The next day, back in the city, the three of them met with Rann’s agent and Rita’s and Hal Grey’s attorneys, and the necessary papers were signed. George Pearce was delighted and insisted on taking them all to dinner afterward to celebrate. Hal Grey’s office arranged a press luncheon for the next day, where the formal announcements were to be made.
Rann was unable to suppress a feeling of hostility for Nancy Adams of the Tribune, so, knowing he would see her at luncheon the next day, he expressed his feelings to George Pearce and Rita Benson that evening. Margie and Hal Grey had excused themselves after dinner because of early morning appointments and the three of them had taken Rita’s car to Rann’s apartment, where Sung had served them drinks in the drawing room.
“Your apartment is charming, Rann. So decidedly masculine and yet I suspect a woman’s touch here and there.”
Rita sat on the couch facing the fireplace, the fire already crackling though Rann had put a match to it only minutes before when they had entered the room. Something Chinese, Rann supposed, in the way Sung laid a fire always made them catch very quickly.
“It must be Serena, my grandfather’s second wife. I’ve not changed anything since he died and left the place to me.”
Rann settled into a comfortable armchair on one side of the fire, and George chose its counterpart on the other side. Rann realized these were the first visitors he had brought here since he returned. It had not occurred to him to change anything in the apartment.
“You really should redo the place to suit your own personality, Rann.” Rita sipped her drink and placed the glass on the cocktail table. “It is good for one to express one’s self in one’s surroundings.”
“Perhaps I don’t know yet what it is I would express, Rita—but I have time for that. Right now I have a problem I think the two of you can advise me on, which is why I wanted to talk to you this evening. Tomorrow, we will have to talk to Nancy Adams—”
George Pearce interrupted. “I know. I’ve thought of that. You are understandably upset and angry over all the articles she has written, and now she has that upstart of a senator, what’s-his-name, promising a full-scale investigation based on your book. The thing to remember is that she can’t really hurt us. Oh, she can irritate and infuriate, but the more she writes the more books we sell and the richer you get in the long run. The worst that can happen is that you will have to answer some questions, but you are innocent so that can’t hurt. I say forget about it. Ignore her and go on. She is one of this new breed calling themselves investigative reporters and she is doing her job, which is to sell newspapers. The thing to remember is that she also sells books. Just don’t, under any circumstances, lose your temper with her. Then she can say something that is true. She can say you lost your temper when questioned.”
“I know how to handle it.” Rita looked thoughtful as she spoke. “Let the press conference be mine. That way, the reporters can direct their questions to me and I can ask Rann or Hal for information we want them to give.”
George Pearce took a long drink from his glass. “That’s a good idea, Rita. It seemed logical to me that you should answer their questions.”
“Of course it is. After all, at this point it is I who have spent a million dollars. That, my dears, is still news.”
They all laughed.
“There is one other point I’d like your advice on.” Rann stirred the fire as he spoke. “I had thought I’d call Senator Easton and offer to answer any questions he might have. I have nothing to hide and this way we might bring things to a head.”
“Just let it rest,” George said. “Let him call you if he wants to. You haven’t done anything—so forget it.”
“You are right, George.” Rita rose from the couch. “And now I have to get home or I probably won’t be there tomorrow.”
Rann said good night to them at the door and returned to the fire to finish his own drink.
“THERE IS NOTHING MORE for her to say, Mother.”
Rann was sitting in his grandfather’s study with his mother and Donald Sharpe. They had arrived on an afternoon flight and his mother was settled in his guest room while Donald Sharpe had chosen a small neighborhood hotel in the next block as his headquarters, and Sung had worked for two days to prepare the first dinner to be served to the mother of his young master. It was already dark in New York at five o’clock and the chill in the air promised that winter was not far away. The fire burned brightly in the grate as Sung refilled their glasses from a pitcher of Bloody Marys he had prepared earlier, and the aroma of hot Chinese hors d’oeuvres roasting in the oven filled the apartment.
Rann continued, “Nancy Adams has said everything she can say. She blew this whole thing up and involved Senator Easton. I went to Washington and answered questions for his committee. General Appleby flew in from Korea and told of all the arrests they had made there and that was all there was to it.”
“Well”—his mother frowned—“she could have written an article reporting the outcome. She could have said that you are innocent after all the nasty things she implied.”
“Rann is right, Susan. Reporters seldom write articles stating they were mistaken in the first place, and it would certainly be out of character for Nancy Adams. Rann is a public figure now. His book is still number one on all the lists. He simply has to put up with what they say and go on with his work, which brings me around to this.” Donald Sharpe pulled a thin black leather attaché case onto his knees and snapped open the latch, removing a large manila envelope. “It’s your father’s manuscript, Rann. Your mother gave it to me to read some time ago and it’s so good I think you should do something with it.”
