never had anything dependent uponme; it was too time-consuming a chore just changing my own diapers. So I said: “Forget it. Give her to the Chinaman.”
Aces leveled at me a gambler’s gaze. He set the puppy on the center of the café table, where she stood a moment, trembling traumatically, then squatted to pee. Aces! You son of a bitch.
The nuns. The bluffs above St. Louis
. I picked her up and wrapped her in a Lanvin scarf Denny Fouts had given me long ago and held her close. She stopped trembling. She sniffed, sighed, slumbered.
Aces said: “And what are you going to name her?”
“Mutt.”
“Oh? Since I brought you together, the least you might do is call her Aces.”
“Mutt. Like her. Like you. Like me. Mutt.”
He laughed. “
Alors
. But I promised you a party, Jones. Mrs. Cary Grant is minding the store tonight. It’ll be a bore. But still.”
Aces, at least behind her back, always referred to the Huttontot (a Winchell coinage) as Mrs. Cary Grant: “Out of respect, really. He was the only one of her husbands worthy of the name. He adored her; but she had to leave him: she can’t trust or understand any geezer if he isn’t after le loot.”
A SEVEN-FOOT SENEGALESE IN A crimson turban and a white jellaba opened iron gates; one entered a garden where Judas trees blossomed in lantern light and the mesmeric scent of tuberoses embroidered the air. We passed into a room palely alive with light filtered through ivory filigree screens. Brocaded banquettes, piled with brocaded pillows of a silken lemon and silver and scarlet luxury, lined the walls. And there were beautiful brass tables shiny with candles and sweating champagne buckets; the floors, thick with overlapping layers of rugs fromthe weavers of Fez and Marrakech, were like strange lakes of ancient, intricate color.
The guests were few and all subdued, as though waiting for the hostess to retire before tossing themselves into an exuberant freedom—the repression attendant upon courtiers waiting for the royals to recede.
The hostess, wearing a green sari and a chain of dark emeralds, reclined among the cushions. Her eyes had the vacancy often observed in persons long imprisoned and, like her emeralds, a mineralized remoteness. Her eyesight, what she chose to see, was eerily selective: she saw me, but she never noticed the dog I was carrying.
“Oh, Aces dear,” she said in a wan small voice. “What
have
you found now?”
“This is Mr. Jones. P. B. Jones, I believe.”
“And you are a poet, Mr. Jones. Because I am a poet. And I can always tell.”
And yet, in a touching, shrunken way, she was rather pretty—a prettiness marred by her seeming to be precariously balanced on the edge of pain. I remembered reading in some Sunday supplement that as a young woman she had been plump, a wallflower butterball, and that, at the suggestion of a diet faddist, she had swallowed a tapeworm or two; and now one wondered, because of the starved starkness, her feathery flimsiness, if those worms were not still gross tenants who accounted for half her present weight. Obviously she had somewhat read my mind: “Isn’t it silly. I’m so thin, I’m too weak to walk. I have to be carried everywhere. Truly, I’d like to read your poetry.”
“I’m not a poet. I’m a masseur.”
She winced. “
Bruises
. A leaf drops and I’m blue.”
Aces said: “You told me you were a writer.”
“Well, I am. Was. Sort of. But it seems I’m a better masseur than a writer.”
Miss Hutton consulted Aces; it was as if they were whispering with their eyes.
She said: “Perhaps he could help Kate.”
He said, addressing me: “Are you free to travel?”
“Possibly. I don’t seem to do much else.”
“When could you meet me in Paris?” he asked, brisk now, a businessman.
“Tomorrow.”
“No. Next week. Thursday. Ritz bar. Rue Cambon side. One-fifteen.”
The heiress sighed into the banquette’s goose-stuffed brocades. “Poor boy,” she said, and tapped
Aces leveled at me a gambler’s gaze. He set the puppy on the center of the café table, where she stood a moment, trembling traumatically, then squatted to pee. Aces! You son of a bitch.
The nuns. The bluffs above St. Louis
. I picked her up and wrapped her in a Lanvin scarf Denny Fouts had given me long ago and held her close. She stopped trembling. She sniffed, sighed, slumbered.
Aces said: “And what are you going to name her?”
“Mutt.”
“Oh? Since I brought you together, the least you might do is call her Aces.”
“Mutt. Like her. Like you. Like me. Mutt.”
He laughed. “
Alors
. But I promised you a party, Jones. Mrs. Cary Grant is minding the store tonight. It’ll be a bore. But still.”
Aces, at least behind her back, always referred to the Huttontot (a Winchell coinage) as Mrs. Cary Grant: “Out of respect, really. He was the only one of her husbands worthy of the name. He adored her; but she had to leave him: she can’t trust or understand any geezer if he isn’t after le loot.”
A SEVEN-FOOT SENEGALESE IN A crimson turban and a white jellaba opened iron gates; one entered a garden where Judas trees blossomed in lantern light and the mesmeric scent of tuberoses embroidered the air. We passed into a room palely alive with light filtered through ivory filigree screens. Brocaded banquettes, piled with brocaded pillows of a silken lemon and silver and scarlet luxury, lined the walls. And there were beautiful brass tables shiny with candles and sweating champagne buckets; the floors, thick with overlapping layers of rugs fromthe weavers of Fez and Marrakech, were like strange lakes of ancient, intricate color.
The guests were few and all subdued, as though waiting for the hostess to retire before tossing themselves into an exuberant freedom—the repression attendant upon courtiers waiting for the royals to recede.
The hostess, wearing a green sari and a chain of dark emeralds, reclined among the cushions. Her eyes had the vacancy often observed in persons long imprisoned and, like her emeralds, a mineralized remoteness. Her eyesight, what she chose to see, was eerily selective: she saw me, but she never noticed the dog I was carrying.
“Oh, Aces dear,” she said in a wan small voice. “What
have
you found now?”
“This is Mr. Jones. P. B. Jones, I believe.”
“And you are a poet, Mr. Jones. Because I am a poet. And I can always tell.”
And yet, in a touching, shrunken way, she was rather pretty—a prettiness marred by her seeming to be precariously balanced on the edge of pain. I remembered reading in some Sunday supplement that as a young woman she had been plump, a wallflower butterball, and that, at the suggestion of a diet faddist, she had swallowed a tapeworm or two; and now one wondered, because of the starved starkness, her feathery flimsiness, if those worms were not still gross tenants who accounted for half her present weight. Obviously she had somewhat read my mind: “Isn’t it silly. I’m so thin, I’m too weak to walk. I have to be carried everywhere. Truly, I’d like to read your poetry.”
“I’m not a poet. I’m a masseur.”
She winced. “
Bruises
. A leaf drops and I’m blue.”
Aces said: “You told me you were a writer.”
“Well, I am. Was. Sort of. But it seems I’m a better masseur than a writer.”
Miss Hutton consulted Aces; it was as if they were whispering with their eyes.
She said: “Perhaps he could help Kate.”
He said, addressing me: “Are you free to travel?”
“Possibly. I don’t seem to do much else.”
“When could you meet me in Paris?” he asked, brisk now, a businessman.
“Tomorrow.”
“No. Next week. Thursday. Ritz bar. Rue Cambon side. One-fifteen.”
The heiress sighed into the banquette’s goose-stuffed brocades. “Poor boy,” she said, and tapped
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