The Loves of Harry Dancer (14 page)

The Chairman pulls at his rubbery lower lip. Deliberating. It is possible, of course, that Heimdall knows who Frey is, and the Counterintelligence agent has been assigned to her as backup or bodyguard. But the Chairman doesn’t think so.

He believes the Corporation is worried about Heimdall’s loyalty. Martin Frey has been assigned to test her. The same reason Angela Bliss was sicced onto Sally Abaddon. The Department and the Corporation are making similar operational moves. Their secret war demands it.

The Corporation’s Chief of Operations has come to the same conclusion. Anthony Glitner reports that Willoughby, assigned to cover Sally Abaddon, says that the Department’s agent has a new friend. A woman living in her motel. Name: Angela Bliss. Physical description is given.

The Chief runs the name through the computer. Within minutes he has the answer: Angela Bliss is an agent provocateur. Working in the Department’s Internal Security Section. Home base: Chicago. So the Department is as concerned about its field agent as the Corporation is about theirs.

Chairman and Chief ponder their next moves. In this struggle, inaction is tantamount to defeat. Both men believe their basic strategies are sound, but tactics must be revised to take into account the presence and activities of the new players.

Each begins to plot how he might best take advantage of the other’s weakness. And, as not infrequently happens in the world of espionage and counterespionage, unwittingly the primary purpose of the campaign takes second place to the stimulation and intellectual challenge of opposing game plans.

38

H
arry Dancer is going through a curious metamorphosis. His intimacy with Evelyn Heimdall and Sally Abaddon, instead of dimming recollections of his deceased wife, has sharpened memories. They have moved into the present tense.

Sylvia and he bed together several times before she proposes. He accepts. They spend an inebriated evening planning the wedding (small) and the honeymoon (grand). Suddenly Harry stops grinning, sobers, stares at her.

“Syl,” he says, “I’m scared.”

“Why so?”

“Marriage is new. You know? Something different. Something I’ve never done before.”

“I haven’t either, but I’m not scared. You want to back out so soon?”

“Oh no. No. Syl, do you think it will change things?”

“What things?”

“Between us.”

She considers that. “Probably,” she decides. “So far it’s all been fun and games—right? Now a preacher says a few words, and we sign a contract. Sure, things will change between us. Got to. But I think we can hack it. Don’t you?”

“I’m going to give it the old college try. I swear to God I am.”

“Me, too. You’re right, Harry; it’s not going to be easy. We’ve both lived alone a long, long time. Adjustments…”

He nods. “A lot of little things. Toothpaste tubes squeezed in the middle or the end. Toilet paper coming off the roll over or under. Dishes in the sink. Stupid things. Not important. Not worth fighting about. We’ll be able to laugh them all away. What bothers me is our love for each other. Will that fade when we’re married? We’ve never been together for more than, oh, maybe twenty-four hours. What happens when we live in the same house? Together—until death do us part?”

“Don’t look for trouble,” she advises. “We’re not a couple of teenagers. We’ve both been around. It’ll be give and take, won’t it? The way I see it, Harry, we’ll both be making a sacrifice. Giving up a piece of ourselves. But in return we get a third entity. There will be you, me, and our marriage. With work and a little bit o’ luck, the marriage will become more important to us than our own selves.”

“That’s a happy thought,” he says. Taking her into his arms. “You’re going to be good for me, Syl; I just know it.”

“I’m going to love you to death,” she says. “You’ll see.”

The wedding ceremony is decorous and moving. Dancer is shocked at Sylvia’s beauty. It is not only the shimmering white gown, the veil. It is her luminescence. She is a stranger to him. Ethereal. He kisses a wraith, fearing she may dissolve.

The reception at the club is a rowdy lark. All that booze. Suggestive jokes. Nudges and smirks. They move through it all. Smiling, smiling. Then, hand in hand, duck out the back door. Drive to the Lauderdale airport. In time to catch their flight to LaGuardia.

“Congratulations!” the stewardess says.

“Who told you?” Sylvia demands.

“No one. You just have that look.”

When she moves away, Sylvia asks him: “What look is that?”

“Stupefied,” he says.

They have a suite high up in the New York Hilton. Harry has arranged for flowers and champagne. He doesn’t neglect to carry her over the threshold.

“Instant hernia,” he says.

