For nearly three hours Rann answered questions as carefully and as completely as he could, being careful also each time to state that his answers were his own opinions.
“You don’t think we should keep Sergeant Colfax here, General, until this whole mess is cleared up?” one of the officers inquired.
“No, I don’t think that will be necessary at all,” the general replied, his expression thoughtful. “I think the sergeant has told us everything he actually knows, and his suppositions are repeated in his book. I’m convinced he had no involvement in it himself, so I see no need to hold him up. It’s his first book and probably won’t be very widely read and I feel sure we can clear all of this up in a few weeks anyway. Perhaps it’s best to have him out of the way so no one can get to him. No one else knows as yet exactly what his book says, and we can hold up release for a while here until we finish our work. He should be on his way back to the States as quickly as possible. Now, gentlemen, if there are no more questions I think the ladies are waiting for us.”
The general’s bungalow had been recently repainted also and the stucco was now soft yellow, causing it to stand out from the other houses all painted apple green in the American sector called Little Scarsdale. The split-level interior was the same, however, all in rose pink. “Mrs. Appleby’s favorite color,” he had heard guests told on his former visit here.
“Well, Sergeant Colfax.” Mrs. Appleby moved across the room toward him, both hands outstretched to greet him.
She seemed to have lost some weight since Rann had last seen her, though she was still a plump woman. She wore a deep-rose hostess gown of crushed velvet that brushed the carpet, the toes of her gold slippers kicking up the front hem as she walked. She still wore too much makeup and her bleached hair was styled in tight, stiff waves that reminded Rann of a corrugated tin roof.
“You really surprised everyone but me. I knew you would do something really great and you certainly have. Girls! This is the Rann Colfax simply everyone is talking about, and just wait until you read his marvelous book and you will certainly see why everyone is talking. I just knew he was going to do something and be famous and all, and I told the general the first time I saw him he was an extra-special person and he should keep him at headquarters. But, well, you all know how jealous he always is so he transferred him right on down to Ascom supply anyway.”
“Now, Minnie,” the general interrupted. “You know you—”
“Oh, now hush, dear,” his wife scolded the general. “We all make mistakes, even you. Besides, you’re all forgiven so we don’t need to talk about it anymore. Tell me, Rann Colfax, where do you go from here?”
“Well, Mrs. Appleby, I guess I’ll go back to New York. Perhaps I’ll stop for a few days with my mother in Ohio, but only for a few days.”
“Oh, I know that, silly. The general tells me you leave in a couple of days. That’s why I simply had to have you here tonight. After all, it isn’t every day we have a celebrity born right in our midst, is it? What I mean is, where do you go in your career? Come on over and have a drink and tell us all about it. Here he is, girls. The most exciting man of the day and he is almost a civilian, so I guess we can all call him Rann. That will be all right, won’t it, Rann?”
Rann made excuses to leave as early as he could easily do so and returned to his quarters to begin packing for his journey home. Two days later he was on his way to the United States.
SAN FRANCISCO WAS A BEAUTIFUL CITY to Rann, perhaps indeed, at this point, the most beautiful he had seen outside of Paris. In some ways the city on the hill, surrounded by the San Francisco Bay and linked to its outer parts by the beautiful Golden Gate and Bay Bridges, surpassed even Paris. His entrance into the city by military transport from Tokyo had been quiet, his name appearing on no passenger lists, and his two weeks of mustering out of the service passed without difficulty.
Rann found himself in possession of considerable free time, which he spent in the museums and parks of the city learning what he could of his surroundings for the brief time he was there. He lingered an extra week in the city after his discharge, and then he began to long for the comfort of the apartment in Brooklyn and the presence of Sung. He decided to forgo the planned visit with his mother in favor of her visiting him in New York, and one clear morning he boarded a commercial jet out of San Francisco for Idlewild Airport on Long Island.
“Are you Rann Colfax, sir?” the ticket agent had asked when he had booked his flight.
“Yes, I am,” Rann answered quietly.
“Well, I certainly am glad to meet you, sir. I have just finished Choi and I must say it’s the best book I have ever read.”
The woman behind him in line as this conversation transpired sought out the seat next to him on the plane.
“I haven’t had a chance to read your book yet, Mr. Colfax.”
The woman was middle-aged, Rann surmised, and spoke with the accent of generations of ancestry in New England. She was slender and small and wore a black suit. The stewardess had put the matching hat and coat into the rack over the seat.
“I’m just returning from a year in Japan, so I feel a bit left out. Of course, you have created quite a stir in all of the English newspapers. I suppose in all of the papers, but we never quite know what these foreigners say about us, do we? It’s unfair, in a way, so many of them speaking English when their own languages are so impossible for us to learn. I’ve done little but travel for the five years since my poor husband passed on, so I feel quite out of things as far as books and the theatre are concerned. I have a great deal of catching up to do and I’m certainly putting your book as number one on my list. My, you do appear young to have caused such a stir. Why did you decide to write, Mr. Colfax?”
