Irwin Shaw - Nightwork

“It’s a good thing he won’t be here,” I said. “He’d swoon.” “It’s a pity the young man wouldn’t come. Give him a haircut and a shave and he’d be most personable. Useful for lady – art lovers.” Fabian had offered to pay Quinn’s way across from Rome for the show, but Quinn had said he wasn’t finished painting America yet. “So,” Fabian said, “two thousand it is, right?” “If you say so,” I said. “I’ll hide in the John when anybody asks what anything costs.”

“Boldness is all, dear boy,” Fabian said. “The breaks are coming our way. I was at a party last night and the art critic from The Times was there. He’s down for the weekend. He promised to look in tonight.”

I felt my nerves grow taut. Quinn had only gotten two lines in an Italian paper for his show in Rome. They had been appreciative, but they had only been two lines. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” I said. “Because I don’t.”

“The man will be stunned,” Fabian said confidently. “Just look around you. This old barn is positively glowing.”

I had looked so hard and so long at the paintings that I no longer had any reaction to them. If it had been possible, I would have driven out to the far edge of the island at Montauk Point and stayed there looking at the Atlantic Ocean until the whole thing was over.

There was a tinkle behind us and I heard the girl say, “Oh, dear.” I turned and saw she had dropped a glass and broken it. I supposed they didn’t have any courses on the handling of champagne glasses at Sarah Lawrence.

“Do not grieve, dearest,” Fabian said as he helped pick up the pieces. “It’s a lucky omen. In fact. I’m glad you did it. It reminds me we have a cold bottle of wine in the fridge.”

The girl smiled gratefully at Fabian. In the three weeks she had been working for us, he had won her over completely. When I spoke to her, she seemed to be trying to catch a weak message being tapped through a thick wall.

Fabian went back into the little room we had partitioned off as an office and brought out the bottle of champagne. He had insisted upon having the refrigerator put in as an essential piece of the gallery’s furniture. “It will pay its keep in the first week,” he had said as he told the workmen where to install it.

I watched him expertly tear off the foil and unwind the wire. “Miles,” I said, “I just had breakfast.”

“What better time, old man.” The cork popped out. “This is a great day. We must treat it with the utmost care.” His life, I had discovered, was replete with great days.

He poured the champagne for the girl and myself. He raised his glass. “To Angelo Quinn,” he said. “And to us.”

We drank. I thought of all the champagne I had drunk since I met Miles Fabian and shook my head.

“Oh, by the way, Douglas,” he said, as he filled his glass again, “I nearly forgot. Another of our investments will be represented here tonight.”

“What investment?”

“At the party last night, we had a distinguished guest.” He chuckled reminiscently. “Priscilla Dean.”

“Oh, my God,” I said. A good part of the abuse heaped on our movie had been directed at the feminine lead. Her photograph, in the nude and in the most provocative positions, had appeared in two nationally circulated magazines. Crowds followed her in the streets. She had been booed by a section of the studio audience when she appeared on television. It had added to the receipts of the movie, but I was doubtful of what it would do for Quinn’s reputation. “Don’t tell me,” I said, “that you invited her here tonight.”

“Of course,” Fabian said calmly. “We’ll be in all the papers. Don’t worry, Gentle Heart. I took her aside and told her that her – ah – her connection to us must remain a closely guarded secret. She swore by the head of her mother, Dora,” he said, “you realize that anything we say here is never to be repeated anywhere.”

“Of course, Mr Fabian.” She looked puzzled. “I really don’t understand. Who is Priscilla Dean?”

“A low woman.” Fabian said. “I’m glad to see that you don’t go to the movies or read filthy magazines.”

We finished the bottle of champagne without any more toasts.

Henry was waiting for me when I got to the restaurant a little after twelve. He was not alone. Seated next to him on the banquette was a very pretty young woman with long auburn hair. He stood up as I came over to the table and shook my hand warmly. He was not wearing glasses, his teeth were capped and even, he was tanned and healthy-looking and had put on weight. He had dyed his hair and he could have passed for a man of thirty. “Doug,” he said, “I want you to meet my fiancée. Madeleine, my brother.”

I shook hands with the lady, choking back questions. “Hank has told me so so much about you,” Madeleine said. She had a low, pleasant voice.

I sat down, facing them. I noticed that there were no drinks on the table. “Madeleine has never been out here,”

Henry said, “and she thought she’d like to take a look.”

“I really wanted to meet you,” she said, staring directly at me. She had big gray eyes that I guessed could be blue in some lights. She did not look like a woman who was engaged to a man who was reputed in some quarters to be impotent.

“This calls for a drink. Waiter…” I called.

“Not for us, thanks,” Henry said. “I’m off the stuff.” He sounded slightly defiant, as though challenging me to comment. I said nothing.

“And I’ve never been on it,” Madeleine said.

“In that case, no drinks,” I said to the waiter.

“Shall we order?” Henry said. “I’m afraid we’re pressed for time.”

Madeleine stood up and Henry and I stood up with her. “I won’t be having lunch with you gentlemen,” she said. “I know you have a lot to talk over. I’ll take a walk and look around this pretty little town and come back and join you for coffee.”

“Don’t get lost,” Henry said.

She laughed. “Not a chance,” she said.

Henry’s face as he watched her walk toward the door was curiously intense. She had slender legs, a good figure, and her walk was ladylike but sensual. Henry seemed to be holding his breath, as though he had momentarily forgotten to breathe.

“Holy man,” I said, as the door closed behind her, “what is all this?”

“Isn’t she something?” he said, as he sat down.

“She’s a lovely girl,” I said with conviction. I didn’t say it to natter either him or her. “Now, spill it.”

“I’m getting a divorce.”

I nodded. “It’s about time, I guess.”

“More than about time.”

“Where are your glasses?” I asked.

He laughed. “Contact lenses,” he said. “That friend of yours, Fabian, sure sent me to the right man. Give him tiny regards when you see him.”

“You can do that yourself. I just left him.”

“I’d love to. But I have to be back in New York by four.”

“What were you doing in New York this morning?” Somehow, it had never occurred to me that it was possible for my brother to escape Scranton.

“I live there,” Henry said. “Madeleine has an apartment there. And the business moved up to Orangeburg. That’s just about thirty minutes from the city.”

The waiter had come back by now with two glasses of water. Henry ordered shrimp cocktail and a steak. His appetite, as well as his appearance, had improved.

“I appreciate your coming all the way out here to see me, Hank,” I said, “but what was the hurry? Why did it have to be today?”

“The lawyers want to have a handshake on the deal this afternoon,” he said. “We’ve been working on it for three months and they’ve finally got everything together and they don’t want to give the other side time to come up with more objections. You know how lawyers are.”