One for the Gods (The Peter & Charlie Trilogy) (6 page)

They dressed for the party in pale slacks, bright scarves and picturesque adaptations of fishermen’s shirts, which was accepted formal evening wear in this corner of the coast. They set out in the convertible they had bought and planned to take back to the States, Charlie at the wheel.

“Listen, baby,” Charlie said when they were on their way, “I hope you don’t go on letting Jean-Claude monopolize you this evening. I don’t like its getting to the point where Guy feels free to make cracks.”

“I know. You’re right. I do find him sort of appealing. He’s such a baby for such a big boy.”

“Babies can be damn nuisances sometimes.”

“You’re right. I’ve already told him not to carry on so in public.”

“You mean it’s all right in private?”

Peter laughed to cover his slip. “You know what I mean. I don’t know whether you noticed, but he was determined to hold hands when we were doing the dope-fiend bit this afternoon. I’d have looked silly if I’d made a fuss in front of the others, but I told him afterward that I didn’t like it.”

Charlie had wondered if he would mention it, and his doing so confirmed his trust. Still, he felt he had a right to reaffirm what Peter already knew, that he didn’t like that sort of sloppy, promiscuous physical contact, not primarily out of jealousy or perhaps not out of jealousy at all, but because it didn’t measure up to the standard of conduct they had set for themselves.

“He was mooning at
me
when we first met. You notice that didn’t last very long.”

“Yes, well, you can be pretty forbidding. I don’t seem to have the knack.”

“Maybe it’s because you don’t want to.”

“Maybe, in a way. I told you, I think he’s sort of sweet. I’m not as tough with people as you are. Still, I don’t notice everybody running around making passes at me.”

“Doesn’t holding hands count as a pass?”

“Not really, here. You know that. Look at Guy. He isn’t exactly standoffish with you.”

“Guy is a tough, grown-up man. He knows he hasn’t a chance in hell of getting anywhere with me.”

“OK. OK. You’re perfectly right. The next time he even looks at me, I’ll knock him flat.”

“I’m not joking, you know.”

“I know you’re not, Champ.” He leaned over close to Charlie and put his hand on his knee. “Don’t worry. I’ve made it perfectly clear you’re the only person who means anything to me. I won’t let him forget it.”

“Fine. That’s all I’m talking about.”

Peter drew a little inner sigh of relief. He had never lied to Charlie. Long ago, he had sworn to himself that he never would but he had never before allowed himself to be pushed so close to betraying his resolve. He didn’t know what he would do if he ever got really cornered, except tell the truth and take the consequences. Which made it all the more imperative to get himself disentangled as fast as possible. Jeannot had frightened him this afternoon. He had been withdrawn and moody, and when Peter had warned him not to count on the morning meeting, he had given him a look that hinted at layers of instability that Peter hadn’t suspected in him. He had looked as if he might be capable of anything. Peter was going to have to handle him very carefully so that he wouldn’t be provoked into making a scene that might involve Charlie and give the whole wretched game away. Peter felt a touch of panic; it had been so thrillingly perfect with Charlie at noon, convincing him that he had averted a serious crisis between them. He couldn’t let anything go wrong now. He was going to have to keep very cool for the next day or two. It was already a strain to have to choose words that told the truth and yet covered his enormous lie.

They were driving through vineyards and olive groves in the gathering dusk, catching glimpses of the sea when the road rose. As they progressed, the road grew narrower and rougher.

“Do you know where we’re going?” Peter asked.

“I think so. Guy gave me pretty careful directions. There should be a turn to the left soon. They apparently own that whole hillside. The house is on the other side, the Porquerolles side.”

They reached the turnoff and began to climb through a forest of cork trees. Charlie switched on the headlights. It was almost dark. He could see lights moving on the road ahead of him. The road wound upward in a succession of tight turns. Charlie handled them with finesse, enjoying his skill. When they reached the crest of the hill, a vast panorama of sea was spread out before them. Distant lights indicated where they had been for lunch. They began the descent and after a few more turns they saw below them, on a high cliff jutting into the sea, a great expanse of roof surrounded by lights.

