Part 3 (2/2)

”But no one can account for them: they're only a theory. Connelly is far too sharp for theories-he has to account for everything. He's a.n.a.lyzed Mrs. Vand's expenditures and he knows them precisely.”

”And then I suppose he confides them to you.” I rose and took several turns among the cacti; the music, suffocated by the scarves of sweet wind which slapped against the terrace railing, came out to us funereally. We might have been in the vestibule of a chapel, wondering how much to press on the widow for the sake of her orphans. There was the sick breath of money all upon us; it rushed out dirtily, as from a beggar's foul mouth (that beggar who always waits in the vestibule), full of waste, clogged with sores and boils; and suddenly the chapel s.h.i.+vered with tiny sounds, obscure meek little noises, the cries of small coins-c.h.i.n.k, c.h.i.n.k-trivial and tedious.

The bow of my sash had come untied (pulled loose, I thought, by a finger of cactus) and a long silken train dragged ign.o.bly behind me, rustling its silver voice.

c.h.i.n.k, c.h.i.n.k, it slyly chimed.

”Listen to your dress,” said Stefanie; and listened; and William's son listened; and at last I too was compelled to listen; and I heard the smothered call of greed.

William's son was not indifferent to it. ”And Connelly is so meticulous,” he went on, in his tone of thieves a-plotting in the dark night, ”meticulous, you know how accountants are, and now and again this check would turn up, a certain check made out to no one-no cause, mind you, no charge, no invoice, no broker's statement, no charity, no bill of any kind, no reason on earth for it-money for no one in the world. And Connelly went to my father to find out who it was for, to name a category for it at least. He had to account for it, you see-he hates theories, and he has none of his own. But my father wouldn't reply. I was there, you see-I saw it all. 'Never mind,' my father said, and a terrible look came over his face. 'Go ahead and post it anywhere,' I heard him say, 'and never mind.'”

”What sort of terrible look?” Stefanie demanded, leaning close.

”Angry, but more ashamed than angry. My father is never ashamed. He was angry because he was ashamed.”

”Ah,” our companion murmured, ”he's ashamed of Mrs. Vand.”

”He's fond of Mrs. Vand,” William's son amended, staring over her head at me. ”He's engrossed in her affairs.”

”I should expect so,” I retorted. ”Her attorney ought to be.”

”But he doesn't think her responsible. I suppose he never thought so-not even long ago. Nevertheless he's fond of Mrs. Vand,” he a.s.serted. ”I imagine he's forgiven her.”

”There was nothing to forgive.”

”True: it was all unforgivable,” he said.

”They did each other no harm,” I declared.

”I'm in the dark!” cried Stefanie. ”Were they in love?” she marveled, searching out my reply, ”your mother and his father?”

”No,” I gave out. ”They were married.”

”How absolutely crazy!”

”We,” William's son supplied rapidly, ”were born after the divorce-both of us. Don't get the idea that we're related.”

”But in a way-” she began doubtfully.

”Not at all,” he vouchsafed her.

”Not at all,” I conceded, and reflected how I had once claimed him for a brother.

We sat for a while in the ambiguous air-after rain a mid-August night breaks the heart-and no one cared or dared to speak. The little orchestra worn down by the clamor (or my mother's program worn out beyond its last Valse Militaire), was playing a samba too quickly, in somewhat clandestine style, as though trying to get through each bar as un.o.btrusively (although contrariwise as loudly) as possible. The saxophonist had rid himself of his instrument and was now plying a s.h.i.+ning bra.s.s horn. Perhaps it was our distance from the dancers that charged them uncannily, like charmed snakes emerging from baskets: from afar they seemed miniature but dangerous: if too clever for snakes, then clever enough for leaping swords. They thrust toward one another and away, dueling, while the horn, choked off by the wind in our ears, rose and rose. It towered finally, and I thought of the bugle that did not sound again while I waited for it in the washed gra.s.s; but it was not the same. The horn was no more holy than the workaday lips, pressed to the tongue of the bra.s.s, of its shallow-jowled master-it did its duty merely, and screamed as well as it could, and promised nothing. The stiff high note broke off eventually, and the ball-room sent out applause like ululations of the leaves of countless paper forests; it was, as celebration, counterfeit and sad. Nothing in the world can be sustained, neither bugles nor hope nor woe nor desire nor common well-being nor horns, and even redemption, that suspect covenant, can be revised by the bitter and loveless Christ to whom alone nothing, not even life, is irretrievable. Relief is our reward for recognizing this truth, that the note cannot be sustained forever and the irretrievable can never be returned to us; and there is no alternative but to go on with the facts exactly as they are.

