Daniel nodded.
“R.C.?”
“Beg pardon?”
“You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve—” He rolled his eyes, pressed his hand to his stomach, and brought forth a miniscule burp, “—been drinking since four o’clock, and I’ve spent the last half-hour trying to talk with a missionary from somewhere in Africa who is quite insane. Understand, I have the greatest admiration for our brothers and sisters out there among the heathens, but good Lord, shouldn’t we have our own folkways? Another rhetorical question. R.C. means Roman Catholic. Did you really not know?”
“No.”
“And Hester Prynne is the heroine of The Scarlet Letter.”
“I did know that.”
“Guess who’s with us tonight?” said Shelly, veering in a new direction.
“Who?”
“The mysterious Mr. X. The guy who wrote Tales of Terror. Have you read it?”
“Bits.”
“He was pointed out to me by dear old Dubery, who can be relied on, usually, to know about people’s sins. But I must say the fellow seemed inoffensive to me. Now if he’d pointed you out as Mr. X, I’d have believed him implicitly.”
“Because I do seem offensive?”
“Oh no. Because you’re so good-looking.”
“Even in blackface?” Poor Daniel. He could never keep from flirting. He dug for compliments as instinctively as a bird for worms.
“Even? Especially!” Then, after a pause meant to be pregnant with eye-contact, “Do you know, I could swear I know you from somewhere. Do you ever go to Marble Collegiate?”
“Van Dyke’s church on Fifth Avenue?”
“And mine. I’m one of the great man’s curates.”
“No, I’ve never been there. Though I’ve thought of going lots of times. His book made a big impression on me when I was a teenager.”
“On all of us. Are you in holy orders?”
Daniel shook his head.
“That was a stupid question. But I thought, because you’re wearing that thing…” He nodded at Daniel’s crotch. “I was celibate myself once. Three and one-half years. But finally it was just too much for my weak flesh. I do admire those who have the strength. Are you staying for the singspiel?”
He nodded.
“And do you know what it’s to be?”
“Ernesto Rey is here, and he’s brought someone else. His protégé.”
“Really! Then I suppose I’ll have to linger on. Do you want another of whatever you’re having?”
“Just orange juice, and no thank you, I don’t.”
“You don’t drink? Pelion on Ossa!” Shelly Gaines levered himself up from his chair and turned to leave, then turned again to whisper to Danieclass="underline" “There he is. Just coming into the next room. Now who would suppose that that was Mr. X?”
“The guy with the tie with the raindrops on it?”
“Raindrops? Good grief, what eyesight! It seems a plain blurry green to me, but yes, that’s the man.”
“No,” said Daniel, “I certainly wouldn’t have believed it.”
When Shelly Gaines had gone to the bar, Daniel approached his old friend Claude Durkin, who was having a conversation with one of the more imposing priests at the party, a falcon-eyed man with an iron-grey crewcut and a loud, likeable laugh.
“Hi,” said Daniel.
Claude nodded to him and went on talking, eyes averted from this unexpected embarrassment. Daniel stood his ground. The priest looked at him with amused interest, until Claude finally did a double-take.
“Oh my God,” he said. “Ben!”
Daniel held out his hand, and Claude, with just the slightest hesitation, took it. In (as an afterthought) both of his.
“Claude, if you’ll excuse me,” said the priest, according Daniel a neutral but somehow still friendly smile, which Daniel returned with one of his best.
“I didn’t recognize you,” Claude said lamely, when they were left to themselves.
“I’m not recognizable.”
“No. You’re not. It is nice to… For God’s sake.”
“I wasn’t expecting to see you here either.”
“It’s my last night in town.”
“Not on my account I hope.”
Claude laughed. “No, of course not. But it is startling, your warpaint. How long has it been since I last saw you? Not since you retrieved your suit from my closet, I think.”
“Thank you for the loan of your tie, by the way. I see you got it back all right.”
Claude looked down at his tie, as though he’d spilled something on it. “I did try to phone. They said they didn’t know what had become of you either. Then when I called again, a while later, the number was disconnected.”
“Yeah. The doughnut shop went out of business a long time ago. How have you been? And where are you going?”
“I’ve been fine. In fact, I’m a changed man. And I’m going to Anagni, south of Rome. Tomorrow.”
Daniel looked at Claude and tried to rethink him as the author of Tales of Terror and the destroyer of the Alaska pipeline. He couldn’t. “And what will you do in Anagni?”
“Build a cathedral?”
“You’re asking me?”
“It sounds ridiculous, even to me, even now, but it’s the God’s truth. There was a cathedral there, one of the best Romanesque cathedrals. Frederick Barbarossa was excommunicated there. It was bombed, and I’m going there to help rebuild it. As one of the stone masons. I’ve joined the Franciscans, you see. Though I haven’t taken my final vows. It’s a long story.”
“Congratulations.”
“It’s what I’ve always wanted. We’ll be using almost the original technology, though we do cheat a little as to actually lifting the stones. But it will be a step up from just scrabbling about in the rubble for souvenirs. Don’t you think?”
“I do. That’s what I meant — congratulations.”
“And you, Ben — what are you doing?”
“The same, pretty much. I’m doing what I’ve always wanted. You’ll see, if you stay for the whole evening.”
“You know, I don’t think you’ve changed an iota.”
“Does anyone, ever?”
“I hope so. I sincerely do hope so.”
A bell rang, the signal for Daniel to change.
“Gotta go now. But can I ask you a question first? Strictly between ourselves.”
“So long as you won’t be offended if I don’t answer it.”
“On second thought, I’ll just go on wondering. Anyhow, you’d pretty well have to say no, even if the answer was yes.”
“Those are always good questions to avoid, I agree. What a pity there’s so little time left. It would be nice to get together for a more formal good-bye. Anyhow — good luck with your cathedral.”
“Thanks, Claude. The same to you.”
He offered his hand again, but Claude went him one better. He grasped him by the shoulders and solemnly and unpassionately, as though he were awarding the Legion of Honor, kissed each of his cheeks.
For the first time that evening Daniel blushed.
While Rey sang his own brief offering, a Carissimi cantata abridged and ornamented by the trusty hand of Mrs. Schiff, Daniel changed into his costume, an old tux from the back of Rey’s closet, which he had, with the help of Mrs. Galamian, the Metastasio’s wardrobe mistress, meticulously tattered and torn. He still wasn’t feeling more than agreeably nervous. Maybe he was one of those fortunate few who just weren’t fazed by performing. Maybe he’d actually enjoy it. He tried to concentrate on Rey’s roulades, but for all the brilliance of the singing the music was almost impossible to fix one’s attention on. Carissimi had had his off days, no doubt about it. He was, however, one of the Cardinal’s particular favorites, so the propriety of Rey’s choice could not be called into question. If Rey’s impeccable pyrotechnics nevertheless left the audience (pared down now to a bare fifty or so) somewhat restive and willing to be cajoled into simply enjoying themselves, who could complain, except possibly Carissimi?
Rey finished and was applauded. He joined Daniel briefly in the green room, went out to take a second bow, and returned. “I shall go sit beside the Cardinal now,” he advised Daniel. “Don’t enter for another couple of minutes.”