Unable to stand the conversation a second longer I left the bus and started to walk. I cut crosstown to Fifth and over Madison
to Park, and all around me I sensed rather than saw New York, rich, gleaming, intact, a world away from those other cities
with their shabby ruined streets. Memories flickered through my mind, the smoky café in Düsseldorf where the rouged hostesses
had danced with the black marketeers while the band played ‘Bei Mir Bist Du Schön’, the American soldiers chewing gum in the
wrecked streets of Munich, the English tourist who had got drunk with me and said: ‘Let me tell you where I went sight-seeing
today …’
I suddenly realized I had reached my apartment block. It was eight-thirty. Behind me traffic was still roaring down Park Avenue
and in front of me the doorman was holding open the door for me with a smile.
‘Good evening, Mr Keller … Sir, there’s a lady waiting in the lobby for you.’
I was still so deep in thought that I only stared at him blankly, but
before he could speak again a voice from the past called: ‘Sam!’ and when I spun round I saw a petite, voluptuous, well-remembered
figure tip-tapping across the lobby towards me. Jet-black hair (formerly chestnut-brown) cascaded softly around a perfectly
lifted face; sparkling blue eyes regarded me with an unabashed interest which failed to hide her air of desperation.
‘It
is
you, isn’t it, Sam?’ she said, hesitating unexpectedly, and I realized that I had probably changed far more than she had
in the eighteen years since she had divorced Cornelius.
‘Vivienne!’
‘Darling! You remembered!’
The doorman, who had been listening to this inane dialogue with approval, gloated as Vivienne glided into my arms.
‘Darling, how perfectly heavenly to see you again after all these years! Now Sam sweetie—’ I was released after an accomplished
kiss ‘—forgive me for waylaying you like this, but—’
‘Is this about Vicky?’
‘You bet it’s about Vicky! That little bastard Cornelius has given orders that I’m not to be admitted to his Fifth Avenue
shack but I’m telling you, darling, I’m telling you here and now that I’m not leaving town until I’ve seen my daughter, and
if that son-of-a-bitch of an ex-husband of mine thinks I’m going to stand by doing nothing while he mismanages Vicky’s entire
life—’
I saw the doorman’s hypnotized expression and automatically attempted to silence Vivienne by steering her towards the elevator.
‘You’d better come up,’ I said with reluctance, and was at once whipped back into the maelstrom of the Van Zale family’s domestic
problems.
[3]
My penthouse was on the twenty-eighth floor. It was too big for me but I enjoyed the views south past the Chrysler, the Empire
State and Metropolitan Life to the misty towers of downtown Manhattan. The forty-foot living-room was useful for parties,
the dining-room table could effortlessly accommodate sixteen and the servants’ rooms were comfortable enough to ensure I had
no trouble keeping a first-class couple to act as my housekeeper and chauffeur.
I lived mainly in one room, the den, which had been described by the realtor as the library. It was a large sunny room and
I had furnished it with my favourite recliner, a goose-necked reading lamp and an old
leather couch which my mother had tried to give to the junkman after I had bought her a three-piece suite some years ago.
I had no books in the room except for twenty years of
The New Yorker
bound in leather, but I had my record collection, two phonographs, three tape recorders, a television and a radio. In the
closet, which I kept locked, were my German memorabilia: my cousin Kristina’s watercolours of the Siebengebirge, the albums
of photographs taken at the little house in Düsseldorf, the souvenirs of visits to Berlin and Bavaria. On the walls hung framed
photographs: my parents, the dog I had once owned, two turn-of-the-century shots of Wall Street and a panoramic view of Ocean
Drive near Bar Harbor.
I loved my den. I kept it very neat and very clean all by myself, since I liked to think that there was at least one part
of my home where the servants were never allowed to go. I used to vacuum the carpet on Sunday mornings when my housekeeper
was at church. Cornelius had laughed at this eccentric behaviour, but I liked vacuum cleaners – in fact I liked all machines,
and the more efficient they were the more I enjoyed them. At that time my favourite hobby was dismantling and reassembling
my television set. I liked the little wires and the gleaming metal and the system’s exquisite logic and precision. When I
was working with my hands and using the electronic knowledge I had acquired over the years, I could tune out the rest of the
world and forget the pressures of my life at Willow and Wall.