I came away from the cactus plants and stood against the railing, as in a s.h.i.+p on the high seas, and because William's son had done so before, I looked down into the meditative river. But there was little to see, only a moon-shaped excursion boat with its hundred lights and its hidden cargo of contraband lovers, and I moved instead to the other side of the terrace to watch the city churn inaccessibly below. The wind was strong in that corner; I turned my back against it and clasped my arms and felt the little hairs spring up on b.a.l.l.s of flesh; and the wind blew through my dress, and caught up the silver of its loosened train and flew it like a s.h.i.+p's standard, freely, over the city. It was a banner of presence and ident.i.ty, a sign to Gustave Nicholas Tilbeck that I knew him to be not far; it was a money-flag, and the c.h.i.n.k of money went rattling through it.

It made me reckless as a pirate. ”William needn't wear his terrible look,” I burst out. ”It's impertinent of him to be ashamed for my mother.”

”No; no,” he murmured, smiling and smiling, ”you don't follow. It's simply a question of where the money goes. It's simply a question,” he repeated steadily, ”of the terms of the trust.” He bent forward, vivid with interest. ”He's got to know everything.”

”I suppose it isn't the function of a trustee to trust anyone.”

”It's his job to protect the fund. And Mrs. Vand.”

”Mrs. Vand protects herself,” I countered, growing tired of it all.

”By giving away her money?”

”There must be some left over, isn't there?” Stefanie consoled.

”Connelly had to post the check under Miscellaneous Expenses,” William's son informed me ominously.

”Poor chap,” I said. ”What a blow.”

”Who d'you suppose it's for?” Stefanie wondered. ”I mean the check.”

”I don't know,” I said.

”Don't you want to find out?”

”I'm not a spy.”

”But you must think about it sometimes,” she pressed. ”Don't you have any ideas? You know-theories.”

”I'm like Connelly,” I revealed. ”I'm too meticulous for theories.”

”She doesn't need any,” William's son confidently perceived. ”She knows.”

”She knows and won't tell,” Stefanie improved. She stretched appealingly; she yawned. ”Maybe the money's for something wicked.”

”Or something good,” William's son suggested. ”A poor but respectable family, hoping someday to repay the bountiful lady, wishes to receive its disburs.e.m.e.nts anonymously.”

”But then your father would approve,” she promptly recollected. ”No, it's for something wicked. What can you think of that's bad?”

They went on teasing and speculating in this fas.h.i.+on for some minutes. It soon became plain that it had nothing to do with me. All along it had had nothing to do with me. It was a flirtation, and I their plaything; and now, at its climax, I was in fact quickly excluded, and occupied myself with retrieving my sash and tying it behind me. It was difficult to do; it rustled and slipped away and tinkled and whispered; and for a time my hands were entangled in silver and gold. At last I contrived to finish the knot, and drew the ends before me in two full loops; and through the circle of silk I held in the air just then-it might have been the gesture of a panhandler who puts out his hat with both hands-I saw the two of them leaning across the little s.p.a.ce between their chairs, susurrant, kissing.

They laughed because I had glimpsed them.

”Encore un peu,” William's son demanded flawlessly, and grasped her small bare complaisant wrists.

She admonished him remotely: ”Is that all you can think of that's bad?”-kissing him.

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