“It doesn’t seem to me that I can expand his basic ideas any further than he has already done. I think he has made his point. I am glad to have it, however, and I’ll read it again and try to figure some way in which it could be useful in publication. I think it should be published if possible because it is a beautiful piece of work and it represents a great deal of my father’s time and study. Also, as you know, I agree so completely with his theories regarding art and science.”
“And I too, as you also know.” Donald Sharpe rose and placed the manuscript in the center of the large green blotter on the desk under the window, where Rann had moved it so that he could look out when he glanced up from his work. It was among the few changes Rann had made in the apartment since the death of his grandfather.
He enjoyed the visit from his mother and Donald Sharpe. Donald Sharpe returned to Ohio after one week but before he left Rann arranged a dinner party so that his mother could meet George Pearce and Margie and so they could both meet Rita Benson. They were impressed with Rita and George, as everyone was, but both appreciated Margie’s down-to-earth approach to Rann and his career. After Donald Sharpe left, Rann and his mother had luncheon with George and Margie, then had dinner and went to the theatre with Rita.
“I like your friends, Rann,” his mother said to him. They were in the drawing room, where Sung had served them a late drink when they arrived home after the theatre.
Rann smiled at her. “Even Rita Benson, Mother?”
His mother sensed his teasing. “Yes, perhaps particularly Mrs. Benson, after Margie, of course. She is not at all the way the newspapers make her out to be.”
“People are rarely what newspapers make them out to be. I’m glad that you approve of my friends, Mother.” Rann spoke the truth. He knew he would continue as he was even if she disapproved, but it was good to have her approval.
“THERE IS NOTHING MORE I can do for you,” his mother said.
Her eyes were soft and brown, her smile was wistful. She was still a pretty woman.
“Had you planned to do something for me, Mother?”
He made his voice playful, although he perfectly understood what she meant. Obviously, he knew after a few days that she had come with the vague idea that he might want h
er to keep house for him. She had not said so, nor had he said he did not, but Sung had made it clear by perfect service, always silent, that he needed no help in the keeping of the house and the tending of its young master, the grandson of the old man who had saved him from the unknown terrors of the American immigration officers. The house for years had been his island of safety. He knew little more of America than if he had stayed in his native village outside Nanking, China. It did not occur to him to seek other Chinese since those outside in this foreign island spoke their own Cantonese dialect, which he did not understand any more than they could understand him. He had never trusted anyone in America except his old master. Especially he did not trust women, not since he had been cheated by his own sister.
Long ago, Sung had bought with his savings a small business in China, a wayside tea shop, and he had put his own older sister in charge while he continued his work as a waiter in a hotel in Shanghai. She told him every month that there were no profits. Then through a neighbor he heard that there were profits but she used them for her husband, an idle opium smoker, and their children. He said nothing to her, since she was his elder, but he decided at that time to leave his country forever and go to America, where he had no relatives. No one had told him about immigration laws. What would have happened to him if he had not found a haven in this house, he could not imagine. But here he was, with a young master to serve forever. He was perfectly courteous to the mother but by his very perfection he conveyed to her exactly what he intended, which was that there was no need for her—indeed, no place for her—in this house.
“No,” she was saying, “I hadn’t planned my life at all, Rann, until you returned home from Korea. I didn’t know how it might change you.”
“It was an interruption,” he said, reflecting. “It did not change me. Only people can change me, I think, and that takes time. There was no time for anyone—foolish routines, and the official Americans were—”
He shrugged and pushed away the distasteful memory in silence.
“So, what next for you, Rann?” his mother asked.
Rann put down his coffee cup. “I shall sort myself out,” he said.
“Shall you go back to college?”
“I can’t see any reason for it. I know where to look for the knowledge I need.”
“In books?”
“Everywhere.”
“Then I’ll be going home, I think, Rann.”
“Only when you like, Mother.”
SHE LINGERED A FEW DAYS LONGER and he devoted himself to her. She was a dear person but it was true he no longer needed her. Nevertheless, he was not impatient. He took her to museums and theatres and to a symphony concert. These were pleasant hours but noncommunicative. When they came home again, Sung met them at the door and served them their nightcap drink in the library or drawing room. Once, when they were alone, she tried to talk about Lady Mary.
“Is there anything you want to tell me about Lady Mary?”
“Oh—no, that’s all over.”
“With no regrets?”
“No regrets on either side, Mother.”
“An experience for you,” she suggested.
“Yes—I learned something about myself, at least.”
“No more?”
“No more.”
It was impossible, indeed unnecessary, to explain to her. He needed hours alone, hours and days, weeks and months, in which to begin again his work.
She rose. “I think I’ll go home tomorrow, darling.”
He got to his feet and, putting his arms gently about her, he kissed her cheek. No, he would not tell her any more about Stephanie, either. There was perhaps nothing more to tell. Whatever might be he wanted to keep to himself, to live it before he spoke of it.
“As you wish, Mother. But you’ll come whenever you like?”
“Next time you come to me, darling.”
“As you wish, Mother,” he said again.
The distance between them was composed of time. She belonged to his past and even to his present but his future was as yet his own.