Rann thought for a moment before he answered. “I don’t know that I’ve ever really considered why before,” he said truthfully. “I suppose I could say simply that I’m a writer.”
“But of course you are, you would have to be a writer to have made such a success. But what I mean is that everyone doesn’t write, and there must be some mysterious quality that turns one man into a writer and another man not. Certainly I could never write.”
“I suppose it’s some sort of compulsion to put things down on paper.”
Rann gave up and let himself be engaged in conversation. There was no escape in such close quarters. Soon, however, he began to ask questions of his own. He found the woman eager to talk of herself.
“I’m Rita Benson,” she told him. “My husband was very, very successful in the oil business and while he was alive we played around with backing shows as a sort of hobby. I’ve continued it since he died. As a matter of fact, I have two on Broadway now. I shall step right back into that life, I suppose. God knows there is no reason why I shouldn’t. He has left me with more money than I could ever spend and I do so enjoy the people of the theatre and the parties and all of that. Do you enjoy that sort of thing, Rann? Surely I may call you Rann—and of course you will remember my name is Rita?”
The conversation continued with her extracting his promise that he would let her introduce him to the theatre crowd in New York and as the plane landed they had exchanged addresses and phone numbers and promised to meet again in a few days.
When they rose from their seats, Rann took her carry-on bag from her and they proceeded together to the baggage claim area. Photographers’ flashes blinded him as they entered the terminal.
“This must be Rita Benson and Rann Colfax,” the reporter spoke in an excited voice. “How very interesting. How did the two of you meet?”
They explained they had met on the plane and Rann helped her into her car.
“Are you sure you won’t let me drop you off, dear boy? It won’t be out of my way as I’m staying in New York a few days before going on to Connecticut.”
Rann agreed, taxies difficult at this hour, and her long black limousine glided easily t
hrough the traffic and the chauffeur put his luggage on the elevator of his apartment building. Rita Benson offered him her hand through the window of the car and he held it for a moment in his own. Her hand was warm and soft and well cared for.
“Don’t forget, dear boy, you will hear from me soon. I have your promise now.”
The car moved away from the curb and into traffic and Rann stood for a moment on the sidewalk before entering his building.
“It’s nice to have you back, sir,” the ancient doorman greeted him with enthusiasm.
“Thank you,” Rann told him, and rode the elevator to his own floor. He banged the knocker and Sung opened the door, a dusting cloth in his hand. His round, usually expressionless face creased into a wide smile.
“Very glad seeing you home, master. I waiting very long time here.”
“I’m home at last,” he replied.
Yes, he was at home, his own home. Sung unpacked the bags while Rann telephoned his mother.
“Rann! Where are you?” Her voice sounded young and fresh over the air.
“Where I belong—in Grandfather’s—no, in my apartment.”
“You aren’t coming home?”
“This is home now. You’ll come and visit me.”
“Rann—but I suppose you’re right. Are you well?”
“Yes.”
“You sound as if something were wrong.”
“I’ve learned a lot during these months.”
“You’re back sooner than I expected. Do you have plans, son?”
“Yes, I shall write books—and books and books, sometime, that is—”
“Your father always said that’s what you would do. When shall I come?”
“As soon as you like.”
“Let me see—next week, Thursday? My club meets here on Wednesday.”
“Perfect. Until then—”
“Oh, Rann, I’m happy!”
“So am I.”
“And Rann, I almost forgot. Your publisher wants you to call as soon as you can. I told him you would call right away. You won’t forget, will you?”
“No, I won’t forget, Mother. Thank you.”
He hung up, fell into thought, and then in sudden resolution rang France, Paris, and Stephanie. At this hour, reckoning time, she’d be home. At home she was. A Chinese answered in French that if he would wait only one moment, mademoiselle would be at the telephone. She had only just arrived with her honored father.
He waited the moment, which lengthened to several, and then heard Stephanie’s clear voice speaking English.
“But Rann, I thought you yet in Korea!”
“Returned to New York only today, Stephanie! How are you?”
“As ever—well. Working very hard to speak good English. Am I not speaking quite well?”
“Excellent, now what will become of my French?”
“Ah, you will forget nothing! When are you coming to Paris?”
“When are you coming to New York? I have a place of my own—remember I wrote you?”
“Ah you! Writing me one letter—two, maybe!”
“I couldn’t write letters in Korea—too much to do, to see, to learn. I repeat, when are you—”
“Yes, yes, I heard the first time. Well, in truth, my father is opening a shop in New York. For which case we come, perhaps in a few months.”
“How can I wait?”
She laughed. “You are being polite like a Frenchman now! Well, we must both wait and while we wait we will write letters. Are you well?”
“Yes. Do you think of me sometimes?”
“Of course, I not only think of you I read about you. Your book is very famous, and it is to be in French next week. Then I can read it and see why everyone in the English papers talks so much.”
“Do not expect too much of me. It’s only my first book. There will be others. Now, Stephanie, I really must see you. You are a jewel in my memory!”
