“That’s right.”
She tilted her head, reading the titles upside down. “The Founding of Byzantium. Author somebody named Mac-Lister. There’s suspense reading for you… The Defeat of Pompey, A. Santini. A real thriller… And the third one is The Original KKK, by a J. J. Beauregard. Yippee.”
“Wild.”
“I must be wrong, Peter. These can’t have anything to do with his 9s. Do you suppose there’s a clue in some of these other books on the shelf? Even though they’re right side up like a good book should?”
“You mean like The Landing of the Pilgrims, honey-bunch? Or-now here’s a candidate for the bestseller list if ever I saw one: Magna Carta at Runnymede. A real smasheroo. And-hold your breath, baby, this one is a significant lesson for our times-The Establishment of the Roman Empire.’’’’
Peter Ennis laughed. He looked around. Then he picked up Virginia Whyte Importuna and carried her over to the Medici desk.
Seventh and Eighth Months
Maturation proceeds. A layer of fatty matter is deposited under the skin whose function is to nourish and protect the fetus during the early part of its coming emergence into the world.
Ninth Month LABOR
The redness fades from the skin. Fingernails and toenails are defined. Glandular secretions and excretions prepare the fetus for the changes soon to come.
The first rhythmic contractions signal the onset of the mother’s labor.
The baby is about to be born.
Nino was charming, almost delightful, that day. In fact, Virginia had to try a little not to like him. She did not find the exertion excessive; still, there it was.
It was the 9th of September, a day to commemorate, but not only or even principally because it was Nino’s 68th birthday. The greater happiness of the day lay in the fact that it was also their fifth wedding anniversary. And their fifth wedding anniversary had a very special significance for Virginia Whyte Importuna (and, by secret extension, Peter Ennis). For it demarcated the time zone specified in their prenuptial agreement, the date before which Virginia Whyte had waived all property and dower rights when she should become Nino Importuna’s wife, and after which-if still living with him as his wife-she became his sole heir.
The penthouse had never experienced such traffic. People dropped in throughout the day with gifts and flowers-Virginia’s father; executives of Importuna Industries’ component corporations based in New York; friends from the jet set; ambassadors and other dignitaries of foreign delegations to the United Nations who found it tactically expedient to remain in Nino Importuna’s good graces, especially those representing countries in which Importuna money was invested; colleagues in the fraternity of finance; the never-absent politicos; even the clergy. Messengers deposited overflowing cartons of congratulatory telegrams and cables from Importuna’s 10,001 industrial connections at home and overseas.
Virginia was warily impressed, especially since for the first time in their marriage Nino devoted himself wholly to her that day. Several times Peter Ennis reported to him that Mr. E was on the telephone pleading urgency and requesting leave to come to the penthouse, only to be told with a tooth-filled smile that all business “must wait until tomorrow. Lavoro sempre, ma non oggi. Today belongs to my wife.” Since Mr. E to her certain knowledge had open sesame to the penthouse day and night, Virginia could scarcely believe her ears.
The callers straggled off toward the end of the afternoon and, as the dinner hour approached, the Importunas were finally alone. This was the moment Virginia had dreaded all day, in spite of the day’s aura of felicity. The five-year history of their unattended husband-and-wife encounters had still not inured her to the prospect.
To her surprise he said, “You know, my dear, Peter is still at his desk-much as I’d like to have given him the day off, there were some matters that had to be taken care of. I feel a bit guilty about it, considering the occasion. Would you mind very much if I asked him to join us for dinner?”
“Why, Nino, how thoughtful of you.” Virginia said it at once, in her most detached tone. And how adept we’ve* become, Peter and I, she thought, in pulling the wool over Nino’s eyes. It was going to be a strain, of course; it always was when they were a trois. But on the other hand to be a deux with him was more like suffering a rupture. “Naturally I don’t mind. If it would please you.”
“Wouldn’t it please you, Virginia?”
Why had he said that? Nino had the uncanniest way of making her feel uneasy. Nothing must go wrong now, she told herself fiercely. I’ve gone through too much for too long to blow it at the moment of victory.
She shrugged. “It really doesn’t matter to me one way or the other.”
“Then I’ll ask him.”
She could tell from signs only she could read (she reassured herself) that Peter, too, regarded Nino’s sudden invitation as a not unadulterated sugarplum. Nevertheless, they made a civilized threesome at table. Cesar, the chef, a Swiss who specialized in Italian cuisine, had outdone himself making Virginia’s favorite dishes; the table wines were impeccable; the champagne flowed. Peter proposed a toast to her husband’s birthday (how she hated herself for her hypocrisy, but it was chronic, more like a cancerous agony kept to the level of tolerance by sedation than an open wound) and another to their wedding anniversary, which amused and excited her in its reminder of what loomed ahead, although she maintained her pretense of aloofness with the competence of long practice.
Peter brought forth his gifts. For Importuna’s birthday he had unearthed at some sale or other a letter from Ga-briele D’Annunzio to his inamorata, Eleonora Duse. It was housed in a large lush ormolu frame embowered in laurel leaves and peeping satyrs, and it included handsome photographs of the poet-soldier and the actress. The letter was dated 1899. Importuna read it aloud to Virginia, translating into pedantic English as he went along. It expounded D’Annunzio’s philosophy of passion-”the pleasures of the senses alone give meaning to life.” Importuna was visibly pleased with it-”How clever of you, Peter, to find such a treasure from the year of my birth! I shall have it hung in my den immediately.”
Virginia thought it rather too dangerously clever of Peter, considering its subject matter.
For their anniversary he presented them with a mid-19th century vase of reticello glass decorated with swans in lattimo. Both Virginia and Nino were fond of Venetian glass, and the penthouse was filled with specimens of the vetro di trina or lace glass of which Peter’s vase was a relatively recent example; Importuna’s collection included rare reticello dating back to the 15th century. The industrialist was nevertheless generous in his thanks, and Virginia echoed him what she silently hoped was just the right degree of disengaged warmth.
Then it was her turn. She had given a great deal of thought to her gift; she had commissioned it through an agent in Italy months before. Virginia clapped her hands, and Crump came into the dining room pushing a serving cart with all the aplomb of a five-star general. He brought it to rest at Importuna’s chair and sedately retreated. On the cart stood 9 large sealed flagons of exquisite crystal, each monogrammed NI in platinum, and each filled with what appeared to be the same colorless liquid.
“As I’ve had to keep telling you, Nino, you’re very hard to buy gifts for,” Virginia said with a smile. “So these are for the man who has everything. Happy birthday, dear, and anniversary.” She managed the endearment without corrupting the smile.