The rest of my apartment had been furnished by a fashionable interior decorator and was exactly the kind of home which a man
in my position had to have to impress his clients, his friends, his enemies and all the other people who knew he had started
life as an immigrant in a blue-collar home. I was not snobbish, merely practical. Since I dealt continuously with influential
men it was essential that I could present a domestic front which they could respect. It was a fact of life which my benefactor
Paul Van Zale had taught me long ago at Bar Harbor.
‘Darling, what a heavenly apartment!’ exclaimed Vivienne as I led her into the living-room. ‘And what a marvellous jungle
you’ve managed to grow on the enormous terrace! Oh, I just love modern paintings – is that one over the desk by Picasso?’
‘No, it’s by some guy called Braque. Neil gave it to me on the twentieth anniversary of our partnership. He said it would
be a good investment.’ I thought of Teresa gasping: ‘Jesus – a Braque!’ and subsiding weakly on to the couch. With an abrupt
movement I opened the cocktail cabinet, ‘Drink, Vivienne?’
‘Darling, I’d adore a martini. The very mention of Cornelius’ name makes me want to hit the bottle in the biggest possible
way.’
As I mixed her drink she told me she had taken the first train to New York from Florida as soon as she had read in the press
of Vicky’s elopement, and had made repeated efforts, all unsuccessful, to gain admittance to the Van Zale mansion to see her
daughter.
‘I’ve called and called on the phone, of course,’ she added, ‘but all I ever got were the aides and the secretaries. Then
finally I remembered you. You’re the one man in all New York who can always get Cornelius to the phone, and I was wondering—’
‘Vivienne, forgive me, but would it really serve any useful purpose if you spoke to him? It seems to me—’
‘Sam, I’ve got to talk to him – it’s for Vicky’s sake, not mine! Do you think I’d give a damn if I never spoke to Cornelius
again? My God, when I think of the way he treated me – oh, I know I married him for his money but I was very fond of him and
I’d been a good wife and there I was, pregnant with his child—’
‘I remember, yes.’ I had been trying to restrict myself to soda-water, but the occasion was just too much for me. I got up
to add a shot of scotch to my glass.
‘—and then he finds out he’d been married for his money – okay, so I was stupid to let him find out, but if he hadn’t been
eavesdropping—’
‘Vivienne, believe me, I remember all this much too well!’
‘I’ll bet the little bastard never told you how he cut me off afterwards! “It’s finished,” he says, cool as dressed crab,
“it’s over. I have nothing else to say.” Can you imagine! What a way to terminate a marriage to an affectionate, faithful,
pregnant wife! And then he even had the nerve to complain when I sued the pants off him for divorce and got total custody
of Vicky!’
‘Well, that’s past history now, Vivienne. I know you had custody of Vicky originally but Cornelius has had complete custody
since she was ten years old, and he’s not going to welcome any interference from you either now or at any other time.’
‘Of course he won’t welcome it, but the hell with him! I can’t just sit back and let him mess up my little girl’s life! Look
Sam, I want Vicky to come and live with me while she gets over this disaster. I know Cornelius thinks I’m poorer than white
trash just because I had the guts to remarry and turn my back on all his million-dollar alimony, but my husband – my last
husband, I mean – left me a little money when he died and I’ve got the cutest little house in Fort Lauderdale now – oh, I
know it’s not Palm Beach, but it’s
nice
, Sam, and I know
some lovely people there. Don’t you see – I could give Vicky a
normal
home! Oh Sam, you know what happens to all these heiresses – the fortune-hunters, the gigolos, the fake Russian princes,
the drink, the drugs, the breakdowns, the suicides—’
‘Vivienne, Neil’s just as anxious as you are that Vicky should have a normal happy life!’
‘Cornelius,’ said Vivienne, ‘has lived for twenty-three years in a Fifth Avenue palace with fifty million dollars for pin-money,
his own Wall Street bank and all the aristocracy of the Eastern Seaboard sashaying up his driveway in their Cadillacs to tell
him hullo. He wouldn’t even recognize normality if he met it eyeball to eyeball at high noon.’
‘Nonsense! The Van Zales have the quietest, happiest and least pretentious family life of any people I know!’
‘Well, if that’s true,’ said Vivienne fiercely, ‘why does Vicky run away from home at the very first opportunity she gets?
