Perfect Freedom (64 page)

“I told Robbie you might want to see him alone,” he said, taking Stuart's hand with smooth self-confidence, “but he assured me that you would want to meet me and I welcomed the opportunity.”

Since, as arranged, Robbie had come directly to Stuart's suite there was nothing to do but invite them in. It turned out that Robbie's address was in fact Bertot's and he was a friend of Maurice. He held some diplomatic post at the Belgian Embassy. Stuart told himself that he was going to have to learn to take it for granted that any male he met with Robbie might be his lover. Perhaps Maurice had chosen Bertot as a replacement to keep the boy out of trouble. The nature of their relationship was suggested by the way Robbie drew back and let the older man take the lead in the conversation. Robbie's eyes remained alert and penetrating but seemed to have lost some of their fire; he had a slightly languid air, like a woman who is accustomed to male attentions. Stuart thought he detected a growing effeminacy in the way he used his hands but admitted to himself that this might be because he was looking for giveaway characteristics. It was the first time he had seen him without a trace of a tan and the beard that showed under his pale skin was unexpected.

Whatever else might be said about him, he was a man and he was his son; this fact still held an element of wonder for Stuart. He was still beautiful rather than handsome but Stuart reminded himself that despite his mature manner, he was not yet quite nineteen. There was still time for his features to set into firm masculine lines. He was beautifully dressed in a tweed suit and a heavy silk shirt. He was obviously well taken care of. There was nothing Stuart could offer him.

“Robbie's been terribly upset about this thing with his mother,” Bertot explained after Stuart had ordered drinks and they had seated themselves in the little gilt-and-satin armchairs of his elegant sitting room. “I persuaded him not to go down there. I thought she must know what was best.”

“Oh, you know about—” Stuart began uncomfortably.

“He knows everything,” Robbie said with a faint note of defiance that he immediately told himself to guard against. His father didn't look as if he'd been drinking and he felt only the rather ineffectual gentleness in him. He was sorry for having brought Raoul.

“Of course, the thing's absurd,” Bertot said. He spoke as a disinterested observer, which Stuart supposed might have something to do with his being a diplomat. “As absurd as to say that Carl was a spy. We know all about Carl von Eschenstadt. Of course when he went back to Germany, because of his connections and because he knew all of Europe so well, he fell into an important post in intelligence, just as he's always fallen into everything he's ever done. The best reason I know for thinking the Germans might win is because Carl's gone home. He's the last person in the world to choose the losing side.”

“You know Carl?” Stuart asked.

“Yes, of course. Now, what have you been able to accomplish? Robbie's very anxious to know what can be done.”

Stuart looked at Robbie, who was apparently content to leave everything in the hands of his spokesman. He uncrossed his legs and crossed them again. The elegant little chair creaked. Looking at Robbie all the while, he told of his activities of the past few days. When he was finished, Robbie looked across him at Bertot.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I think, under the circumstances, your father has done everything that could be hoped for,” Bertot said authoritatively. Stuart felt as if he weren't there. “There's nothing more to be done but wait and try to keep it moving.” There was a knock on the door and the waiter entered with the drinks.

“Just leave them over there,” Stuart ordered, indicating a table against the wall. The waiter was young and Stuart caught Bertot's eyes running over him from head to foot. He felt a tightening in his stomach and he rose quickly and stood between them as he tipped the man and hastily dispatched him.

“You're staying for dinner?” he said with a neutral voice as he gave Bertot a glass.

“That's very kind of you. Perhaps you'd like an evening alone with Robbie.”

“Of course not,” Robbie interjected. “We haven't got anything private to discuss.”

Stuart rapped his knuckles down lightly on the back of a chair and took a few steps around the room to get control of himself. He stopped in front of Robbie, his back to the other.

“No, of course not,” he said easily. “Actually, dinner isn't a very good idea for me. I want to get off early in the morning and I still have a lot to do. I don't think there's anything else of importance we have to talk about. I must tell you frankly that everything I've done here has been against your mother's wishes.”

