Эд Макбейн - Strangers When We Meet

The first thing Altar had said to him when he stepped into the car was “This is Agnes. You want to lay her?”

Agnes had not batted an eyelash. Agnes had smiled doll-like and said, “Not now, Mr. Cole. I just had breakfast.”

The presence of the blonde, the light banter between her and Altar, the way she consciously appreciated Larry as a male, gave the Saturday excursion an unbusinesslike aspect which left Larry feeling somewhat guilty. This was, after all, a business trip to the site of Altar’s proposed house. Eve had strenuously objected to business on Saturday, “the one day you can devote fully to the kids.” Larry had pointed out that Sunday could be as equally devoted, and he had further elaborated on the “business is business” concept which he’d trained Eve to accept as one of the cruel facts of life. Now, though, with the day unfolding in such splendor, with the crossed legs of the blonde beside him in the open car, he guiltily felt the day might have been well spent with his family.

“I’m an autumn guy,” Altar said. “There are different kinds of people, you know.” He drove the way he ate, his eyes traveling everywhere, to Larry’s face, to the blonde’s legs, to the road, the trees, the sky. “I think it has something to do with when you were born. When were you born, Larry?”

“July,” Larry said.

“What’s your favorite month?”

“October.”

“You only said that to blast my theory.”

“No, seriously. It’s October.”

“When were you born, Agnes?” Altar asked, undefeated.

Agnes considered the question for a moment. “December,” she said. “I came for Christmas.”

“What’s your favorite month?”

“I like them all.”

“You’ve got to have a favorite,” Altar said. “What pleases you most? A nice nip in the air, or a hot sunny day?”

“I like them both.”

Altar seemed to be losing his patience. “You’ve got to like one more than the other.”

“Why? How could I appreciate hot days if there were never any cold ones?”

Larry smiled and said, “She’s got a point.”

“On the top of her head,” Altar said. “Why do I always go for dumb girls?”

“He can’t stand to lose an argument,” Agnes said, giggling. “It makes him furious.”

“She’s known me for two weeks, and she’s already psychoanalyzing me,” Altar said. “I’ve got some advice for you, Larry. Never live with a woman for more than five days.”

“Your advice comes late,” Larry said. “I’ve been living with a woman for eight years.”

“Your wife, you mean? Who’s talking about wives? Wives are a different thing again.”

“He knows all about wives,” Agnes said, winking. “He chases more wives than any man...”

“You’ll note that once the fifth day has been passed,” Altar said dryly, “a certain attitude of possessiveness sets in. You’d think women would realize that possessiveness, even though they invented it, is their downfall.” And then, without pausing for breath, he added, “We’re almost there.”

“Do you know what your trouble is, Altar?” Larry asked.

“Yes,” Altar said.

“What?”

“I speak the truth.”

“No. You speak banalities as if they were profundities.”

He had not intended to injure Altar. He had delivered his words in the same light tones which had prevailed since they’d started the drive. But he realized in an instant that he had touched too close to the quick. He saw the momentary pain flicker on Altar’s face, and he was immediately sorry.

And then Altar grinned. “I’ll let you in on a secret,” he said lightly. “The truth always sounds banal. Clichés are nothing to be ashamed of. They’re the folk legend of truth.”

“I don’t understand him at all,” Agnes said.

“Oh, go to hell,” Altar said playfully. “It’s down this road.”

“Hell?”

“No, the property, doll.”

He made a sharp left turn and began climbing a steep hill. The hill leveled into a gently rolling landscape patched with the faded green of autumn lawns.

“I don’t see any contemporary houses,” Larry said.

“No? What do you call these?”

“Eyesores.”

“You’d call the Taj Mahal an eyesore.”

“I would if it were set here,” Larry said.

“‘Time is always time,’” Altar said, “‘and place is always and only place.’”

“What’s that?”

“Eliot. ‘And what is actual is actual only for one time and only for one place.’”

“He an architect?” Larry asked.

“You’re joking!” Altar said, appalled.

“I’m joking.”

“You’re not! By God, I can tell you’re not!”

“‘Because I do not hope to turn again, because I do not hope,’” Larry quoted. “‘Because I do not hope to turn, desiring, this man’s gift and that man’s scope...’”

“If you know the goddamn poem, why’d you ask what it was?”

“I only remember the first few lines,” Larry said. “It makes me sound intelligent.”

“Who’s Eliot?” Agnes asked. “I don’t know him.”

“T. S.,” Altar said.

“You don’t have to get nasty,” she answered, and Altar snorted in delight and turned the car onto a sharply sloping dirt road.

“It’s right at the bottom of this road,” he said. “What do you think of it?”

“I haven’t seen it yet, Altar.”

“Why don’t you stop calling me Altar?”

“Because Roger sounds as if I’m acknowledging flight instructions.”

“Well, I’m sorry all to hell, believe me. I didn’t know you were a temperamental ex-pilot.”

“I’m neither. I was in the Infantry.”

“Officer?”

“Yes.”

“I was a Seaman First Class,” Altar said somewhat proudly. They were at the foot of the hill now. He pulled up the hand brake and said, “How do you like the view?”

“Beautiful,” Larry said. “Is there one for the enlisted men?”

Altar broke up, remembering the Mauldin cartoon. “You’re a son of a bitch,” he said. “I can’t understand why I like you. Come on, let’s look at the land.”

Larry got out of the car and extended his hand to Agnes. She took his hand and stepped out, showing complete unconcern for her skirts, her long legs flashing at him. For a moment, the pressure of her hand increased. Altar slammed the door on his side. Agnes smiled briefly and dropped Larry’s hand.

“Well, what do you think of it?” Altar asked.

“It slopes,” Larry said.

“Is that bad?”

“No, I’m just thinking out loud. The house design’ll have to take that into consideration. How many acres are there?”

“Six.” Altar looked out over the land. “How are the trees?”

“They look fine. Come on, let’s walk through it.”

“In there?” Agnes asked, her eyes taking in the fallen branches and the brambles and the thick overgrown weeds. “I’m wearing heels.”

“If you like, you can stay in the car,” Altar said.

“No. I want to see how an architect works,” she said, and she looked at Larry archly. For a moment Larry thought he’d imagined the look. He had not been looked at in quite that way for eight years. There was open invitation in the blue eyes, baldly stated, and all he had to do was pick up the dropped cue. He chose to let it lie where it was.

Together, they started into the woods. Autumn lost some of its splendor when viewed leaf by leaf. Like the pointillism of a Seurat painting, the tiny areas of pigment lost their force unless viewed at a distance as an overwhelming whole. Piece by piece, autumn built her jigsaw puzzle around them. The woods were curiously still. There were no bird sounds, no animal sounds. There was only the rattling crush of leaves underfoot, and a sense of time unchanging, unmoving so that Larry felt almost suspended, disoriented as he walked with a man he didn’t yet know and a blonde who wanted to know him better.