I’m not calling you a liar, darling, but I think there’s a screw loose in that household somewhere and I want my little girl
back.’ To my amazement she began to weep and her bosom, which Cornelius had once confessed had given him more wet dreams than
any other piece of anatomy he had ever encountered, rose and fell with mesmerizing precision. It was miraculous how well she
had retained her figure, almost as miraculous as her success in looking younger than I was when she was fourteen years my
senior.
‘Have another drink,’ I said wishing I was in bed with Teresa, and tried to think clearly. I had the strong feeling that despite
my reluctance to be involved the situation could be turned to my advantage. The fact was that I was already involved; if I
wanted Cornelius to grant me that leave of absence from Van Zale’s, I had to persuade him to abandon his matrimonial pipe-dream,
and in order to achieve that I had to provide him with an alternative solution to Vicky’s problems. Beneath Vivienne’s stagey
weeping and phony mannerisms I sensed a genuine concern for her daughter, and I thought it could be argued, not unreasonably,
that Vicky would benefit from a long vacation in Florida. Whether Cornelius would accept this argument was debatable, but
I could try. What did I have to lose? I rose to my feet, moved to the phone and picked up the receiver.
‘Okay, I’ll get him on the line.’
‘Oh Sam … darling …’ Vivienne, trembling with gratitude, was teetering across the floor to kiss me on the cheek.
A Van Zale aide answered the phone.
‘Keller,’ I said. ‘Is he there?’
‘Darling!’ breathed Vivienne again, stretching out her hand to take the receiver, but I stepped backwards away from her.
‘I’ll handle this, Vivienne, if you don’t mind … Neil? Yes, it’s me. Can you take some upsetting information without getting
upset? I’ve got Vivienne here with me. She wants to invite Vicky down to Fort Lauderdale for a while to give everyone a breathing
space, and personally I don’t think that’s such a bad idea.’
‘Are you out of your mind? She hates the bitch!’
‘Maybe, but what’s the harm in letting Vivienne at least talk to her to issue the invitation? The world won’t fall apart any
further than it’s fallen already, and who knows, Vicky may even be grateful to you later.’
‘Let me have a word with Vivienne.’
‘No. You’d fight. I’m staying on the line until you transfer this call to Vicky’s room.’
‘Oh shit!’ said Cornelius, but I heard him tell his aide to transfer the call.
I waited. Eventually I heard the bell ring again but nobody answered. ‘Neil?’ I said tentatively at last.
As I had guessed, he was listening in.
‘Yes, I’m here,’ he said heavily. ‘Well, you’ll just have to tell Vivienne that Vicky’s not picking up the phone.’
‘Would it be too much to ask you to go up to her room and let her know her mother’s on the line?’
‘Yes. It would. But maybe I’d better check on her anyway to see if she’s okay.’ He set down the receiver and I heard a door
close in the distance.
While I waited I told Vivienne what was happening.
‘My God, Sam, do you think she’s all right? She hasn’t been suicidal, has she?’
‘Just mad at the world in general.’
We went on waiting. I tried not to think of Teresa in her cheap turquoise dress with the little gold cross slipping into the
hollow between her breasts, but the next moment I was remembering when we had last made love. I had had a shade too much to
drink and the occasion had been only moderately successful although Teresa had sworn everything had been fine. Later, when
I was working for the ECA in Germany and my problems had been straightened out, I was going to give up cigarettes and hard
liquor and drink only the occasional glass of wine.
The line clicked. The pristine future dissolved, leaving me enmeshed in the clouded, chaotic present. ‘Sam?’ gasped Cornelius.
‘She’s gone!’
‘What!’
‘I had the guys force the door. The window was open. She’d let herself down on to the terrace by knotting some sheets into
a rope. Oh Christ, Sam—’
‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘Yeah, keep that bitch Vivienne off my back,’ said Cornelius, voice shaking, and hung up.
I stood looking at the receiver in my hand while Vivienne demanded to know what had happened. Finally I recovered sufficiently
to say: ‘Vicky’s run away again.’
She looked first shocked, then incredulous. ‘You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?’ she demanded furiously. ‘That little
bastard’s just spinning you that yarn to get rid of me!’
‘Not this time. This was genuine. My God, I hope I never have an eighteen-year-old daughter!’ I slumped down exhausted on
the couch.