“Uh, may I speak plainly, Miss?”
“Any time you don’t, Cunningham, I shall be offended.”
“Mr. Salomon is a fine gentleman. But if he worries about that—well, it’s silly, that’s all I can say. The staff do not gossip about his presence. They respect him.”
“Perhaps you can tell him, he won’t listen to me. But today I’m simply concerned that he sleep as late as possible. He must go to Washington tonight, you know. When you bring up breakfast, don’t go past his door; go around the other way. You can’t disturb me or Winnie; we are awake. And be certain that Hubert doesn’t come fussing around until Mr. Salomon sends for him.”
“He won’t, Miss; he never does.”
“He used to, sometimes, when he was tending me—be a touch noisy when he thought I should be up. So keep him off this floor. Keep everyone off this floor until I call you—that includes all cleaning, everything. Except, of course, that I want you to bring up breakfast—with whatever help you need—promptly.”
“Yes, Miss. Perhaps coffee and juice at once?”
“No, we don’t want to be disturbed twice; my ears might fall off. You’ll find evidence of the debacle in my lounge—a case lot of empty magnums. Remove them—quietly—for Heaven’s sake don’t bang one against another; I can hear an ant stomp this morning. Pencil ready? We need a simple, nourishing breakfast. At least four cups of coffee each, double orders of orange juice, half grapefruits, either pinks or the big Arizonas, scrambled eggs, poached eggs, some link sausages and breakfast steaks. Better include cold cuts and sliced cheeses. Oh, toast and muffins and jam and such. Flatbread. And a big pitcher of ice-cold milk for cereal, I think this is a cereal morning. Some decent, quiet, well-brought-up cereal that doesn’t snap, crackle, or pop. That’s all. Unless you know a remedy for a hangover.”
“Well, Miss, when I was tending Mr. Armbrust before I went to work for you, I used to mix something that he thought well of.”
“Yes?”
“Silver fizz, Miss, using vodka rather than gin.”
“Cunningham, you’re a genius. One each, plus largish dividends, in thermos glasses. How soon will breakfast be ready?”
“Can’t be sooner than twenty minutes, Miss, even though Della has started the sausages. But I could still fetch up coffee and juice.”
“One trip only. Then steal quietly away on stocking feet. This is a hospital zone, Cunningham. Winnie and I need at least twenty minutes to put our eyeballs back in, they’re bleeding. I’ll expect you not sooner than twenty minutes, not later than twenty-five. Off.”
She put down the bedside intercom, said, “Doctor, did I handle that?”
“Eunice, sometimes I think you’re not truthful.”
“And sometime I’m going to be a hermit and not have to dodge servants. Where are your clothes, Roberto? In the lounge?”
“Yes. I had better get into them.”
“Better think again. We’ve got twenty minutes of privacy, we’ll use it.”
“Oh, Eunice!”
“Courage, comrade; I’m not a black widow spider. We’ll use it to gather up all clothes in the lounge, toss feminine items in here, fast—then take your clothes and Jake’s down to his suite—where I’ll grab a robe and pajamas and slippers for Jake, and a second set of his for you. If you’re a sissy, you’ll stay there and put them on. If you’re not, you’ll stay in skin and come back here with me, and dress when you feel like it. Then I’ll switch on a light that tells Winnie I’m awake—better than phoning the love bugs, they might be love-bugging, and even a bug hates to be disturbed at such times. Come on, you bony, hairy, wonderful man. Sixteen minutes—we can do it in twelve, I’ll bet.”
“Pussy Cat, sometimes you make me nervous.”
“Oh, piffle, I own this house. Although I may sell it and buy a nudist resort in California—then run it just for me and my friends. Roberto, I like skin—when it’s the wonderful skin I have now. It’s meant to be seen and touched—not hidden away in clothes. Did you like our waitress last night?”
“A healthy young woman, apparently.”
“Oh, piffle twice. I’ll bet you were thinking about her when you took me to bed last night. I know men, darling—I was one, much longer than you’ve been alive. Fifteen minutes. Let’s move.”
23
Dabrowski handed her out and Fred locked the car. They escorted her to and into the lift. Joan Eunice looked around. “This must be where it happened.”
Her driver said, “Eunice, I wish you would change your mind.”
