Rona Jaffe - Mazes and Monsters

“Don’t get paranoid, Merlin,” he said. “Nobody’s going to stuff you. ”

The wine and the pot made him feel mellow. He would be busy this Christmas vacation; there were a lot of movies he had to see which hadn’t opened yet in Pequod, he would have to start planning the details of the game, and he had to buy his family presents. His mother’s, his father’s and stepmother’s and stepsister’s …

“What did you think of that bitch, huh, Merlin?” he said. “She didn’t even ask me about college.”

Every Christmas Jay Jay’s father gave two parties: his Christmas Eve party, which was famous, to which he invited his most illustrious or notorious authors, many of whom were well known in other fields; and celebrities he’d gotten to know through the years — and his Christmas Day party, which was smaller, not so exciting, and for family. No one ever turned down an invitation to one of Justin Brockway’s parties. Since his marriage to the ballerina Orinda Wells, Justy had added the greatest stars of the ballet world to his party list. With the sudden rush of movie star autobiographies he had also added many actors and actresses, who particularly liked coming because Justy never allowed the press to come. His guests could behave as badly as they wanted, with complete lack of publicity — but no one ever behaved badly at one of Justin Brockway’s parties. They wanted to be invited again.

Jay Jay was always invited to the family party, the one on Christmas Day. That wasn’t the one he wanted to go to. The guests were aunts and uncles and cousins he saw once a year, and underlings from Justy’s office who had no place to go, and the food was leftovers from the party the night before. He wanted to go to the exciting party on Christmas Eve. This year he intended to.

The Christmas Eve party was black tie, but of course he couldn’t wear his tuxedo because then the fecalite would know he had planned to crash. It had to look like an accident. He decided to wear his white suit, with a black silk shirt and a white tie; an antique pocket watch hooked to his lapel and draped in his pocket. After agonizing minutes of decision he decided to forgo wearing one of his hats. They would never understand. He had bought the presents at Tiffany’s. He was set.

Justin Brockway owned a beautiful town house in the East Sixties, on a tree-lined street with a private patrol. It had four stories, a bowed window in front, and a beautiful garden in back. As Jay Jay got out of his taxi he saw with excitement a line of chauffeur-driven cars dropping people off in front of the house. He ducked into the phone booth on the corner and waited until he saw the street was clear, then he sprinted to the house and walked innocently to the front door and rang the bell.

The door was opened by a uniformed maid hired for the occasion. She smiled pleasantly and took his coat. He retained the packages — his badge of legitimacy — and walked into the living room. His heart was pounding. The room was filled with everyone in New York he wanted to know, the babble of their happy voices rising tantalizingly, their elusive eyes glancing around for people they wanted to know. The tall room was wood-paneled, its back wall of windows overlooking the wonderful garden. Justy and Orinda had put tiny white lights in all the trees outside, and in the hedge. It was like a fairyland. A butler carrying a silver tray offered Jay Jay a glass of champagne. He declined, for now. He looked for his father and finally saw him, talking to a small, baldish political expert and a large, loud movie actress in a caftan. Now Jay Jay would show her a little acting.

“Dad!” he said. “Wasn’t it tonight? ”

“Excuse me,” his father said quickly to the other two. He put his arm around Jay Jay’s shoulders and led him to the corner. “Well, Jay Jay, how nice to see you,” he said politely. His eyes were a little startled, but he was smiling with aplomb.

“I thought it was tonight,” Jay Jay said. He thrust the presents at his father.

“Your mother …” Justy said, with an air of weary patience. “It’s tomorrow. But now that you’re here, of course you must stay. How are you? Is school all right?”

“Oh, yes, I’m fine, school’s fine.”

“Good. How were the marks at midterm?”

“All A’s.”

“Of course they were. Go put your packages under the tree and say hello to Orinda.” His father was already scanning the room for Orinda, raising a finger to catch her attention, steering Jay Jay in her direction. “There she is. I’ll catch you later.”

Orinda Wells Brockway, the white swan, embraced Jay Jay in her delicate wings. She seemed so fragile he thought he could probably lift her, but he knew how strong she was. “Jay Jay!”

“I thought it was tonight,” he said.

“You’re coming tomorrow too, I hope.”

“Well … I guess so,” he said, as if such a prospect had not been necessary to think about before.

“Good, then we’ll have more time to talk. This is a madhouse. Jay Jay, why didn’t you call me for ballet tickets? I’m dancing twice next week; don’t you want to go?”

“I’d love to,” he said.

“Good, we’ll arrange it tomorrow. Now you must see Sarah — she’s gotten so big and beautiful you won’t recognize her.” She was looking for the baby now, leading him to the child and her nurse. He felt as if he were the baton in a relay race.

His half sister, Sarah Brockway, was two years old, a robust, happy child with dark curls. She was wearing a ruffled white dress and was held in the arms of a sensual-looking young blond woman of about twenty, the au pair girl Inger. Sarah recognized him and rewarded him with a big smile. Inger, whom he had been lusting after ever since he first saw her, rewarded him with indifference. He would have preferred it to be the other way around. Orinda had already disappeared into the crowd of her guests.

“Merry Christmas,” Jay Jay said to Sarah and Inger, and went directly to the bar.

He had a glass of champagne, lit one of his thin brown cigarettes, and stood looking around with the air of a fascinating sophisticate. Inside he was quaking. Here were legendary people he’d seen on television being interviewed, and on the screen, and whose books he had read. He had known for years that they were his father’s friends, but he had never met them. He drank another glass of champagne and accepted a canapé. Through the double doors to the dining room he could see a sumptuous buffet supper waiting; inviolable perfect food displayed until the secret signal that it was the right time.

“And who are you?” a musical, accented voice asked.

His heart turned over. Petrova, the greatest Russian ballerina, bone-thin, radiating nervous energy; great violet eyes, hair wrapped in a white turban, dressed in white, a perfectly behaved white Afghan hound standing beside her, white leash wrapped around her tiny hand.

“Jay Jay Brockway,” he said.

“I am Svetlana Petrova,” she said gravely. She knew he knew, but it was part of the game of being just a normal person. She took a long black Russian cigarette out of her evening bag and he lit it for her. She gestured at the one he was smoking. “That is a cigarette I don’t know,” she said.

“It’s not as interesting as yours,” Jay Jay said. He held out his pack and offered her one.

“Please,” she said, and offered him one of hers in return. “We will have — what is that funny thing? — a taste test.”

He planned to save hers forever. He was so awed by her he couldn’t think of a thing to say. He thought of patting her dog.

“My little harlequin,” she said.

“Why am I a harlequin?”

“The face … it’s wonderful. Nobody ever told you that before?”