Pearl Buck - The Eternal Wonder

Rann decided to postpone the call to his publisher until the following morning. The flight had not been restful, though he had enjoyed Rita Benson’s endless chatter, in a way. He felt now the need of a hot bath and clean, fresh garments and an evening of relaxation under the care of Sung. When he entered the large master bedroom where he had moved when his grandfather died, he found that Sung, the faithful man, had unpacked his luggage putting everything in its place and had laid a comfortable silk robe and pajamas on the bed for him. At home, Rann thought as he ran steaming water into the tub. If Serena had visited his grandfather in these rooms, Rann had experienced no such invasion of privacy. Indeed, nothing interrupted his comfort here and he thought of his gratitude to his grandfather as he rested in the tub. He dried himself vigorously and, deciding he was not quite ready for the pajamas, he selected a pair of trunks from a drawer and went out upon the terrace for the warmth of the sun.

“You have slept, young sir, and I fear you might chill in the late air.”

Thus Sung had waked him. The sun was gone and Rann moved into the library where Sung had left a cocktail on his desk next to the paper.

Rann sipped the cool drink and glanced at the front page of each section of the paper. In the theatre section the headline arrested his attention.

RITA BENSON ADDS RANN COLFAX TO STABLE. Rann read on. “Broadway’s brightest angel, Rita Benson, widow of oil tycoon George Benson, arrived in New York today from Tokyo with none other in tow than Rann Colfax, whirlwind young author of bestseller Choi . Rita certainly wastes no time in gathering up the eligible young men around town.…”

Rann could read no more. He picked up the telephone and called the St. Regis, where Rita Benson said she was staying.

“Of course I haven’t read it, dear boy,” she said when he was put through to her room. “But you mustn’t pay any attention to what they say. They have to have something to say. You are new to all of this as yet, but you must learn that we simply go on with our lives no matter what the press might write. Now, how about dinner here with me tomorrow. Then we can go to a show. Of course they will talk, but let them, I say! I cannot start at this stage to base my life on what others may say, and you would be wise to feel the same. Anyone important to you or to me will know the truth and who else matters? Of course I enjoy a handsome young escort. That’s why I do business with handsome young men. I don’t haul them off to bed, dear one, but if I have a choice between a handsome young man and a wrinkled-up old one for an evening, I don’t see that there is any choice. They will soon run out of things to say and it will all die down anyway, and don’t you worry about it.”

Rann was comforted by her light acceptance of the article. He put on cool linen slacks and a slip-over shirt and enjoyed an excellent dinner of sweet and sour chicken, one of Sung’s specialties. After dinner he put on the pajamas and robe that had been laid out for him earlier and went to his favorite room, the library, where the thoughtful Sung had placed his favorite nightcap on his desk. He selected a book from the shelves, a biography of Thomas Edison, and settled into the comfortable chair. He never tired of the lives of great people, and while he knew well the life of Thomas Edison, this biographer he had not read and he approached the book with pleasure.

“Will you be needing anything else, young sir?” Sung inquired of him later in the evening.

“No, thank you, Sung. I shall be going to bed soon.”

He rose and went into his bedroom, where his bed had been turned down and all had been made ready for his comfort on his first night home.

RANN OPENED HIS EYES IN the morning, roused by the sunlight streaming through the window opened earlier by Sung. It was the man’s way of waking Rann.

“One must never wake one quickly,” he had explained. “The soul wanders over the Earth while body sleeps and if one is waked too quickly soul has no time to find its way home.”

Sung now stood beside Rann’s bed waiting for him to wake, a pot of hot coffee on a silver tray held in his hands.

“So sorry to wake you, young sir,” he said. “But there is a man call three times in hour, say he must talk to you. Sounds important. His name Pearce. Say he publisher.”

“That’s all right, Sung.” Rann accepted the coffee the man poured for him. “What time is it?”

“Ten o’clock, young sir.”

Rann was mildly surprised at himself for sleeping so late. The telephone rang again as he was putting on his robe. He took his coffee to the library.

“Yes, sir. One moment, sir. He come now.” Sung handed Rann the instrument. It was his publisher, George Pearce.

“Quite some article in the paper, Colfax. Now we must keep your name before the public. Where did you meet Rita Benson?”

Rann explained the meeting.

“Damn good stroke of luck, if you ask me. Otherwise you might have slipped into New York with no notice. You should have let me know your flight, then I could have arranged a reception for you and had full coverage.”

“I didn’t think of it,” Rann said truthfully.

“Well, we have to think of it from now on. You’re a bestselling author but the public is fickle. Can’t let you slip out of sight. No harm done, though. Rita to the rescue. Can you have luncheon with us today?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good. We will meet at the Pierre at noon. My public relations people will be with me and afterward we may invite the press for a few drinks and see if we can drum up a headline or two. I think we had better play up the playboy angle now that they’ve started it.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know anything about such things, sir.”

“You will… right after luncheon. Just leave everything to us. I’ve got the best PR in the business.”

Rann ate the hearty breakfast Sung prepared for him and bathed and dressed leisurely and took a taxi into Manhattan to the Pierre.

“Well, well, well,” George Pearce greeted him in the lobby of the hotel.

He was a tall man, stylishly dressed, a shock of blond hair falling across his forehead. Rann judged him to be in his forties, though he appeared ageless.

“So, this is Rann Colfax. And you are a handsome one too. Your photographs don’t do you justice. Must get some new ones. Margie, make a note of that, new publicity photos right away.”

The woman with him scribbled frantically in her notebook while he talked. They were seated in the comfortable dining room.

“I’ve ordered my favorite meal and I hope you will like it.”

The man’s assurance impressed Rann. He had never met anyone like him and found himself liking him.

“The PR people will join us in a while, but there are some things we should settle first,” he went on. “Margie, he will need new clothes. These are nice but too traditional for the image. Got a tailor, Rann?”

Rann shook his head.

“Mine will take good care of you. Not cheap, but worth it. The best. Margie, make an appointment and tell that Italian to put a rush on everything. Sports clothes, suits, dinner jackets, the works, all the latest styles. And get an appointment with that barber on Fifth Avenue. You know the one. Rann’s haircut looks too much like leftover GI. Oh well, we can change that.”

“Mr. Pearce—,” Rann began.

“Call me George,” the publisher interrupted. “We are going to be working closely together. No time for formalities.”

Rann continued. “All right, George, but I think I should be perfectly honest with you. I have always been just myself. I come from a university town in Ohio. I know nothing about styles and haircuts and press conferences and playboys and all of that, and I don’t know that I really want to learn.”