He paused, conscious of the man behind him, and then forced himself on. “She didn't want me involved because she doesn't want me to touch her life in any way. Whatever I've done, I've done because I felt I had to. I'm telling you this so you'll believe me when I say that she
did
approve of my getting in touch with you. You needn't feel that you're betraying her by accepting whatever help I can offer you. I'm not talking about money, of course. I'll send you whatever money you need, but nobody knows how this war is going to turn out. I think you'd be much better off in the States when your mother is freed. Meanwhile, if they start bombing Paris, for instance, you should certainly come home. I want you to feel it
is
your home. Let's forget about everything that's happened in the past. You're almost of age. I can't tell you how to live your life and as long as your mother and I are separated and you choose to live with her, it's none of my business anyway. Don't worry about my trying to interfere with you. That's all. The way things are today, we can't come to any final decisions. The future will have to take care of itself. For your mother's sake, let's try—”

Robbie lifted his great dark eyes and for a moment they looked at each other. Stuart turned away. “Let's just try to keep going,” he muttered thickly. Without seeing him, he held out his hand to Bertot. “Monsieur. Finish your drinks. Glad to have met you. I've got to make some phone calls.” He passed around the back of Robbie's chair and touched his shoulder lightly as he passed. “You'll hear from me soon. Keep in touch.” He managed to get to the bedroom door and close it behind him. For a moment, he thought he was going to fall. He lurched forward to a chair and fell into it and his mouth stretched open in a silent cry of despair.

He was glad to be home again with Anne. The world seemed clean and decent within the gates of his house. He got in touch with Helene's lawyer, who turned out to be a reasonable man. He was glad for whatever help his client was offered and he agreed to follow up the contacts Stuart had made without mentioning it to her. Stuart wrote to Robbie and Robbie replied. He had no definite plans for the summer but he would certainly be down sometime or other. And a postscript: “Do you ever go to the films? Did you know that Toni is Anthony Beaupré?” It was the only personal note in the letter but it made Stuart feel that perhaps communication might someday be re-established between them.

Spring came on. The war seemed quite unreal. Everybody agreed that it was, in fact, a
drôle de guerre.
He and Anne went out a little and saw something of the stragglers left behind from the old days. It wasn't much of a life but Stuart felt that he was at least keeping afloat.

And then the world fell apart. Something called the “Blitz.” Dunkerque. The abandonment of Paris. The defeat of France. As the scope of the catastrophe became evident, Stuart tried frantically to get in touch with Robbie and finally decided he would have to go find him even though it was folly to go anywhere during the upheaval. Then a single line arrived: “Don't worry about me. I'm waiting for Carl.” In the midst of it all, Boldoni somehow procured two automatic pistols and insisted that Stuart keep one of them within reach.

“Those dirty Bosches,” he exclaimed fiercely, brandishing his own pistol. “God knows what might happen now.”

In the profound silence that seemed to follow the uproar of collapse, the feeble voice of the Maréchal was heard in the land and Stuart began to hope that for Helene at least the disaster might have a favorable outcome. Only then did he hear that she had been tried and condemned to three years' imprisonment just before the French Armistice. The lawyer's letter had somehow gone astray. He looked at it for a long time, the carelessly typed words announcing the end of a life. How could Helene survive three years? She would come out, if she came out at all, broken and old and finished. For what? For writing letters to a man she loved. Stuart didn't believe in divine retribution but if he had he would have cursed his God. Helene didn't deserve this. It wasn't her fault that she had ceased to love him. She had had the courage to break the habits of a lifetime when a new love had called to her. Of course, if they had been married—The price that was being exacted for their offense to society was cruelly heavy.

He took the letter down to the beach where Anne was waiting for him. He handed it to her and sat down beside her, remaining wrapped up in his long beach robe. Since his body had begun to go to pieces, he had grown excessively modest. She read the letter and handed it back to him.

“If Carl's coming back, I shouldn't think that sentence would mean much.” She lay on her back supporting herself by her elbows and threw her head back to the sun. She beat the sand lightly with her palms. “He'll have her out in no time.”

“I suppose I'd better go through the motions with Vichy just in case.” He had forgotten Carl. That was probably why Robbie was waiting for him. He felt somewhat cheered.

