“See you soon, baby.”
“Yes,” said Eric, “see you soon.” He opened the door and left.
Vivaldo listened to him go down the stairs. Then he walked to the window and opened the blinds and watched him. Eric appeared in the street as though he had been running, or as though he had been propelled. He looked first in one direction and then in the other; then, his hands in his pockets, head lowered and shoulders raised, he walked the long block, hugging the sides of buildings. Vivaldo watched him till he turned the corner.
Then he turned back into the room, pale with assessments, with guilt deliciously beginning to gnaw at the rope with which he had tied it, sharpening its teeth for him. And yet, at the same time, he felt radiantly, wonderfully spent. He poured himself another small drink and sat on the edge of the bed. Slowly, he dialed his number.
The receiver was lifted almost at once, and Ida’s voice came at him: with the force of an electric shock. “Hello?”
In the background, he heard Billie Holiday singing Billie’s Blues.
“Hello, sugar. This is your man, checking on his woman.”
“Do you know what time it is? Where the hell are you?”
“I’m at Eric’s. We passed out here. I’m just pulling myself together.”
There was a peculiar relief in her voice. He was aware of it because she tried to hide it. “You’ve been there all night? ever since I left you?”
“Yes. We came on over here and started talking and finished up Eric’s whiskey. And he had quite a lot of whiskey — so, you see.”
“Yes, I know you think it’s against the law to stop drinking as long as there’s anything left to drink. Listen. Has Cass called?”
“Yes.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“No. Eric did.”
“Oh? What did Eric tell you?”
“What do you mean, what did Eric tell me?”
“I mean, what did Cass say?”
“She said she was in trouble. Richard’s found out about them.”
“Isn’t that awful? What else did she say?”
“Well — I think that that sort of cluttered up her mind. She doesn’t seem to have said anything else. Did you know anything about all this?”
“Yes. Richard was here. Has he been there?”
“No.”
“Oh, Vivaldo, it was awful. I felt so sorry for him. I thought that you might be at Eric’s, but I said you’d gone off to see your family in Brooklyn and I didn’t have the phone number or the address. It’s very sad, Vivaldo, he’s very bitter, he wants to hurt you. He feels that you betrayed him—”
“Yes, well, I think it may be easier for him to feel that way. How long was he there?”
“Not long. Only about ten minutes. But it seemed longer. He said some terrible things—”
“I’m sure. Does he still want to see me?”
“I don’t know.” There was a pause. “Are you coming home now?”
“Yes, right away. Are you going to be there?”
“I’ll be here. Come on. Oh. Where’s Eric?”
“He’s gone — uptown—”
“To meet Cass?”
“Yes.”
She sighed. “Lord, what a mess. Come on home, sweetie, if Richard’s going to shoot you you don’t want him to do it while you’re wandering around Eric’s house. That would really be too much.”
He laughed. “You’re right. You seem to be in a good mood today.”
“I’m really in a terrible mood. But I’m being brave about it, I’m pretending to be Greer Garson.”
He laughed again. “Does it help?”
“Well, no, baby, but it makes everything pretty funny.”
“All right. I’ll be along in a minute.”
“Okay, sweetie. ’Bye.”
“Good-bye.”
He hung up with an exultant relief that no trouble seemed to be awaiting him at home with Ida. He felt that he had got away with something. He stepped into Eric’s shower, scrubbed and sang; but when he stepped out he realized that he was terribly hungry and weak. While he was dressing, Eric’s doorbell rang.
He was sure that it was Richard, at last, and he hurriedly buckled his belt and pulled on his shoes before pressing the buzzer. He started, idiotically, to make up the bed, but realized that there would not be time, and, anyway, it could not possibly make any difference to Richard whether the bed was made or not. He waited, hearing the downstairs door open and close. He opened Eric’s door. But he heard no footsteps. A voice called. “Eric Jones!”
“Here!” cried Vivaldo. He let out his breath. He walked to the landing. A Western Union boy came up the steps.
“You Eric Jones?”
“He’s gone out. But I can take it.”
The boy handed him a telegram and a book for him to sign. He gave the boy twenty cents and walked back into the apartment. He thought that the telegram came, probably, from Eric’s agent or producer; but he looked at it more carefully and realized that it was a cable and that it came from Europe. He propped it against Eric’s telephone. He scribbled a note: I’ve borrowed your other raincoat. NOTE CABLEGRAM. He paused. Then he scribbled, It was a great day. And added, love, Vivaldo. He placed the note in the center of Eric’s desk, weighting it down with an ink bottle.
Then he was ready, he looked about the room. The bed was still unmade; he left it that way; the bottle was still on the floor, the glasses on the night table. Everything was absolutely still, silent, except for the rain. He looked again at the cablegram, which leaned lightly, charged, waiting, against the telephone. Telegrams always frightened him a little. He closed the door behind him, tested it to make certain that it was locked, and walked out, at last, into the unfriendly rain.
Eric saw her at once, standing near the steps, just beyond the ticket-taker. She was pacing in a small circle and her back, as he entered, was to him. She wore her loose brown raincoat and her head was covered with a matching hood; and she played with the tip, white bone in the shape of a claw, of her thin umbrella. The museum was crowded, full of the stale, Sunday museum stink, aggravated, now, by the damp. He came through the doors behind a great cloud of windy, rainy, broad-beamed ladies; and they formed, before him, a large, loud, rocking wall, as they shook their umbrellas and themselves and repeated to each other, in their triumphant voices, how awful the weather was. Three young men and two young girls, scrubbed and milky, gleaming with their passion for improvement and the ease with which they moved among abstractions, were surrendering their tickets and passing through the barrier. Others were on the steps, going down, coming up, stationary, peering at each other like half-blinded birds and setting up a hideous whirr, as of flying feathers and boastful wings. Cass, small, pale, and old-fashioned in her hood, restlessly pacing, disenchantedly watched all this; she glanced indifferently toward the resounding ladies, but did not see him; he was still trying to get through, or around, the wall. He looked toward the people on the steps again, wondering why Cass had wished to meet here; it was only too probable that these sacred and sterile halls contained, blocking a corridor or half-hidden by a spinning mass of statuary, someone that they knew. Cass, resignedly lit a cigarette half-turning in her small, imaginary cage. People now came crushing in through the doors behind him, and their greater pressure spat him past the ladies. He touched Cass on the shoulder.