Mack Reynolds - Once Departed

She leaned forward and put a hand on his arm, and squeezed, as though in attempt to force her opinions upon him. Her hand was startlingly strong. “Quentin. You don’t know yourself. You refuse to see yourself. Admit yourself. You’re one of the great ones. You have dynamic. You are one of those born to lead. A few minutes of your talk, and just anyone at all is anxious to follow. But you waste it all. You throw it away. You spend your time with nothing people like the Dempseys, like that hard drinking newspaper friend of yours, like misfits such as Dave Shepherd. Like all of the Madrid expatriate set…”

“For a teacher, your syntax is lousy,” Quint grumbled. He picked at the tiny ham. The crisp skin was excellent, in spite of his present aversion to food. He motioned to a nearby waiter and when that worthy approached, said, ” Vino Unto .”

Marylyn Worth set her lips.

He looked at her. “Don’t let it get you. I’m over the hump. A glass of wine now will help me sober up. What’s wrong with my life? I don’t hurt anybody. My columns are popular, people like to read them. I entertain. What the hell do you want me to do, become active in the S.P.C.A. or something?”

Her voice was urgent. “Quentin, I don’t think you realize your own capabilities. Why, you’re rapidly becoming the most popular political columnist in the English language.”

“I’m not a political columnist,” he growled, uncomfortably. “I’m not any kind of specialist. I comment on political matters from time to time, but the next day it might be Hollywood, or French food, or the population explosion.”

“That’s what I mean,” she pled. “You’re a genius of wit and satire, of tongue-in-cheek cynicism. Why, back in the States people can hardly wait for their paper to come out. They turn to you instead…”

“Instead of the comics and sports page?” Quint grunted. “Don’t be silly.”

“Oh, I don’t mean the idiot level reader. I mean anybody who thinks at all. You’re everything that Will Rogers was and more. He was too frothy, too on the surface. But, Quentin, don’t you see? Most of the time you throw away the real you. Why do you ever stoop to write about Sophia Lollabrigida, or whatever the name of that Italian actress with the big…” She stopped and flushed.

“Mammary glands,” Quint laughed. He took a bite of the pork and a chunk of the heavy Spanish bread. It tasted good. He took a gulp of the Valdepenas, and appreciated its tart flavor. He thought for a moment before saying. “She’s a nice girl. A darn good egg. Everybody in the industry likes her. Most people in films are twitches at best, bastards on an average. She’s folks and I said so. Met her at a party once in Torremolinos.”

“Yes,” she said, still crusader-like. “But it isn’t you . You wouldn’t expect, well, Thomas Jefferson, or Benjamin Franklin, or, well, Thomas Paine, to spend their efforts on such piddling matters.”

“All right, pet,” Quint sighed. “Let’s turn it off for awhile. I’m not particularly interested in setting the world afire.”

“What are you interested in?” she said, heatedly. He scowled at her, and took another bite of the pig. He chewed and thought about it. “I don’t know,” he said finally.

She sat back, as though disgusted with him. Quint shrugged. His stomach was taking the food better than he had expected. Given luck, there wouldn’t be much of a hangover in the morning and possibly he’d be able to get back to his work. That thought brought things back to him.

He said, out of a clear sky, “Pet, what were you doing at the party last night?”

“Why… I…”

It occurred to him only then, that perhaps the girl had been there because she thought that possibly he was going to attend. It was the one thing about Marylyn Worth that irritated him. She lacked sophistication beyond belief. She simply couldn’t dissimulate even to the point demanded by every day social intercourse. The first time he had met her, possibly six months or so ago, she had asked him for his autograph. For a gag, he had written a long flowery passage working in her name and his appreciation of her understanding, and then had signed it with a great flourish. Weeks later, somebody who had been in her apartment mentioned that she had framed the thing and had it hanging on the wall. And from then on, Marylyn Worth, schoolteacher from Border, Nebraska, now teaching science at the local American school for dependents of U.S. Air Force personnel assigned to Spain, made herself as available as a teenage highschool sophomore might have for the school football hero of the senior class. Quint liked to do his own pursuing.

He said now, hurriedly, “What I meant was, the Dempseys went out of their way to let it be known the party was open house. I just wondered if you drifted in, under those circumstances, or if they had actually invited you.”

She flushed red.

He thought inwardly, “ For crissake, didn’t anybody come to that party because they were invited, except Ferencsik and me ?”

She said, in embarrassment, “I read about it in the Guidepost , about everyone in the foreign colony being welcome. And, well, Nicolas Ferencsik has always been rather a hero to me.”

“Oh?” Evidently, he had been taking on airs, thinking the girl had come in hopes of seeing Quint there. “As a scientist or as an advocate of One World government?”

“Both,” she said.

“Well, so our Hungarian’s got a follower. All he needs is two billion more people, and that World Government of his will become reality. But what I want to know is, why should every cloak and dagger man in this part of Europe be interested in Ferencsik?”

She stared at him.

He explained to her the presence of the various operatives, and the fact that Ronald Brett-Home had evidently set up the whole situation. He didn’t mention the theory that Bormann or any of the other missing Nazis might be hiding out in Spain. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her with the information. It was just that he realized that the fewer persons in on a secret the better chance it had of not becoming open rumor. It wouldn’t be fair to Mike Woolman to let his potential story get picked up by some rival newsman, by way of gossip that Quint started.

“You knew Ronald, didn’t you?”

“Why, yes. He wasn’t very much of a gentleman.”

“Ronald? Good grief, pet, you can’t be any more of a gentleman than Ronald Brett-Home. Old school tie, all that claptrap. Eton, Oxford, the King’s service, a good regiment, what else do you want?”

He thought he was being obviously sarcastic, but she answered in all honesty, her voice stilted. “I was alone with him at a party once, and he tried to… to spoon with me.”

He looked at her in wonder. “ Spoon with you?”

“He… he kissed me and tried to…” She broke it off, flushed still deeper and said, “He wanted to spoon, and I had to slap his face.”

Quint took another sip of his wine, even as he stared at her over the glass rim. Remembering the strength of her hand when she had squeezed his arm a few minutes earlier, he muttered, “I’ll bet you nearly broke the poor guy’s neck.”

She remained in embarrassed silence.

He had a last bite of the roast pork and pushed the plate away, feeling considerably better. There’s nothing like fat pork and bread to kill an edge. Aside from being a little wobbly, it was as though he had never been tight.

He said, “But I kissed you last night. Was it only last night? It seems like a week ago, so much has happened.”

She looked down at her hands, which were clasped and sitting on the table now. “That was different,” she said lowly.

He knew better than to ask her to develop on that question, and looked about for something to which to switch the subject. He said, “You’re more up on the science bit than I am. What’s Ferencsik’s special claim to fame?”