“I’m not trying to sell you any—”
“Are you trying to cheat me?”
“I’ve never cheated anyone in my life!” Larry said, beginning to rise again.
“Well, you’re cheating me here. And you’re cheating yourself, too!” He paused. “Don’t be a jerk. Sit down.”
“Why don’t you get yourself another architect?”
“I won’t need one unless you tell me flatly you’re finished.”
“You don’t like my sketches, you don’t like my—”
“Do you want to design my house, or don’t you?”
“I don’t know,” Larry said harshly.
“Why do you resent me?”
“I don’t resent you.”
“Because I’m a success?”
“What!”
“If that’s it, say so. Lots of men do. I don’t hold it against them any more.”
“Don’t be absurd. We’re not in competition.”
“Then why? Because I’m a bachelor?”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“How do I know? Why do you resent me?”
“I told you I don’t resent you. I think you’re marvelous. I think you’re the world’s greatest living author. I don’t know what literature would have done without you. I kiss your feet.”
Softly Altar said, “You’re just a kid, aren’t you?”
“Don’t start on me personally, Altar. Your ten per cent doesn’t buy my soul.”
“All I expect it to buy is your mind.”
“A part of it.”
“All of it where it concerns architecture.”
“I could design a house you’d be afraid of.”
“Try me.”
“I could design a house you wouldn’t understand.”
“My stories are too good for the pulps,” Altar said.
“What?”
“A local bromide. Forget it.”
“What do I owe you, Altar? I could use one tenth of my brain power and still design a better house for you than any hundred architects in the country.”
“When do you stop talking the good game, Larry?”
“When do you stop talking like an old friend of mine? For Christ’s sake, I barely know you!”
“I’ll go you one further. I don’t think you want to know me.”
“Why does every tinhorn writer in the world consider himself a psychiatrist?”
“How many other writers do you know?” Altar asked.
“None, thank God. Wise up, Altar. Do a little self-analysis. You’re not attacking me. You’re attacking yourself!”
“That’s not true, Larry!”
Altar squashed his cigarette angrily into the ash tray on the coffee table. He swung upright at the same moment, as if he were buckling on his armour to do battle. His eyes narrowed, and his shaggy brows descended.
“Isn’t it?” Larry asked. “You’re sick of the commercial hack—”
“That’s not true!” Altar snapped. “Maybe you think it’s the same but it isn’t. When I’m in that room, I’m working every damn minute, and I’m trying! I care deeply about what I’m doing. And you don’t!”
“Commercial tripe, the critics said. They hit it right on—”
“The critics don’t know how I bleed!” Altar shouted. “I open a vein on every page! I give everything I’ve got, my blood, my good red blood! What in God’s name do you give? What are you afraid of? That you’ll have to give something of yourself? Those sketches are the plotting of a guy who lives in a shell. Well, I don’t live in a shell. I take, I take a lot — but I try to give something back. If you want to work for me—”
“Work for you! Holy—”
“What’s the matter, is work a dirty word? Don’t architects work? What do you prefer? Do you want me to call myself your client? Will that improve our relationship? Okay, if you want me to be your client, you’ve got to give. Everything. I’m treating you like a thoroughbred, and all I’m asking is that you get out there and run for me. I don’t want excuses about a muddy track or a bowed tendon. All I want you to do is run. Do you know how to run, Larry? Can you go the distance?”
Larry was silent. Altar lighted another cigarette. He blew out a stream of smoke, and still the silence persisted. Slowly, Altar nodded and said, “Okay, forget it. It’s been swell. Send me a bill for the work you’ve—”
“I’ll design your house,” Larry said.
“Don’t do me any favors. If you don’t want to—”
“I want to. I’ll run. You don’t deserve it, but I’ll run for you.”
“Why don’t I deserve it? Does there have to be a prize attached before you turn on the steam?”
“That was below the belt, Altar. That damn prize didn’t mean a thing, and you know it.”
“Sure.” Altar paused. “Maybe none of the prizes mean anything, Larry. Maybe there’s only one prize that really counts.”
“Which one?”
“You tell me.”
“I’m not a big thinker.” Larry said. He rose. “I’ll bring you new sketches. I’ll give them everything I’ve got, and if you still don’t like them, that’s that. I can’t spend the rest of my life trying to please you.”
“Nor can you spend it trying to please yourself, either.”
“What does that mean?”
“How the hell do I know?” Altar said, grinning. “Another one of my profound banalities.”
“You son of a bitch,” Larry said, returning the grin. “You don’t forget anything anyone ever says, do you?”
“Never. I’m a big sponge. I’m a brain picker. I’m recording secretary for the world at large. Don’t ever tell me your life story. I’m liable to use it.”
“Not a chance,” Larry said. “It’s pretty dull.” He went to the door. “You can turn off the record player now,” he said, smiling. “We don’t need the string accompaniment any more.”
He heard Altar’s laugh erupt as he went in to the hall way.
11
At fifteen minutes to two on the Tuesday he was to meet Margaret Gault, Larry told the first of what was to be an endless succession of lies.
He did not particularly relish telling the lie, especially since Eve had been so understanding when he’d related the Altar incident the night before. Her earnest sympathy had carried over into the new day. While he worked out a tentative schematic for one of the housing-development buildings, she hovered over him constantly, bringing him coffee and toast, coming in every hour, trying to let him know that she, at least, thought he was a damned good architect.
He could not deny that Altar’s attack had hurt him. He would not admit to himself that its most penetrating aspect had been its utter truthfulness. But he had allowed the attack to fire an indignation and then fill him with a fervent desire to design a house that would knock Altar’s eyes out. He was grateful to Altar for having given his incentive a shove. But faced with the factory schematic, he did not appreciate the residential designing itch that tickled his unconscious. And faced with the kindnesses Eve showered upon him that morning, he did not appreciate the lie he was about to tell her.
He became conscious of the steadily advancing hands of the clock during lunch. He listened to Eve chatter, watched David pick listlessly at his food, and all the while he was thinking. This is Tuesday, she will be at the shopping center at two.
He was a little afraid of meeting her. He didn’t know what he would say to her, and wondered indeed if he actually wanted to meet her. The thing could be dropped now. Nothing had really been said or done. Pursuit, on the other hand, might lead anywhere. Margaret Gault was still a total mystery to him, and he could no more determine exactly what might happen than he could explain to himself the tentative commitment he’d already made with her. He knew that he’d debated meeting her a hundred times, and he knew that he would meet her and, oddly, he felt there was nothing he could do to prevent the meeting. The concept was a peculiarly fatalistic one, especially for a person who’d flatly rejected the Rubaiyat at seventeen. But he knew that he had to see Margaret Gault again, if only to tell her he was crazy ever to think, ever to think what? He did not know.