They stand at the window, clasping each other’s waist. Look down at the glittering city.

“Want it?” Harry says. “It’s yours.”

“Nah,” she says. “Too small. I want you.”

“I’d like you to know that I realize this is your wedding night, and I promise to be ever so tender and gentle and understanding.”

“Go fuck yourself,” she says.

They go out for dinner at a steak joint on the East Side. Take a carriage ride through Central Park. Stop at the Oak Bar at the Plaza for a brandy stinger. Then cab back to the hotel.

“I’m wiped out,” Sylvia says. “It’s been a long day.”

“Oh-ho. First night, and you’ve got a headache.”

She laughs. “I could have convulsions, and I wouldn’t miss this. How often does a girl get shtupped on her wedding night?”

Still dressed, they come close. He tries to tell her how he felt when he saw her floating down the aisle to him.

“I knew then,” he says, “knew it, that we were doing absolutely the right thing. We can’t miss, babe.”

“I love you, Harry.”

“I love you, Sylvia.”

They shower together. First time they had ever done that.

“Hey,” she says, “how long has this been going on? It’s great.”

“I invented it,” he tells her. “Syl, if I can’t get it up tonight, I’m going right out the window.”

“Don’t give it a second thought,” she says. Then adds: “Just concentrate on the first.”

She is right: it had been a long day. With a heavy emotional charge. They lie naked in each other’s arms. Talking, talking. The wedding. Reception. How guests looked. What they said. And did you see…? And did you hear…?

Suddenly—blackout. They are both asleep. Clinging. Dancer wakes first. Groggy. It takes a half-minute before he remembers who he is, where he is, who this woman is, what he has done. He glances at their travel clock. Almost four-thirty in the morning. He slides carefully out of bed. When he returns from the bathroom, she is awake.

“Wasn’t that great?” he asks her. “Wasn’t that the most marvelous lovemaking you’ve ever had?”

“Beast,” she says. Reaching for him with bare arms.

It is an idyll. Lighthearted and without care. They come together in joy. Nuzzling.

“Gosh, Mommy,” she says, “now I’ve got someone to play with. This is keen.”

Her body is tanned. Hard. Muscle under satin. He touches her with wonder. Realizing she is suddenly new to him.

“Sweetheart…“he says.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just sweetheart. Do you like that?”

“No, I do not. And I’ll give you exactly three hours to stop.”

“Nut,” he says. Laughing. “I’ve married a nut.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Nut,” she says. “Doesn’t it sound nice?”

“Back rub?” he asks.

“Yes. Please.”

She rolls prone. He straddles her. Begins softly massaging her neck and shoulders.

“Magic fingers,” she murmurs.

He kneads her back. Gently rubs the stones of her spine.

“Got to fatten you up,” he says.

“Whatever.”

He bends to drift lips and tongue. Kisses ribs.

Hunches to nibble her rounded tush.

“Ooh…” she says. “You never did that before.”

“I’ve never been married before. Want to sleep?”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

She rolls over. They embrace with smiling delight. Their love is airy. No strain, no pain. Then, flesh fevered, the easy joining. Slick slide.

“I do,” she says. Repeating her marriage vow. “I do, I do, I do. Oh lordy, do I ever do.”

It is a memorable week in Manhattan. Filled with odd charms. Unexpected incidents. Good food. A crazy session at a roller skating rink. One good Broadway play. They eat raw fish for the first time. See an Ingres at the Metropolitan that makes Sylvia weep with pleasure. Take a yacht trip around the island. Buy pretzels from a man on stilts.

Then they are back in Florida. Settling into their beachfront home. Dancer goes back to work. Sylvia gets busy redecorating the house. Moving her things in. And trying not to call him every hour to say, “I love you.”

Routine and habit grow. There are minor clashes—as they expected. Little, stupid things, they agree. All smoothed over. But their marriage grows. Blooms. Until they rather spend an evening alone together than to endure the company of friendly strangers.

“We’ve got to stop this,” Sylvia says. “The honeymoon is over.”

But it is not.

What saves them from cloying happiness, despicable to acquaintances, is the clash of their personalities. She so light, breezy. A sprite, really. He so heavy, introspective. And sometimes, when the mood is on him, silent and lachrymose. This disparity is the cause of psychic pushings, pullings, a covert and occasionally overt warfare that leaves them shaken and depressed.