“I guess that’s it,” Peter said. “It’s big enough.”

“The rich are so damned rich here. All the houses are fabulous. Did you ever read that Veblen book? Conspicuous consumption must’ve been invented here.”

“Home is going to seem awfully dinky after all this grandeur.”

“I’ll take home any day.”

“Me too.” Peter put his hand on Charlie’s knee again and gave it a squeeze.

After a good many more twists and turns, they came to a stop in a wide graveled area in front of a huge, bare, floodlit Italianate facade, unadorned except for a columned doorway. There were some twenty-odd gleaming cars parked haphazardly in front of it. When they entered, they encountered a uniformed manservant, who said,
“Bonsoir, messieurs,”
with a bow and an arm extended in the direction they were to take. They passed through handsomely furnished reception rooms and came out onto a sweep of terrace above landscaped gardens and a swimming pool suspended over the sea. They were greeted by their hostess, who owned theaters and who detached herself from a group near the door. “There you are. I’m so glad you could come. The two most attractive young men on the coast.” She offered them a limp hand, palm down, to be kissed. Neither of them had acquired this practice. “My husband is somewhere about. He’ll be so pleased to see you. I hope you’ll find everything you want. Ah, Rene. These are two very special American friends.” She pronounced their names as they were confronted with the familiar face of a politician who had been Prime Minister recently for a few weeks. After a further brief exchange they moved out into the party.

People wandered about the terrace and down in the garden around the swimming pool. Music was playing somewhere. There were a great many extraordinarily decorative women and sleek, immaculately groomed men. A manservant presented them with a tray of drinks from which Peter selected champagne, Charlie whisky. They spotted Guy and drifted over to him. He was with a celebrated playwright and academician with a startling aureole of white hair who quickly fell into absorbed conversation with Peter. Guy put his hand on Charlie’s arm. “Come. I must introduce you. Everybody is dying to meet you. Ah, there’s Edwige.” He led him over to meet a handsome woman, who was, he explained, a distinguished actress. Charlie had almost been an actor and loved the theater and theater people. He found the woman dazzling even though he was unfamiliar with the French theater and her name meant nothing to him. He did a double-take when he caught sight of Marlene Dietrich in the center of a nearby group. He turned instinctively to point her out to Peter, but Peter was nowhere in sight.

Drinks were passed continually, as were mounds of gray caviar. People gathered into groups, drifted apart, formed new alliances. Everybody had a great deal to say, most of it bright and witty. They switched easily into English when it became apparent that Charlie’s French was limited. He had a long, illuminating conversation with a very famous painter. He caught glimpses of Peter from time to time, once with Marlene Dietrich. Trust Peter. In due course, the guests’ attention was called to an enormous buffet, at the end of the terrace, spread with lobsters and truffled
foie gras
, hams, smoked salmon, elaborate salads. He was pleased to encounter Jack and Martha Kingsley beside it.

“Another stowaway,” Jack Kingsley exclaimed. “I thought we were the only lowly Americans who’d been allowed in.”

“You let one in and before you know it they’ve taken over,” Charlie said. They had known each other casually in New York and therefore had all fallen on each other like old friends when they had met by chance at the port. Jack had been the victim of some Madison Avenue debacle that had left him with a good deal of money and no job. Instead of fighting back, he had bought a boat and sailed away. The boat was in the harbor after an Atlantic crossing.

“Where’s Peter?” Martha asked. She was a pretty, relaxed blonde who looked a good deal younger than her husband. He had a weathered look appropriate to the master of a sailing yacht and close-cropped hair becomingly gray at the temples.

“He’s somewhere around. With Marlene Dietrich, I think.”

“Cradle-snatching now, is she? There’re a couple of babies around I wouldn’t mind seeing in the movies. Martha won’t let me out of her sight.”

“Now that Charlie’s here. I don’t need you any more. Run along and play.”

“When you put it like that, I wonder if I’d better. Never get married, Charlie boy.”

