“Where is she now?” January asked.
“I believe she’s back in town. She’ll get around to calling soon. She keeps an apartment at the East River View. Marvelous building, but aside from a few good paintings that were gifts and some good rugs—also gifts—the apartment is barely furnished. Karla has a sickness about spending money. She was supposed to come to Marbella. Your father was so disappointed . . . I know he wanted to meet her. Good Lord, until this summer she was always around. Last spring poor David was stuck taking both of us around. Not that she gads about, but she adores the ballet. Other than that, Karla still sticks to her old movie routine—up at seven, four hours of ballet exercises, long walks, bed at ten. But she will go to dinner with a close friend and she adores watching television. Actually, she’s quite dreary once you get to know her. And then there’s her disappearing act. She does that. Like last June—she just goes off without so much as an ‘I’ll see you.’ Personally”—Dee lowered her voice—”I think she went off to have her face done. She was just beginning to sag a bit . . . and God forbid anything happened to hurt that Polish bone structure that is now so immortal.”
January laughed. “Now I’m really nervous about meeting David.”
“Good Lord, why?”
“Well, if David felt ‘stuck’ taking Karla around as a favor to you, then taking me out must be the Big Daddy of all favors.”
Dee smiled. “You darling child. Look in the mirror. Karla is over fifty and David is twenty-eight.” She put out her cigarette. “And now it’s time I checked on your father. If I know him he’s watching the news and still hasn’t shaved. Why do men hate shaving twice a day? Women put on makeup at least that many times. Oh, by the way, I’ve told everyone, including David, that you’ve been away at school in Switzerland at the Institut International. It’s an excellent college.”
“But why?”
“You do speak French, don’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“My dear, trust me. There’s just no point in bringing up the accident. Why have anyone think you might have brain damage? And some people get sticky the moment they hear one has been at a sanitarium. Now we want you to meet the right people and have a wonderful life . . . so we mustn’t handicap ourself with a past illness.”
“But a brain concussion and broken bones isn’t an illness—”
“My dear, anything with the brain throws people off. I remember Kurt . . . I almost married him until he told me he had a steel plate in his head from a skiing accident.” She shuddered. “I just couldn’t bear the thought of touching a man’s head with steel in it. There was something Frankensteinish about the whole thing. Besides, if one has a piece of steel against one’s brain . . . well, it stands to reason the pressure must do something. Do it my way, dear. Now then . . . I’ve asked David to come twenty minutes before the others. You stay in your room until he arrives. I’ll give you the signal when to come out. One must always make an entrance.” She started for the door and turned. “You’ll fall in love with David. Every woman does. Even Karla found him a little more than entertaining; and Karla’s not capable of falling in love with anyone. So don’t let his good looks throw you. Just play it cool and pour on the charm. I’m sure you have some. After all, your father has almost too much.” She opened the door, and stopped just as January was about to sink on the edge of the bed. “No . . . no. Mustn’t sit. You’ll crease your skirt. One must be perfect for an entrance. Now I must dash. Ernest is waiting to put the final spray to my hair. You just stay here . . . until it’s time to meet David.”
Four
AT SIX-THIRTY, David Milford rushed to his apartment to change his clothes. He jammed in the plug of his electric razor. Goddammit but he hated Dee! But anything Cousin Deirdre wanted—Cousin Deirdre got! The acceptance of her autonomy had come into full cognizance with his promotion to a vice-presidency at Herbert, Chasin and Arthur. In a down market, with most brokerage houses cutting back—he had been promoted. And his future with the firm was assured—just so long as he handled Dee’s stocks. Damn Dee! And damn his father for not having his own fortune. No, he didn’t mean that. After all, the old man worked hard, made close to a hundred and fifty thousand a year. But with his mother insisting on the ten-room Fifth Avenue co-op, three in help, and the house in Southampton . . . well, there certainly wasn’t going to be anything left for him to inherit. But then no one was expected to amass a fortune; because Cousin Dee had enough for them all.
