Pearl Buck - The Eternal Wonder

“Well, I certainly am glad to meet you, sir. I have just finished Choi and I must say it’s the best book I have ever read.”

The woman behind him in line as this conversation transpired sought out the seat next to him on the plane.

“I haven’t had a chance to read your book yet, Mr. Colfax.”

The woman was middle-aged, Rann surmised, and spoke with the accent of generations of ancestry in New England. She was slender and small and wore a black suit. The stewardess had put the matching hat and coat into the rack over the seat.

“I’m just returning from a year in Japan, so I feel a bit left out. Of course, you have created quite a stir in all of the English newspapers. I suppose in all of the papers, but we never quite know what these foreigners say about us, do we? It’s unfair, in a way, so many of them speaking English when their own languages are so impossible for us to learn. I’ve done little but travel for the five years since my poor husband passed on, so I feel quite out of things as far as books and the theatre are concerned. I have a great deal of catching up to do and I’m certainly putting your book as number one on my list. My, you do appear young to have caused such a stir. Why did you decide to write, Mr. Colfax?”

Rann thought for a moment before he answered. “I don’t know that I’ve ever really considered why before,” he said truthfully. “I suppose I could say simply that I’m a writer.”

“But of course you are, you would have to be a writer to have made such a success. But what I mean is that everyone doesn’t write, and there must be some mysterious quality that turns one man into a writer and another man not. Certainly I could never write.”

“I suppose it’s some sort of compulsion to put things down on paper.”

Rann gave up and let himself be engaged in conversation. There was no escape in such close quarters. Soon, however, he began to ask questions of his own. He found the woman eager to talk of herself.

“I’m Rita Benson,” she told him. “My husband was very, very successful in the oil business and while he was alive we played around with backing shows as a sort of hobby. I’ve continued it since he died. As a matter of fact, I have two on Broadway now. I shall step right back into that life, I suppose. God knows there is no reason why I shouldn’t. He has left me with more money than I could ever spend and I do so enjoy the people of the theatre and the parties and all of that. Do you enjoy that sort of thing, Rann? Surely I may call you Rann—and of course you will remember my name is Rita?”

The conversation continued with her extracting his promise that he would let her introduce him to the theatre crowd in New York and as the plane landed they had exchanged addresses and phone numbers and promised to meet again in a few days.

When they rose from their seats, Rann took her carry-on bag from her and they proceeded together to the baggage claim area. Photographers’ flashes blinded him as they entered the terminal.

“This must be Rita Benson and Rann Colfax,” the reporter spoke in an excited voice. “How very interesting. How did the two of you meet?”

They explained they had met on the plane and Rann helped her into her car.

“Are you sure you won’t let me drop you off, dear boy? It won’t be out of my way as I’m staying in New York a few days before going on to Connecticut.”

Rann agreed, taxies difficult at this hour, and her long black limousine glided easily through the traffic and the chauffeur put his luggage on the elevator of his apartment building. Rita Benson offered him her hand through the window of the car and he held it for a moment in his own. Her hand was warm and soft and well cared for.

“Don’t forget, dear boy, you will hear from me soon. I have your promise now.”

The car moved away from the curb and into traffic and Rann stood for a moment on the sidewalk before entering his building.

“It’s nice to have you back, sir,” the ancient doorman greeted him with enthusiasm.

“Thank you,” Rann told him, and rode the elevator to his own floor. He banged the knocker and Sung opened the door, a dusting cloth in his hand. His round, usually expressionless face creased into a wide smile.

“Very glad seeing you home, master. I waiting very long time here.”

“I’m home at last,” he replied.

Yes, he was at home, his own home. Sung unpacked the bags while Rann telephoned his mother.

“Rann! Where are you?” Her voice sounded young and fresh over the air.

“Where I belong—in Grandfather’s—no, in my apartment.”

“You aren’t coming home?”

“This is home now. You’ll come and visit me.”

“Rann—but I suppose you’re right. Are you well?”

“Yes.”

“You sound as if something were wrong.”

“I’ve learned a lot during these months.”

“You’re back sooner than I expected. Do you have plans, son?”

“Yes, I shall write books—and books and books, sometime, that is—”

“Your father always said that’s what you would do. When shall I come?”

“As soon as you like.”

“Let me see—next week, Thursday? My club meets here on Wednesday.”

“Perfect. Until then—”

“Oh, Rann, I’m happy!”

“So am I.”

“And Rann, I almost forgot. Your publisher wants you to call as soon as you can. I told him you would call right away. You won’t forget, will you?”

“No, I won’t forget, Mother. Thank you.”

He hung up, fell into thought, and then in sudden resolution rang France, Paris, and Stephanie. At this hour, reckoning time, she’d be home. At home she was. A Chinese answered in French that if he would wait only one moment, mademoiselle would be at the telephone. She had only just arrived with her honored father.

He waited the moment, which lengthened to several, and then heard Stephanie’s clear voice speaking English.

“But Rann, I thought you yet in Korea!”

“Returned to New York only today, Stephanie! How are you?”

“As ever—well. Working very hard to speak good English. Am I not speaking quite well?”

“Excellent, now what will become of my French?”

“Ah, you will forget nothing! When are you coming to Paris?”

“When are you coming to New York? I have a place of my own—remember I wrote you?”

“Ah you! Writing me one letter—two, maybe!”

“I couldn’t write letters in Korea—too much to do, to see, to learn. I repeat, when are you—”

“Yes, yes, I heard the first time. Well, in truth, my father is opening a shop in New York. For which case we come, perhaps in a few months.”

“How can I wait?”

She laughed. “You are being polite like a Frenchman now! Well, we must both wait and while we wait we will write letters. Are you well?”

“Yes. Do you think of me sometimes?”

“Of course, I not only think of you I read about you. Your book is very famous, and it is to be in French next week. Then I can read it and see why everyone in the English papers talks so much.”

“Do not expect too much of me. It’s only my first book. There will be others. Now, Stephanie, I really must see you. You are a jewel in my memory!”

She laughed. “Perhaps you will not think so now that you have seen beautiful girls in Asia!”

“Not one—do you hear me, Stephanie? Not one!”

“I hear you. Now we must say good-bye. Time is money, telephoning so far.”

“Will you write me?”

“Of course.”

“Today, I mean.”

“Today.”

He heard the receiver put down and there was silence. Suddenly he wanted to see her now, at once. A few months? It was intolerable. He considered flying to Paris tomorrow. No, it would not do. He had much to arrange in his own mind. He had to order his own life, begin his work, plan his time. What was ahead of him now?