“I’ve already made my mistake,” Charlie said with a laugh. They were the sort he was used to associating with, treating him and Peter as if they were simply good friends, with never a sexual allusion or a hint at their true relationship.

“You two guys haven’t reconsidered our proposition?” Jack inquired.

“I’ve been thinking about it, Jack. In fact it’s been on my mind all day. The thing is, I’m really sort of Peter’s guest here. He’s paid three months for the house. You can’t blame him for not wanting to just throw it away.”

“He shouldn’t think of it like that. He’d make it up by being on board with us. You can’t spend money at sea. And just think of it. Sailing around the Greek islands. A real experience you’d never forget. It’s great fun here, but hell, we’ve all had it in a dozen other places.”

“Well, you know
I’d
love it. I’ve always wanted to go to Greece. And sailing—well, it would be fabulous. But aside from everything else, I’m not sure Peter can. He’s got a deal cooking that he’s got to keep an eye on.”

“Well, we certainly want both of you. We have to be four to handle the boat or it would be an awful sweat. Hell, we’ve got dozens of people begging us to take them, but we think the four of us would really hit it off. We don’t want another couple. One girl is enough.”

“It’s just possible that they’re not as mad about us as we are about them,” Martha suggested amiably.

Charlie smiled at her. “You should see me in the morning. Anyway, I’ve got work to do, too. That was the point of taking the house instead of traveling. I’ve got a show coming up next winter.”

“Think about it some more,” Jack urged. “We’re going to hang around here for another week or two. We’d really like you guys with us.”

“Look, why don’t you talk to Peter? I was going to suggest it. I don’t want him to get the idea that I don’t like it here but if you talk him into it, I’d go like a shot. The hell with work. I’d make up the time somehow.”

They left the table with laden plates. Charlie saw the Courtins and smiled and nodded to them. Peter wasn’t with them. He followed the Kingsleys to one of the numerous tables scattered about the terrace and grounds and ate with them while Jack continued to extoll the wonders of the proposed cruise. Charlie grew increasingly enthusiastic. He had handled small boats all his life and loved sailing. Greece was a remote and cherished dream; it had never occurred to him that he might actually see it someday. To have it offered to him under such ideal conditions was irresistible. He felt completely at ease with the Kingsleys. Jack’s man-to-man manner made him feel manly. Martha somehow spared him the dilemma that women generally posed; if you responded to them naturally, they began to get ideas and you had to beat a hasty retreat; if you were cool to them, they went around telling everybody you were a pansy. With Martha, simple friendship seemed possible. He supposed the Kingsleys were that rarity, a happy couple, like the Mills-Martins. If they knew about him and Peter, as they certainly must, they apparently didn’t care. They would be easy people to spend a month or two with. It wouldn’t be the perfection of being alone with Peter, but it promised a clean, hardy antidote to the decadence he felt here. He didn’t know what Peter thought of the idea; they never seemed to have a chance these days to discuss anything seriously. They had let the Kingsleys’ invitation slide as not fitting in with their established plans.

“You’ve got to come to dinner with us,” he said. “I’ll check with Peter and fix a date for the next day or two. You can talk to him. Unless it interferes with his business, I’m all for it.”

Peter had garnered other invitations in the course of the evening—a dinner at Cannes, an offer of an introduction to Picasso, who was somewhere around Antibes, some special gala night in Monte Carlo. He had dutifully avoided Jeannot so that when, some time after food had been disposed of, he appeared beside him, Peter was unprepared to be plunged once more into his private conflict.

“Come. I must speak to you,” Jeannot said abruptly. His eyes looked as if they weren’t quite focusing and his hair was in slight disarray on his forehead. He looked as if he had had a lot to drink. Stirred-up and dangerous, aroused from his usual placidity, his attraction was electrifying. Peter set himself to resist it.

“We can’t talk privately. Not here. Don’t be silly,” he said in quiet admonition. They were standing on the fringes of a group that had gathered at one end of the pool discussing the possibility of a swim.