Her marriage to Mike Wayne had thrown them into shock. His mother went into one of her major traumas—three days of Librium and tears. Dee’s past husbands had never been a threat. They had all been of the same cut. Charming, well-bred lightweights. But Mike Wayne was no lightweight. And his past record indicated that his romantic affiliations had always been with girls half Dee’s age. But their major concern was the absence of the “will ritual.” His father handled that end of her business. Dee had what the family jokingly referred to as the “loose-leaf will.” Before every marriage, she and her “husband-to-be” would arrive at his father’s office, and Dee would dictate a new will with a generous inheritance for her new groom. On the day of the wedding, a signed copy was presented to him. The following day, Dee would return to the office alone, draw up a new will, allotting a nominal sum to the new husband if he was still her husband at the time of her death.
She had been married to Mike almost a month. And Mike’s name hadn’t been entered in the loose-leaf will. As it now stood, he and his father and Cliff (his mother’s younger brother, who was also in the law firm) would serve as executors of her estate. Each of them would wind up with several million on that end alone. The bulk of the estate would go to the Granger Foundation, and he would be designated to officiate as president at a salary of one hundred thousand a year.
Of course, Dee was still very much alive, and fifty was not old. But Dee’s prospects for a golden age didn’t seem very likely. For years the newspapers had given extensive coverage to her consistent bouts of illnesses. First there were the fainting attacks which medical tests diagnosed as an organic heart murmur and chronic high blood pressure (but Dee refused to give up the strong diet pills and reveled in her high-fashion gauntness). There were also several operations . . . female stuff. And the “influenza” that had almost killed her a few years ago (that had really been an overdose of sleeping pills over some mysterious love affair). Odd, he had never thought Dee capable of feeling any desperate emotion. But why not? He had never thought he could ever feel any real emotion either.
He pulled out the plug of the razor and slapped some aftershave lotion on his face. Might as well look at the cheerful side. So far as the will was concerned—maybe Mike wasn’t playing the super-operator, maybe he was really in love with Dee. Maybe he didn’t care about her money. Hell, there was enough for everyone as long as Wayne didn’t get greedy. But why did he have to have a daughter to complicate things! No one knew she even existed until a week ago when Dee’s call came, “David. darling. Mike has this divine daughter who is arriving any day. You’ve got to help me out and take her around. It would please me to know she was taken care of by someone I care about. I’d consider it such a favor.”
Favor? It was a command!
And once again he swore softly. Goddammit but he hated Dee. But hell, he hated everything and everyone these days. Everything and everyone who kept him away from Karla.
Karla! For a moment he stood and stared at himself in the mirror. It didn’t seem possible. He, David Milford, was Karla’s lover! He wanted to shout it to the world, to stop people on the street and tell them. But he knew that absolute silence was the major law in his relationship with Karla.
Karla! At fourteen, he had masturbated with her picture propped up before him. His friends had their school lockers loaded with pinups of Doris Day, Marilyn, Ava, and other glamor girls of the fifties. But with him it had always been Karla. At seventeen, the first girl he had gone to bed with was a horse-faced debutante who had hair
like Karla’s. In the years that followed he often found a girl who had a quality that was reminiscent of Karla. But as he matured he accepted each girl on her own individual charm, and the image of Karla receded into some kind of mystic dream.
And then, eight years ago, he had come across a newspaper picture of Karla on Dee’s yacht. He had immediately written Dee an impassioned letter pleading for an introduction. She had ignored it. But he never failed to renew the request every time he saw Dee. And then, last spring, when he had all but given up, Dee had casually said, “Oh, by the way, David, Karla is in town. Would you care to take us to the ballet?”