THERE WAS NO NEED to hurry that future—yet the length of his own youth pressed upon him. Whatever he was to do next he wanted to begin now. But how to begin and on what? Sung served him with a silent devotion that provided an environment of ordered peace in his home. His social life had worked into a routine requiring three evenings a week divided between George Pearce, Margie, and Rita Benson. He worked with the scriptwriters to write the role required into his book, and the script, complete and ready for casting, no longer demanded his time and energy. He thought often of Stephanie. They corresponded, useless letters, filled with trivial information, and he had several times considered going to Paris to see her but each time he decided it best to wait until she came to New York. He could not decide how important she was to be in his life, or if, indeed, she was to be very important. He dreamed, he read the leather-bound volumes in the library his grandfather had accumulated over half a century, he walked the streets, he was occupied but preoccupied, not knowing where or how to begin his next work or even what to begin. His brief military experience faded into nothing, a few memories of Korean countryside, of crowded streets and narrow alleys, of barracks and the isolated American compound where officers and their families lived and that so faithfully reproduced the suburb of any small American city.
He was glad that he had not really been a part of that life in Korea. His book was of the life of the Korean people, and while it dealt with American involvement it portrayed it from the Korean viewpoint. Of any experience he had in that small, sad country, one memory emerged cruelly sharp and balefully clear. It was the face of the North Korean Communist soldier marching a few feet from the border, eternally marching, night and day. There, across an invisible line, was the enemy. And yet even he was not so much the enemy as the unknown. Unknown—that was the word and the meaning, even of life itself. He had no hold upon life. He did not know where to begin. Here upon this crowded American island, he, Rann, had no hold, no grip, no niche, no entrance to life.
Crowds moved wherever he went, across the bridge to Manhattan, in New York, wherever he went, life flowed and eddied, but he was not part of it. The newspapers continued to report all that he did in inaccurate detail, but this no longer perturbed him. He did not even read them anymore, for each article was only more nonsense like the one before it. His book remained in the number-one position on the bestseller list, and perhaps after all that was the only important aspect of it all, and the only thing to be considered. He was glad if people read his book, but the money really meant nothing to him, as he did not need it.
George Pearce and his agent and even Rita were inclined to think in terms of money and this was natural to them, he supposed, but in a way this separated him even from them, his closest friends. Only with Margie did he have a feeling that he was always a person and never an object, and they were together often for luncheon or dinner—but even she played a role of minor importance in his real life, his inner life, that part of himself that he had never shared with another person. His friends urged him to redecorate his apartment more to his own taste, but it remained as his grandfather had left it. He took little interest in such things. He could have been lonely except that he was never lonely, since he had always been alone.
Perhaps when Stephanie came—and suddenly one winter’s day, she was there. Snow fell thickly that day upon the deserted streets. He sat looking at it from the tall window of the library, watching it festoon roof lines and telegraph wires and doorways, fascinated by its beauty as he could always be fascinated by beauty. The telephone rang on the desk before him, his grandfather’s leather-covered desk here in his grandfather’s library. He took up the receiver.
“Yes?”
“Yes,” Stephanie’s voice replied. “Yes, it is I.”
“Paris?”
“Not Paris. Here—in N
ew York.”
“You didn’t tell me you were coming now. I had a letter from you only yesterday. I was planning to write to you today. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I am telling you, am I not?”
“But such a surprise!”
“I am always surprising, is it not so?”
“Then where are you?”
“Fifth Avenue, between Fifty-Sixth and Fifty-Seventh, where my father’s new shop is located.”
“When did you come?”
“Last night, too late to call. It was a bad flight. There were very rough winds tossing us up and down. It was terrible! I could have been frightened if I had allowed myself to be. But the servants came one week ahead of us, and all was ready for us. We fell asleep. Now my father is already inspecting the shop. I have finished breakfast. Will you come here?”
“Of course. I may be delayed by this snowstorm. But I will leave at once.”
“Is it far?”
“Depends—the traffic will be slow.”
“Are you not walking?”
“I may have to walk.”
“Then I accustom myself here, waiting.”
“And I will hurry.”
“Only being careful meanwhile.”
He laughed. Her English was so perfect, each word perfectly articulated and yet so charmingly imperfect. The idiom was a mixture of Chinese and French expressed in English.
“Why are you now laughing?” she demanded.
“Because now I am happy!”
“You are not happy before?”
“I realize I was not, just as now I realize I am.”
“How are you not coming immediately, then?”
“But I am—I am! I leave this instant, not another word!”
He laughed, again, put the receiver in its cradle, dashed to his rooms to get into proper clothes—he’d been lazy when he woke to see the snow flying across the windows and after showering and shaving he had put on one of his grandfather’s luxurious brocaded satin dressing gowns, a wine red with a gold silk lining. Shaving! He had been growing a young mustache, but would she like it? It made him look older and that was an advantage. Sung heard him scurrying about and knocked on the door and came in.