“Oh, let it go. Stop being a martyr,” she said with an impatient toss of her head. “And take some of your wrappings off. You look ridiculous.”

“I look ridiculous in any case,” he said with a smile, but did as he was told.

“You're getting a pot,” she said, eying it. “Most men do. Women too, for that matter. I can't wait to have one.” She puffed her stomach out and her laughter was strong and clear.

Stuart looked down at the creases around his middle. He didn't like softness and he had allowed himself to go soft. Too much money. Looking down at himself, he remembered how wary he had been of money and he wondered why he had ever thought any good would come of it. He rolled over onto his stomach and looked at the girl beside him.

“You know, Annie, now that things have settled down a bit, we've got to do something about you.”

She shot a sidelong glance at him. “Oh dear, are you going to try to send me away again?” He had thought she ought to leave a month ago but the rapidity of events had put it out of the question.

“You know, you won't be allowed to stay here indefinitely. Granted you're a girl, you're English, you know.”

“What about you?” She too rolled over onto her stomach and propped her chin in her hand.

“I'm not English but I doubt if Americans will be welcome much longer. I've got to hang on as long as possible to see that Helene and Robbie are all right, but there's nothing to keep you here.”

“Really? And where do you suggest I go?”

“Back to England, I should think.”

“Whatever for?”

“Safety. The Germans might arrive tomorrow. Besides, what sort of life is this for you?”

“What sort of a life is it anywhere for anybody?” She turned herself over onto her back again and lay flat. She knew she was going to speak at last and she wondered if it was only the momentousness of recent events that made her feel she had so grown in stature that she could breach his almost saintly isolation. There was a moment's silence and then she said, “I say, Stuart, I think you're old enough to know. I'm in love with you.”

Stuart made squiggles in the sand with his fingers, waiting for her words to make some sense to him. His first impulse was to tell her it wasn't possible since there was nothing left of him to be in love with. Was it a joke? She lay very straight with her arms at her sides, as if she were laid out in a morgue. Her eyes were closed.

“Don't lie there like that. It's depressing.” He realized he was catching a manner from her. “And don't say things like that without looking at me. I don't know what you mean.”

“I don't want to look at you. I might blubber. Worse, I might laugh. I'm tired of laughing. I don't want to laugh any more.”

“Well, say something. I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You don't know what being in love means?” She lifted her hands and brushed them together and folded them on her breast.

“I don't know what
you
mean. Is this one of your famous complexes? A father complex in this case, I presume.”

“A Stuart complex. Just a great big unmanageable Stuart complex.”

He heaved himself around to a sitting position and looked out at the sea. There was a lump in his throat. It had been so long since anybody had spoken his name in just that way. “You mean, if I let you, you'd be willing to stay here with me indefinitely?” he asked incredulously. It was no good to tell her that he wasn't worth loving. The fact that she did, or thought she did, made it untrue.

“Isn't it mad?” She laughed but broke it off. “I will
not
laugh. It's not funny. It's hell and it's wonderful and that's the way I want it to be. Go on, tell me how impossible it is. I suppose you'll feel you have to say it. And after that I'll tell you something.”

“All right. It's impossible. Now tell me.” Stuart had been struggling against an impulse to take her hand, to do anything to express his gratitude for her. But tenderness would be as wrong for her as laughter. He sat cross-legged like a buddha and waited.

“I've found what makes life worth living,” she said in her fiat even voice. “Lots of people tell you it's love so I suppose it shouldn't come as a surprise to me. Except that I didn't believe it. I grew up with people who seemed to be living for love and it was a mess. It's only since I've been here with you that I've understood what love is. People say love but they mean sex or using people to have their own way. The admiral was like that. He had to have wives to worship him. When they saw through him, he got new ones. As for sex, I'd seen enough of that by the time I was fifteen. And I don't mean I don't care whether I go to bed with you, because I do desperately. But just with you, and not with anybody else in the whole wide world, and nothing you can say will change it. I'm terribly happy right now. I know I may be terribly unhappy by tomorrow and I'm ready.”