He had been like an idiot that first night. He hadn’t done any work at the office all day. He had rushed home and changed suits three times before he decided which one would be proper. And then . . . Dee’s casual introduction . . . Karla’s firm handshake . . . he knew he had stood there just staring at that wonderful face . . . listening to the low voice he had heard so often on the screen. He had moved about in a catatonic state that night, unable to comprehend that he was actually sitting beside her, unable to concentrate on the ballet on the stage, unable to believe the casual way Dee behaved in the presence of this magnificent woman. But then, when you had Dee’s kind of money maybe nothing really turned you on. To Dee, even Karla was just another “fun” person, a name to encase in a silver frame to join the exclusive gallery on the piano.
The day after the ballet he had sent Karla three dozen roses. His office number was on his card, but he also added his unlisted apartment number. She called just as he was leaving the office. The cool low voice thanked him but told him firmly never to do that again as she was allergic to flowers. She had already sent them off with her maid. When he began to stutter, she laughed and said, “But in return, I will give you a drink. Come to my apartment this afternoon at five.”
He was shaking like a schoolboy when he rang her bell.
She opened the door herself and greeted him with outstretched hands. “My so very young admirer. Come in. Come in. And please do not be so nervous, because I want you to make love to me.”
She had led him into the apartment as she spoke. His eyes never left her face. But he was aware of an empty spaciousness to the room. A few paintings, a TV set, a large couch, a wood-burning fireplace that looked as if it had never been used, a staircase that obviously led to a second floor—but most of all, he felt no reflection of Karla’s personality in the apartment. It was almost as if she had “borrowed” it. For a moment they looked at one another. Then she held out her arms and the schoolboy vanished. And when their bodies came together, David suddenly knew the difference between sex and making love. On that late spring afternoon, his one wish was to please her . . . and when he did, oddly enough his own gratification seemed intensified.
It was later when they were lying together that she gave him the rules. “Dee must never know. If you want to go on seeing me, no one must know.” He agreed. He held her close and poured out devotion and promises. And he heard himself say, “Any way you want it, Karla. You see, I’m in love with you.”
Her sigh was tremulous. “I am fifty-two. Too old for love . . . and much too old for you.”
“I’m twenty-eight. That’s not exactly a boy.”
She laughed. “Twenty-eight, and so very handsome.” She stroked his cheek. “A very young twenty-eight. But . . . perhaps we can be happy for a time. That is, if you behave.”
“How do you want me to behave?”
“I have told you. Also, you must promise never to try to reach me. I shall not give you my phone number and you must never come here unless I invite you.”
“Then how do I see you?”
“I will call you when I want you. And you must not speak of love. You must not imagine yourself in love with me or you will be very unhappy.”
He smiled. “I’m afraid that happened when I was fourteen . . .” He stopped. Goddammit, that was wrong, showing the disparity of their ages. But she had smiled.
“You love the Karla you saw in movies; you do not know the real Karla.”
He had held her close and knew a strange excitement as he felt her small flat breasts against his body. He liked breasts. But oddly enough it hadn’t bothered him that she had none. Her body was strong and firm. A dancer’s body. He had read stories about her early training in Poland for the ballet—how she had been forced to escape to London during the war and went directly into pictures as an actress. How she still worked out on the bar four hours a day. She had changed studios many times because of photographers who learned the address and waited to catch her. He had also heard that she had been a lesbian during her early days in Hollywood. All these thoughts came to him as he held her in his arms. But these stories were part of the legend . . . the woman of mystery . . . the woman photographers still chased everywhere. But at that moment she seemed to belong to him completely . . . her ardor and passion were young . . . she clung to him when they made love. Yet when it was over, a curtain came down, and Karla, the legend, returned.
That had been last spring. They had spent a fantastic month together. A month in which he wandered around feeling everything was unreal except his meetings with Karla. A month when he awoke each day not really believing this miracle was happening to him. But there was always the frustration of not being able to call, of having a sandwich sent in at lunch for fear of missing her call, of walking through all work and conversation until the call finally came.
And then one day there was no call. He tried not to panic. Perhaps she didn’t feel well. Maybe she had the curse. Hell, did women of fifty-two still get the curse?
