Mr. Barry was saying, “We have been hearing the most wonderful things about your husband, Mrs. Silenski. I’ve read his book, and I must say”—he smiled his cordial smile, everything about him was held within decent bounds—“it’s a very remarkable achievement.”
For an instant, Cass said nothing. She sipped her drink and watched his face, which was as smooth as a black jellybean. At first, she was tempted to dismiss the face as empty. But it was not empty; it was only that it was desperately trying to empty itself, decently, inward; an impossibility leading to God alone could guess what backing up of bile. Deep, deep behind the carefully hooded and noncommittal eyes, the jungle howled and lunged and bright dead birds lay scattered. He was like his wife, only he would never be able to step out of his iron corsets.
She felt very sorry for him, then she trembled; he hated her; and somehow his hatred was connected with her barely conscious wish to have the ginger-colored boy on the floor make love to her. He hated her — therefore? — far more than Ida could, and was far more at the mercy of his hatred; which, from ceaseless trampling down, yearned to go upward, blowing up the world.
But he could not afford to know this.
She said, smiling, with stiff lips, “Thank you very much.”
Mrs. Barry said, “You must be very proud of your husband.”
Cass and Ida glanced briefly at each other, and Cass smiled and said, “Well, I’ve always been proud of him, really; none of this comes as any surprise to me.”
Ida laughed. “That’s the truth. Cass thinks Richard can do no wrong.”
“Not even when she catches him at it,” Ellis grinned. Then, “We’ve been together quite a lot lately, and he often speaks of what a happy man he is.”
For some reason, this frightened her. She wondered when, and how often, Richard and Ellis met and what Richard really had to say. She swallowed her fear. “Blind faith,” she said, inanely, “I’ve got it,” and thought, God. She looked toward the dance floor. But that particular couple had vanished.
“Your husband’s a lucky man,” said Mr. Barry. He looked at his wife, and reached for her hand. “So am I.”
“Mr. Barry’s just become a part of our publicity department,” Ellis said. “We’re awfully proud to have him on board. And I’m sorry if I sound like I’m bragging — hell, I’m not sorry, I am bragging — but I think it represents a tremendous breakthrough in our pussyfooting, hidebound industry.” He grinned, and Mr. Barry smiled. “And hidebound so soon!”
“It was hidebound the instant it was born,” said Mr. Nash, “just as your cinema industry was hidebound, and for the same reason. It immediately became the property of the banks — part of what you people quaintly call free enterprise, though God knows there’s nothing free about it, and nothing even remotely enterprising about the lot of you.”
Cass and Ida stared at him. “Where are you from?” Cass demanded.
He smiled at her from a great, tolerant distance. “Belfast,” he said.
“Oh,” cried Ida, “I have a friend whose father was born in Dublin! Do you know Dublin? Is it very far from Belfast?”
“Geographically? Yes, some distance. Otherwise, the distance is negligible — though the population of either city would hang me if they heard me say so.” And he laughed his cheerful, lubricated laugh.
“What have you got against us?” Cass asked.
“I? Why, nothing,” said Mr. Nash, laughing, “I make a great deal of money out of you.”
“Mr. Nash,” said Ellis, “is an impresario who no longer lives in Belfast.”
“Free enterprise, you see,” said Mr. Nash, and winked at Mr. Barry.
Mr. Barry laughed. He leaned toward Mr. Nash. “Well, I’m on the side of Mrs. Silenski. What have you got against our system? I think we’ve all made great strides under it.” He raised one bony hand, one manicured finger. “What would you replace it with?”
“What,” asked Cass, unexpectedly, “does one replace a dream with? I wish I knew.”
Mr. Nash laughed, then stopped, as if embarrassed. Ida was watching her — watching her without seeming to watch. Then Cass sensed, for the first time in her life, the knowledge that black people had of white people — though what, really, did Ida know about her, except that she was lying, was unfaithful, and was acting? and was in trouble — and, for a second, she hated Ida with all her heart. Then she felt very cold again, the second passed.
“I suppose,” said Ida, in an extraordinary voice, “that one replaces a dream with reality.”
Everybody laughed, nervously. The music began again. She looked again toward the dance floor, but those dancers were gone. She grabbed her drink as though it were a spar, and held it in her mouth as though it were ice.
“Only,” said Ida, “that’s not so easy to do.” She held her drink between her two thin hands and looked across at Cass. Cass swallowed the warm fluid she had been holding in her mouth, and it hurt her throat. Ida put down her drink and grabbed Ellis by the hand. “Come on, honey,” she said, “let’s dance.”
Ellis rose. “You will excuse us,” he said, “but I am summoned.”
“Indeed you are,” said Ida, and smiled at them all, and swept onto the dance floor. Ellis followed, rather like something entangled in her train.
“She reminds me of the young Billie Holiday,” said Mr. Barry, wistfully.
“Yes, I’d love to hear her sing,” said Mrs. Nash — rather venomously, and most unexpectedly. They all turned expectantly toward her, as though this were a seance and she were the medium. But she sipped her drink and said nothing more.
Cass turned again toward the dance floor, watching Ida and Ellis. The light was still as bright, the floor somewhat more crowded; the juke box blared. There was a vast amount of cunning, conscious or not, in Ida’s choice of a costume for the place. She wore a very simple pale orange dress, and flat shoes, and very little make-up; and her hair, which was usually piled high, was pulled back tonight and held tightly in a severe, old-maidish bun. Therefore, she looked even younger than she was, almost like a very young girl; and the effect of this was to make Ellis, who was so much shorter than she, look older than he was, and more corrupt. They became an odd and unprecedented beauty and the beast up there; and, for the first time consciously, Cass wondered about their real relationship to one another. Ida had said that she did not want Vivaldo “bugged” by any of the musicians; but she had not come to meet any musicians. She had come to meet Ellis. And she had brought Cass along as a kind of smoke screen — and she and Ellis could not have met often in public before. In private then? And she wondered about this as she watched them. Their dance, which was slow and should have been fluid, was awkward and dry and full of hesitations. She was holding him at bay, he could not lead her; yet, she was holding him fast.
“I wonder if his wife knows where he is.” Mrs. Nash again, sotto voce, to her husband, with a small, smug smile.
Cass thought of Vivaldo, then thought of Richard, and immediately hated Mrs. Nash. You evil-minded whore, she thought, and broke the table’s uneasy silence by saying,