“Anton, Tom and Hugo should have driven me today, but I was afraid the poor dears would get upset when they saw the inside of this lift. I thought you and Fred could stand it. Fred, are you nervous?”
“You know damn well I am. Eunice.”
“Over what? She entered this lift alone. I’ve got the two with me.”
“Well…you’re a stubborn one. I don’t know what Ski is going to do but I am going to wait outside the door until you come out.” (Eunice, what do you do with stubborn men?) (It’s hard, twin, especially when they love you. You had best use female jujitsu—let them have their own way until it turns out it’s your way.) (I’ll try.)
“Fred, Eunice lived here for years. Utterly safe…except for one mistake. I have the radio link and I promise you both, solemnly, that I won’t stir outside. Joe’s door until I know you’re waiting for me.”
“We’ll be waiting, all right—all the time. Right, Ski?”
“Right! Eunice, you don’t even know Joe Branca still lives here.”
“But I do. It’s just that he didn’t pay his phone bill, so they cut him off. Joe’s still there, or was at sixteen o’clock yesterday. Look, how does this sound? First, you know that Joe wouldn’t hurt me, don’t you? Anton?”
“Oh, sure. Joe might not want to see you—but Joe Branca would put a fly outdoors before he would swat it.”
“Then I’m safe as long as I’m inside with Joe. But you’re right, he may not want to see me. He may not let me in. Or I may be inside only minutes. So wait an hour, then go home. I’ll call you when I want you to take me home.”
“Two hours?” suggested Fred.
“All right, two hours. But if I don’t come home tonight, you are not to come back and buzz Joe’s door. You can come back tomorrow at noon and wait an hour, or even two, if that will make you feel better. And again the next day. But I’ll stay in Joe Branca’s studio a full week if it takes that to make his mind easy. Or a month, damn it! Or anything. Boys, I’ve got to do this; don’t make it harder.”
Anton said glumly, “All right. We’ll do it your way.”
“Am I ‘Eunice’ now? Or ‘Joan Eunice’?”
He grudged a smile. “You’re Eunice. She would do it.”
“That’s why I must. Look, darlings”—she put an arm around each of them—“last night was wonderful…and I’ll find a way to manage it again. Perhaps next time Mr. Salomon is away—you know he fusses over me like a mother hen. But you two do also—and you must not…except when you’re guarding me. Right now I must try to find a way to soothe Joe’s soul. But I’ll be your playmate another day. Be darlings and kiss me; the lift is about to stop.”
They did so; she hooked up her veil. They left the lift and headed toward the Branca studio—Joan found she knew the way, as long as she didn’t stop to think.
She stopped at the door. “She always kissed you good-bye? Here, with Joe watching?”
“Yes.”
“If he lets me in, kiss me good-bye the same way. Just don’t stretch it out; he might close the door. Oh, I’m shaky!” (Steady down, Boss. Om Mani Padme Hum. Don’t use the button; try our voice on the lock. ‘Open up!’ Like that.)
“Open up!” Joan said. She unhooked her veil, faced the door.
The lock started clicking but the door remained closed. A transparency flashed on the wall: PLEASE WAIT. Joan stood in front of the door peep, wondered if Joe was scanning her. (Eunice, will he let us in?) (I don’
t know, Boss. You shouldn’t have come. But you wouldn’t listen to Jake…nor to me.) (But I am here. Don’t scold me—help me.) (I’ll try, Boss. But I don’t know.)
Through the door, not as soundproof as her own doors, Joan heard a high voice: “Joe! Joe!” (Who’s that!) (Could be anybody, Joe has lots of friends.)
The door opened, she saw Joe Branca standing in it. He was dressed in much-worn shorts which had been used repeatedly for wiping paint brushes. His face showed nothing. A girl, a wrapper pulled sketchily around her, looked out from behind him. “See? It’s her!”
“Gigi—get back. Hello, Ski. Hi, Fred.”
“Hi, Joe.”
Joan tried to keep her voice steady. “Joe, may I come in?”
He finally looked at her. “You want to, sure. Come in, Ski. Fred.” Joe stood aside.
Dabrowski answered for them. “Uh, not this time, Joe. Thanks.”
“Roz. Other time, any. Welcome. Too, Fred.”
“Thanks, Joe. See you.” The guards turned to leave as Joan started to enter—she checked herself, remembering that she must do something. “Boys!”