The following day there were the familiar pictures in the newspaper. Karla ducking photographers at Kennedy Airport. She was off to Europe, destination unknown. He had tried to check her plane reservations, but it was obvious she had used another name. One enterprising reporter claimed a ticket agent thought she was going to South America. But it was all just speculation. She was gone. That was all he knew.
He had tried to sound casual when he phoned Dee that night. He had talked about stocks, the weather, about her plans for Marbella . . . And when he finally managed to bring up Karla’s disappearance, Dee had laughed. “Oh, dear boy, she always does that. Karla refuses to have roots. That’s why her apartment is hardly furnished. If it were too comfortable, she might feel she actually lives there.”
“Has she always been like this?”
Dee sounded bored. “Always. I met Karla in California at the height of her fame. I was married to Emery then, and his book had just been bought by Karla’s studio. Naturally, Emery was frantic to meet her—most people still are—but you can imagine what it was like then. Well, Emery knew a director who knew Karla, and one great day—for Emery, that is—Karla actually appeared at a Sunday brunch. That was about 1954. Karla was at the peak of her fame and beauty. I must say she did generate a certain magnetism when she entered that room. She was painfully shy . . .” Dee laughed and he realized she was warming to the subject. “But she gravitated to me that day because she has an animal cunning and she knew I was the only one in that room that wasn’t impressed and it amused her. I was nice to her for Emery’s sake. And she actually invited us to her place for a drink the following week.” Dee sighed. “Talk about Falcon’s Lair. This was it. Not in the chic part of Beverly Hills, but way up in some godforsaken hills, surrounded by a twelve-foot stone wall she had had built. The house was barely furnished. It looked as if she had just moved in. I swear there were still crates in the halls, and she had lived there five years. No one ever saw the rest of the house, but I understand that aside from the living room and bedroom, it was empty. She didn’t do Emery’s picture, and years later after I had divorced Emery and Karla had retired, we met and became friends. But one must take Karla as she is. The key to her personality is the three S’s. Secretive, stingy, and stupid! Once you realize that—you understand Karla.”
Dee had gone off to Marbella and he had tried to put Karla out of his
mind. He had gone back to the models he had been dating. He got involved with Kim Voren, a gorgeous Dutch model who adored him but told him he was an unsatisfactory, selfish lover. That had rattled him. He had always been a good lover. But with Karla on his mind . . . perhaps something was missing in his lovemaking. On top of this came the explosive news of Dee’s marriage, which threw the family into panic and jolted him back to reality. Dee was their security. Karla was gone, and he had to get back to the business of everyday living.
He gave his full attention to his work. He turned on the charm for Kim, and within a few days she exuberantly retracted her opinion of his lovemaking. And as he settled into his normal routine he almost appreciated the security of knowing what each day would bring. No wild highs . . . but also no agonizing lows. No sitting and waiting for the private phone in his office to ring.
And then, eight days ago, it rang again. Right in the middle of an active trading session. The low voice . . . the heavy accent. She was back! Ten minutes later he was ringing the bell of her apartment. When she greeted him he had not been able to conceal his amazement. It was as if she had stepped out of one of her old movies. She looked barely thirty. The magnificent face had no lines . . . the skin was taut across the cheekbones. She had laughed as she grasped his hands. “I am not going to tell you Karla had a long rest,” she said. “I will tell you the truth. I was so tired of my face not matching the firmness of my body. So I had something done. A wonderful man in Brazil. . . .”
She had not called Dee and she told him to keep her arrival secret. “I am not up to Dee’s questions about my face. Or her gossip with her friends.”
And now it was as if she had never left. They saw each other every day. He would either go to her apartment at five, or they would meet and go to a ballet picture or a foreign movie. Then they would return to her apartment and make love. Afterward they would go to her kitchen and watch television as they ate the steaks they cooked together. Karla had no servants—she hated strangers to be around her. A maid came in every few days at nine, and left at noon.