She laughed. “Perhaps you will not think so now that you have seen beautiful girls in Asia!”
“Not one—do you hear me, Stephanie? Not one!”
“I hear you. Now we must say good-bye. Time is money, telephoning so far.”
“Will you write me?”
“Of course.”
“Today, I mean.”
“Today.”
He heard the receiver put down and there was silence. Suddenly he wanted to see her now, at once. A few months? It was intolerable. He considered flying to Paris tomorrow. No, it would not do. He had much to arrange in his own mind. He had to order his own life, begin his work, plan his time. What was ahead of him now?
Rann decided to postpone the call to his publisher until the following morning. The flight had not been restful, though he had enjoyed Rita Benson’s endless chatter, in a way. He felt now the need of a hot bath and clean, fresh garments and an evening of relaxation under the care of Sung. When he entered the large master bedroom where he had moved when his grandfather died, he found that Sung, the faithful man, had unpacked his luggage putting everything in its place and had laid a comfortable silk robe and pajamas on the bed for him. At home, Rann thought as he ran steaming water into the tub. If Serena had visited his grandfather in these rooms, Rann had experienced no such invasion of privacy. Indeed, nothing interrupted his comfort here and he thought of his gratitude to his grandfather as he rested in the tub. He dried himself vigorously and, deciding he was not quite ready for the pajamas, he selected a pair of trunks from a drawer and went out upon the terrace for the warmth of the sun.
“You have slept, young sir, and I fear you might chill in the late air.”
Thus Sung had waked him. The sun was gone and Rann moved into the library where Sung had left a cocktail on his desk next to the paper.
Rann sipped the cool drink and glanced at the front page of each section of the paper. In the theatre section the headline arrested his attention.
RITA BENSON ADDS RANN COLFAX TO STABLE. Rann read on. “Broadway’s brightest angel, Rita Benson, widow of oil tycoon George Benson, arrived in New York today from Tokyo with none other in tow than Rann Colfax, whirlwind young author of bestseller Choi. Rita certainly wastes no time in gathering up the eligible young men around town. …”
Rann could read no more. He picked up the telephone and called the St. Regis, where Rita Benson said she was staying.
“Of course I haven’t read it, dear boy,” she said when he was put through to her room. “But you mustn’t pay any attention to what they say. They have to have something to say. You are new to all of this as yet, but you must learn that we simply go on with our lives no matter what the press might write. Now, how about dinner here with me tomorrow. Then we can go to a show. Of course they will talk, but let them, I say! I cannot start at this stage to base my life on what others may say, and you would be wise to feel the same. Anyone important to you or to me will know the truth and who else matters? Of course I enjoy a handsome young escort. That’s why I do business with handsome young men. I don’t haul them off to bed, dear one, but if I have a choice between a handsome young man and a wrinkled-up old one for an evening, I don’t see that there is any choice. They will soon run out of things to say and it will all die down anyway, and don’t you worry about it.”
Rann was comforted by her light acceptance of the article. He put on cool linen slacks and a slip-over shirt and enjoyed an excellent dinner of sweet and sour chicken, one of Sung’s specialties. After dinner he put on the pajamas and robe that had been laid out for him earlier and went to his favorite room, the library, where the thoughtful Sung had placed his favorite nightcap on his desk. He selected a book from the shelves, a biography of Thomas Edison, and settled into the comfortable chair. He never tired of the lives of great people, and while he knew well the life of Thomas Edison, this biographer he had not read and he approached the book
with pleasure.
“Will you be needing anything else, young sir?” Sung inquired of him later in the evening.
“No, thank you, Sung. I shall be going to bed soon.”
He rose and went into his bedroom, where his bed had been turned down and all had been made ready for his comfort on his first night home.
RANN OPENED HIS EYES in the morning, roused by the sunlight streaming through the window opened earlier by Sung. It was the man’s way of waking Rann.
“One must never wake one quickly,” he had explained. “The soul wanders over the Earth while body sleeps and if one is waked too quickly soul has no time to find its way home.”
Sung now stood beside Rann’s bed waiting for him to wake, a pot of hot coffee on a silver tray held in his hands.
“So sorry to wake you, young sir,” he said. “But there is a man call three times in hour, say he must talk to you. Sounds important. His name Pearce. Say he publisher.”
“That’s all right, Sung.” Rann accepted the coffee the man poured for him. “What time is it?”
“Ten o’clock, young sir.”
Rann was mildly surprised at himself for sleeping so late. The telephone rang again as he was putting on his robe. He took his coffee to the library.
“Yes, sir. One moment, sir. He come now.” Sung handed Rann the instrument. It was his publisher, George Pearce.
“Quite some article in the paper, Colfax. Now we must keep your name before the public. Where did you meet Rita Benson?”
Rann explained the meeting.
“Damn good stroke of luck, if you ask me. Otherwise you might have slipped into New York with no notice. You should have let me know your flight, then I could have arranged a reception for you and had full coverage.”