Fred kissed her quickly, nervously. Dabrowski did not kiss her; instead he held his mouth to hers and said almost soundlessly, “Eunice, you be good to him. Or, damn, I’ll spank you.”
“Yes, Anton. Let me go.” Quickly she turned, went inside past Joe, waited. Slowly he refastened the hand bolts, taking an unnecessarily long time.
He turned and glanced at her, glanced away. “Sit?”
“Thank you, Joe.” She looked around at the studio clutter, saw two straight chairs at a small table. They seemed to be the only chairs; she went to one of them, waited for him to remove her cloak—realized that he was not going to do so, then took it off and dropped it, sat down.
He frowned at her, seemed uncertain, then said, “Coffee? Gigi! Java f’ Miss Smith.”
The girl had been watching from the far end of the room. She tightened her wrapper and went silently to a kitchen unit beyond the table, poured a cup of coffee, and prepared to flash it. Joe Branca went back to an easel near the middle of the room, started making tiny strokes on it; Joan saw that it was an almost finished painting of the young woman addressed as “Gigi.” (That’s a cheat pic, Boss.) (A what?) (Project a photo onto sensitized canvas, then paint over it. Joe does them if someone wants cheesecake, or a cheap portrait, or a pet’s picture—but claims they aren’t art.)
(Can’t see why, Eunice; it’s still an original oil painting.) (I can’t, either—but it matters to an artist. Boss, this place is filthy, I’m ashamed of it. That bitch Gigi.) (She lives here, you think?) (I don’t know, Boss. Could be Joe’s sloppy housekeeping. He likes things clean—but won’t stop to do it. Only two things interest Joe. Painting…and tail.) (Well, he has both, looks like. I see he’s kept your Gadabout.) (I’ll bet it won’t run by now. Joe can’t drive.)
Gigi fetched coffee, placed it on the table. “Sugar? Isn’t any cream.” She leaned closer, added in a fierce whisper, “You don’t belong here!”
Joan answered quietly, “Black is fine. Thank you, Gigi.”
“Gigi!”
“Yes, Joe?”
“Throne.”
The girl turned and faced him. “In front of her?”
“Now. Need you.”
Slowly Gigi obeyed, untying her wrapper as she moved, dropped it as she stepped up onto the throne, fell into pose. Joan did not look, understanding her reluctance—not modesty but unwillingness to be naked to an enemy. (But I’m not her enemy, Eunice.) (Told you this would be rhino, Boss.)
Joan tried the coffee, found it too hot—and too bitter, after the delicately fragrant—and expensive—high-altitude brew Della prepared. But she resolved to drink it, once it had cooled.
She wondered if Joe recognized what she was wearing. La Boutique had reconstructed, at great expense, a costume Eunice Branca had once worn, one in last year’s “Half & Half” style, scarlet and jet, with a tiny ruffle skirt joining a left-leg tight to a right-side half sweater. Joan had hired the most expensive body-paint artist in the city and had rigidly controlled him in reconstructing the design Eunice Branca had worn with it, as nearly as memory and her inner voice could manage.
(Eunice, was Joe too upset to notice how we dressed?) (Boss, Joe sees everything.) (Then he’s gone back to painting not to notice us.) (Maybe. But Joe wouldn’t stop painting for an H-bomb. That he let us in at all is a blue moon—in the middle of a painting.)
(How long will he paint? All night?) (Not likely. He does that only for a real inspiration. This one’s easy.) It did not look easy to Joan. She could see that the artist was working from an exact cartoon, one that looked like a dim photograph of Gigi as she was posed—but he was working also from his model, yet he was not following either model or photograph. He was enhancing, exaggerating, simplifying, making flesh tones warmer, turning flat canvas almost into stereo, realistic as life, warmer than life, sensuous and appealing.
Perhaps it was not “art”—but it was more than a photograph. It reminded Joan of a long-dead artist Johann had liked. What was his name?—used to paint Tahitian girls on black velvet. Leeteg? (Eunice, what do we do now? Walk out? Joe doesn’t seem to care either way.) (Boss, Joe cares dreadfully. See that tic on his neck?) (Then what do I do?)
