Noble House

He went out. Peter Marlowe sat on the bed. Disconsolate.
"I hope the kids got to school all right," she said.
"Oh yes. Ah Sop's fine."
"How will you manage?"
"Easy. I'll be like Old Mother Hubbard. It'll only be a day or two."
She moved wearily, leaning on a hand and watching the rain, and beyond it, the flat gray of the hotel across the narrow street that she hated so much because it cut off the sky. "I… I hope it's not going .. . going to cost too much," she said, her voice weightless.
"Don't worry about it, Fleur. We'll be all right. The Writers Guild'll pay."
"Will they? I bet they won't, Peter, not in time. Blast! We … we're so tight on our budget already."
"I can always borrow against next year's drop dead check. Don—"
"Oh no! No we won't do that, Peter. We mustn't. We agreed. Other . . . otherwise you're trapped ag . . . again."
"Something'll turn up," he said confidently. "Next month we've got a Friday the thirteenth and that's always been lucky for us." His novel was published on a thirteenth and went on to the best-seller list on a thirteenth. When he and his wife were at bottom, three years ago, on another thirteenth he had made a fine screenwriting deal that had carried them again. His first directing assignment had been confirmed on a thirteenth. And last April, Friday the thirteenth, one of the studios in Hollywood had bought the film rights to his novel for $157,000. The agent had taken 10 percent and then Peter Marlowe had spread the remainder over five years—in advance. Five years of family drop dead money. 25,000 per year every January. Enough, with care, for school and medical expenses and mortgage and car and other payments—five glorious years of freedom from all the usual worries. And freedom to turn down a directing-screenwriting job to come to Hong Kong for a year, unpaid, but free to look for the second book. Oh Christ, Peter Marlowe thought, suddenly petrified. What the hell am I looking for anyway? What the hell am I doing here? "Christ," he said miserably, "if I hadn't insisted on us going to that party this would never have happened."
"Joss." She smiled faintly. "Joss, Peter. Remember what you're . . . you're always saying to me. Joss. It's joss, just joss, Peter. Oh Christ I feel awful."
42
10:01 A.M. :
Orlanda Ramos opened the door of her apartment and put her sodden umbrella into a stand. "Come in, Line," she said radiantly. "Minha casa e vossa cam. My house is yours."
Line smiled. "You're sure?"
She laughed and said lightly, "Ah! That remains to be seen. It's just an old Portuguese custom … to offer one's house." She was taking off her shiny, very fashionable raincoat. In the corridor he was doing the same to a soaked, well-used raincoat.
"Here, let me hang it up," she said. "Oh, don't mind about the wet, my amah will mop it up. Come on in."
He noticed how neat and tidy the living room was, feminine, in very good taste and welcoming. She shut the door behind him and hung his coat on a peg. He went over to the French windows that let out onto a small balcony. Her apartment was on the eighth floor of Rose Court in Kotewall Road.
"Is the rain always this heavy?" he asked.
"In a real typhoon it's much worse. Perhaps twelve to eighteen inches in a day. Then there are mud slides and the resettlement areas get washed away."
He was looking down through the overcast. Most of the view was blocked by high rises, ribbon-built on the winding roads that were cut into the mountainside. From time to time he could see glimpses of Central and the shoreline far below. "It's like being in an airplane, Orlanda. On a balmy night it must be terrific."
"Yes. Yes it is. I love it. You can see all of Kowloon. Before Sinclair Towers was built—that's the block straight ahead—we had the best view in Hong Kong. Did you know Struan's own Sinclair Towers? I think Ian Dunross helped have it built to spite Quillan.
Quillan has the penthouse apartment here … at least he did."
"It spoiled his view?"
"Ruined it."
"That's an expensive attack."
"No. Both blocks are immensely profitable. Quillan told me everything in Hong Kong's amortized over three years. Everything. Property's the thing to own. You could make . . ." She laughed. "You could improve your fortune if you wanted to."
"If I stay, where should I live?"
"Here in Mid Levels. Farther up the Peak you're always very damp, the walls sweat and everything mildews." She took off her headscarf and shook her hair free, then sat on the arm of a chair, looking at his back, waiting patiently.
"How long have you been here?" he asked.
"Five, almost six years. Since the block was built."
He turned and leaned against the window. "It's great," he said. "And so are you."
"Thank you, kind sir. Would you like coffee?"
"Please." Line Bartlett ran his fingers through his hair, peering at an oil painting. "This a Quance?"
"Yes. Yes it is. Quillan gave it to me. Espresso?"
"Yes. Black, please. Wish I knew more about paintings . . ." He was going to add, Casey does, but he stopped himself and watched her open one of the doors. The kitchen was large, modern and very well equipped. "That's like something out of House and Garden^
"This was all Quillan's idea. He loves food and loves cooking. This's all his design, the rest… the rest is mine though he taught me good from kitsch."
"You sorry you broke up with him?"
"Yes and no. It's joss, karma. He … that was joss. The time had come." Her quietness touched him. "It could never have lasted. Never. Not here." He saw a sadness go over her momentarily but she brushed it aside and busied herself with the sparkling espresso maker. All the shelves were spotless. "Quillan was a stickler for tidiness, thank God it rubbed off on me. My amah, Ah Fat, she drives me insane."
"Does she live here?"
"Oh yes, yes of course, but she's shopping now—her room's at the end of the corridor. Look around if you like. I won't be a minute."
Filled with curiosity he wandered off. A good dining room with a round table to seat eight. Her bedroom was white and pink, light and airy with soft pink drapes hung from the ceiling that fell around the huge bed making it into a vast four-poster. There were flowers in a delicate arrangement. A modern bathroom, tiled and perfect, with matching towels. A second bedroom with books and phone and hi-fi and smaller bed, again everything neat and tasteful.
Casey's outclassed, he told himself, remembering the easy, careless untidiness of her little house in the Los Angeles canyon, red brick, piles of books everywhere, barbecue, phones, duplicators and electric typewriters. Troubled at his thought and the way he automatically seemed to be comparing them, he strolled back to the kitchen, bypassing the amah's room, his walk soundless. Orlanda was concentrating on the coffee maker, unaware that now he was watching her. He enjoyed watching her.