Until, three years wed, they realize that this tension is pepper to their lives, and their marriage would not survive without it. Then they accept each other as is. Their relationship deepens to become one of respect and understanding as much as love.

39

M
artin Frey, trained Romeo, learns early on that small flattery is no flattery at all.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met,” he tells Evelyn Heimdall.

She smiles. Lazy as a cat. Rolling softly on her lounge at poolside. Toasting the flesh. Opening the body to that penetrating sun.

“You’re a sweet boy,” she says. “A sweet, young boy.”

“Does that make a difference?”

She lowers her sunglasses to stare at him. “No, it doesn’t.”

“You only live once.”

“So I’m learning,” she says.

“I’d like to take you to dinner tonight,” Frey says. “May I?”

“Sorry. I have a date.”

“A cocktail? Before your date?”

She thinks about it. “AH right. One drink. Then I’ll have to run. Will you settle for that?”

“I’ll settle for anything. Would you like to stop by my place? Say around five o’clock?”

“Make it six. I’ll stay for an hour. No more. Now are you going to give me a swimming lesson?”

“Of course.”

“What are you going to teach me today?”

“The breast stroke,” he says. Grinning.

“You’re awful,” she says. Takes his hand so he can help her rise. They move to the pool together.

“Let’s try the flutter kick again,” he says.

They go into the shallow end. She grasps the gutter. Floats facedown.

“All right,” he says, “start kicking. From the hips. Slowly at first.”

She tries.

“No, no,” he says. “You’re kicking from the knee. Here, keep your legs straight.”

He puts his hands on her. Makes her lock her knees. His fingers are silk under water.

“Point your toes,” he commands. “Keep your legs stiff. Try it again.”

Her long legs scissor. From the hips. Knees locked. Toes pointed. She beats the water to froth.

“Good,” he says. “You’re doing great. Now turn around. Float facedown. Push off and flutter kick across the pool. Take a deep breath and keep your face in the water. Arms extended. Don’t try to stroke. Just kick to the other side.”

She pushes off. Almost makes it. But then has to raise her face from the water to take a breath. It breaks the rhythm of her kick.

“Okay,” he calls, “you did fine. Now come back the same way. Just take it slow and easy. Put all your strength into your thighs.”

She extends her arms. Takes a deep breath. Puts her face in the water. Pushes off. She kicks to him. He moves so that her grasping hands touch his tight briefs. She raises her head. Gasping for breath.

“Well done,” he says. “Do it a few more times. Tomorrow we’ll try the length of the pool and see how far you can go.”

She kicks across the width of the pool several more times. When she comes back to where he stands in shallow water, her hands reach to touch him. Lingeringly. A ballet.

“You’re doing great,” he tells her.

“Ami?”

“Just keep those beautiful legs locked, and move from the hips.”

“I’ll remember,” she says.

When she shows up at his apartment at six o’clock, she is wearing a loose chemise of lavender linen. Cut high in front. Plunging almost to her waist in back. Tanned skin gleams.

“You look smashing,” Frey says. “Lucky man you’re meeting tonight. What would you like to drink? I have vodka, rum, scotch, white wine. That’s about it.”

“A white wine would be nice. You know, Martin, I’m beginning to feel all that kicking in my legs. My thighs and calves ache.”

“You’ll work it out tomorrow. After awhile your muscles will get toned, and you won’t feel a thing.”

He is barefoot, wearing tight white short-shorts and a khaki tank top. She sees tufts of soft black hair protruding from his armpits. She looks away. Oddly excited.

“Good wine,” she says. “Thank you. How is the job-hunting coming?”

“Another interview tomorrow,” he says. “I’m not discouraged. The jobs are there, but the salaries aren’t so great.”

“I know very little about computers,” she confesses.

“It’s not as difficult as you think. If I can do it, anyone can do it.”

They sit side by side on his couch: a rattan monstrosity covered with an orange batik print. Frey puts his palm lightly on her bare back.

“Hot,” he says. “You’re not getting too much sun, are you?”

“I don’t think so. I use a sun-screen lotion.”

“Good. Or you’ll be peeling like an onion. Ev, if your date is over early, or even if it isn’t, and you’d like to stop back here for a nightcap, I’d love to see you.”