfield’s for twenty-years and never have I been forced to explain my presence at their home. You will tell Miss Springfield I am here to discuss a topic I only wish to share with her, in private.”
“Yes, sir. Please wait one more minute,” the servant girl replied. Again, not closing the door but leaving Graham on the front porch. Graham waited for a few moments, feeling disorientated. Then, he stepped backwards off the steps, as if he was retreating from a threat he had to watch. Once he was on the sidewalk, not realizing another man had greeted him as he passed by, Graham turned and walked quickly away.
* * *
“Did you go out for milk?”
“No.”
“Where have you been, then?”
“At the bottom of a gorge.”
“Did you sleep in your clothes again, last night?”
“Yes, on the side of the river.”
“We used to go down to the river when I was a little girl, father had a boat and we would have a picnic. It’s such a lovely area,” Norma Moore said Bernsteinly.
“I didn’t know it was there.”
“Did you hear, honey, Graham Greene is getting married, isn’t it incredible?”
“Who?”
“Graham Greene, the philanthropist, musician, writer, actor and sports star.”
“I met a saint, her name is Flower.”