(Boss, all I can tell you is what I would do.) (Wasn’t that what I said?) (Not quite. Any time I came home and found Joe working from another model, I kept quiet and let him work. First I would get out of my working clothes, then shower and get off every speck of paint and makeup. Then tidy things—just tidy, heavy cleaning had to wait for weekends. Then I would get things ready to feed them, because Joe and his model were going to be hungry once they stopped. They always did stop; Joe won’t overwork a model. Oh, he sometimes painted me all night but he knew I would ask to stop if I got shaky.)
(Are you telling me to strip down? Won’t that upset him still more?) (Boss, I’m not telling you to do anything. This visit wasn’t my idea. But he’s seen our body thousands of times—and you ought to know by now that nakedness isn’t upsetting, it’s relaxing. I felt that it was rude to stay dressed when a model was nude—unless I was certain she was easy with me. But I’m not telling you to do this. You can go look out the peep and see if Anton and Fred are still there—they will be—and unbolt the door and leave. Admit you can’t put Humpty-Dumpty together again.)
(I suppose I should.) Joan sighed, stood up—kicked her sandals off, peeled the half-sweater down, shoved the ruffle skirt down, and got out of the tight. Joe could not see her, but Gigi could—Joan saw surprise in her eyes but she did not break her pose.
Joan looked at her and put a finger to her lips, then picked up dress and cloak and sandals, headed for the bath unit while avoiding (she thought) Joe’s angle of vision—hung her clothes on a rack outside the bath and went in.
It took only minutes of soap and shower to rid her body of jet and scarlet. (Face makeup off, too?) (Forget it, you don’t wear as much as I used to. Towels in the cabinet under the sink. Or should be.)
Joan found one clean bath towel, three face towels, decided that it wasn’t fair to grab the last bath towel, and managed to get dry with a face towel, looked at herself in the mirror, decided that she was passable—and felt refreshed and relaxed by the shower. (Where do I start?) (Here of course. Then make the bed but see it if needs changing. Sheets in the box with bed lamp on it.)
The tiny bath took little time as scouring powder and plastic sponge were where they almost had to be. The toilet bowl she was forced to give up on—she got it clean but stains left by flushing water did not respond to scrubbing. Joan wondered why a civilization that could build mighty spaceships could not cope with plumbing?
Or was it a civilization?
She washed her hands and went out. The bed seemed to have been slept in no more than a couple of nights; she decided it would be presumptuous to change sheets. As she was straightening the bed she noticed lipstick on one pillow—turned i
t over, (Gigi?) (Might be, Boss, it’s her shade. Proves nothing.)
(Now what?) (Work around the edges—don’t ever touch Joe’s stuff. You can pick up a tube of paint and dust under it…but only if you put it down exactly where you found it.)
The edges kept her busy for a time. It seemed likely that Joe must have noticed her—but he gave no sign. The painting seemed finished but he was still working on it.
The sink was loaded; she found soap powder and got busy.
Once she had dishes washed, dried, and put away, and the sink was sparkling as the dishes, she looked over the larder. (Eunice, did you keep house with so few staples?) (Boss, I didn’t keep many perishables on hand—but this is skimpier than I ever kept it. Joe doesn’t think about such things. I never let him shop—because he would come back with some new hungry friend, having forgotten the bread and bacon and milk I had sent him for. Try the freezer compartment.)
Joan found some Reddypax in freeze—dinners, a carton of vanilla ice cream almost full, spaghetti, pizza of several sorts. There were more of the last, so she decided she could not go wrong offering them pizza. What else? No fresh vegetables—Fruit? Yes, a small can of fruit salad, hardly enough but she could put it over scoops of ice cream, plus wafers if she could find any. Yes, lemon snaps. Not much of a meal but she didn’t have much to work with. She started getting things ready.
Set the table for three? Well, she was either going to be accepted—or sent home; she set it for three. (Eunice, there are only two chairs.) (The kitchen stool adjusts in height, Boss.) (I’m stupid.) (Wouldn’t have bet you could find your way around a kitchen at all.) (Maybe I wouldn’t have learned if Mama had had a daughter. I’ll bet I’ve cooked more meals than you have, sweetheart—not that this is cooking.)
Just as Joan had everything laid out she heard Joe say, “Rest, Gigi.”
She turned around. “Joe, will you two have supper now? It’s ready to flash.”