and I moved on to the patio.
Beside a jade-green pool illuminated from beneath (and a little dirty, I noticed, with leaves floating upon the water: the décor was becoming tarnished, the sets had been used too long and needed striking. Hollywood was becoming old without distinction), a few of the quieter guests sat in white iron chairs while paper lanterns glowed prettily on the palms and everywhere, untidily, grew roses, jasmine and lilac: it was a fantastic garden, all out of season and out of place. The guests beside the pool were much the same; except for one: Clarissa.
"You know each other?" Hastings' voice, faintly pleased, was drowned by our greetings and I was pulled into a chair by Clarissa who had elected to dress herself like an odalisque which made her look, consequently, more indigenous than any of the other guests; this was perhaps her genius: her marvelous adaptiveness.
"We'll be quite happy here," said Clarissa, waving our host away. "Go and abuse your other guests."
Hastings trotted off; those who had been talking to Clarissa talked to themselves and beneath a flickering lantern the lights of Los Angeles, revealed in a wedge between two hills, added the proper note of lunacy, for at the angle from which I viewed those lights they seemed to form a monster Christmas tree, poised crazily in the darkness.
Clarissa and I exchanged notes on the months that had intervened since our luncheon.
"And you gave up Julian, too?"
"Yes . . . but why 'too'?" I was irritated by the implication that I gave up all things before they were properly done.
"I feel you don't finish things, Eugene. Not that you should; but I do worry about you."
"It's good of you," I said, discovering that at a certain angle the Christmas tree could be made to resemble a rocket's flare arrested in space.
"Now don't take that tone with me. I have your interest at heart." She expressed herself with every sign of sincerity in that curious flat language which she spoke so fluently yet which struck upon the ear untruly, as though it were, in its homeliness, the highest artifice.
"But I've taken care of everything, you know. Wait and see. If you hadn't come out here on your own I should have sent for you . . ."
"And I would have come?"
"Naturally." She smiled.
"But for what?"
"For . . . she's here. In Los Angeles."
"You mean that girl who came to lunch?" I disguised my interest, but Clarissa, ignoring me, went on talking as energetically and as obliquely as ever.
"She's asked for you several times, which is a good sign. I told her I suspected you'd be along but that one never could tell, especially if you were still tied up with Julian, unlikely as that prospect was."
"But I do finish some things."
"I'm sure you do. In any case, the girl has been here over a month and you must see her as soon as possible."
"I'd like to."
"Of course you would. I still have my plot, you know. Oh, you may think I forget things but I don't: my mind is a perfect filing system."
"Could you tell me just what you are talking about?"
She chuckled and wagged a finger at me. "Soon you'll know. I know I meddle a good deal, more than I should, but after all this time it would be simply impossible for me not to interfere. I see it coming, one of those really exciting moments and I want just to give it a tickle here, a push there to set it rolling. Oh, what fun it will be!"
Hastings crept back among us, diffidently pushing a star and a producer in our direction. "I think you all ought to know each other, Clarissa . . . and, ah, Gene too. This is Miss . . . and Mr . . . and here in Hollywood . . . when you get to New York . . . house on the river, wonderful, old . . . new film to cost five million . . . runner-up for the Academy Award." He did it all very well, I thought. Smiles gleamed in the patio's half-light. The star's paste jewels, borrowed from her studio, glimmered like an airliner's lighted windows. I moved toward the house, but
Beside a jade-green pool illuminated from beneath (and a little dirty, I noticed, with leaves floating upon the water: the décor was becoming tarnished, the sets had been used too long and needed striking. Hollywood was becoming old without distinction), a few of the quieter guests sat in white iron chairs while paper lanterns glowed prettily on the palms and everywhere, untidily, grew roses, jasmine and lilac: it was a fantastic garden, all out of season and out of place. The guests beside the pool were much the same; except for one: Clarissa.
"You know each other?" Hastings' voice, faintly pleased, was drowned by our greetings and I was pulled into a chair by Clarissa who had elected to dress herself like an odalisque which made her look, consequently, more indigenous than any of the other guests; this was perhaps her genius: her marvelous adaptiveness.
"We'll be quite happy here," said Clarissa, waving our host away. "Go and abuse your other guests."
Hastings trotted off; those who had been talking to Clarissa talked to themselves and beneath a flickering lantern the lights of Los Angeles, revealed in a wedge between two hills, added the proper note of lunacy, for at the angle from which I viewed those lights they seemed to form a monster Christmas tree, poised crazily in the darkness.
Clarissa and I exchanged notes on the months that had intervened since our luncheon.
"And you gave up Julian, too?"
"Yes . . . but why 'too'?" I was irritated by the implication that I gave up all things before they were properly done.
"I feel you don't finish things, Eugene. Not that you should; but I do worry about you."
"It's good of you," I said, discovering that at a certain angle the Christmas tree could be made to resemble a rocket's flare arrested in space.
"Now don't take that tone with me. I have your interest at heart." She expressed herself with every sign of sincerity in that curious flat language which she spoke so fluently yet which struck upon the ear untruly, as though it were, in its homeliness, the highest artifice.
"But I've taken care of everything, you know. Wait and see. If you hadn't come out here on your own I should have sent for you . . ."
"And I would have come?"
"Naturally." She smiled.
"But for what?"
"For . . . she's here. In Los Angeles."
"You mean that girl who came to lunch?" I disguised my interest, but Clarissa, ignoring me, went on talking as energetically and as obliquely as ever.
"She's asked for you several times, which is a good sign. I told her I suspected you'd be along but that one never could tell, especially if you were still tied up with Julian, unlikely as that prospect was."
"But I do finish some things."
"I'm sure you do. In any case, the girl has been here over a month and you must see her as soon as possible."
"I'd like to."
"Of course you would. I still have my plot, you know. Oh, you may think I forget things but I don't: my mind is a perfect filing system."
"Could you tell me just what you are talking about?"
She chuckled and wagged a finger at me. "Soon you'll know. I know I meddle a good deal, more than I should, but after all this time it would be simply impossible for me not to interfere. I see it coming, one of those really exciting moments and I want just to give it a tickle here, a push there to set it rolling. Oh, what fun it will be!"
Hastings crept back among us, diffidently pushing a star and a producer in our direction. "I think you all ought to know each other, Clarissa . . . and, ah, Gene too. This is Miss . . . and Mr . . . and here in Hollywood . . . when you get to New York . . . house on the river, wonderful, old . . . new film to cost five million . . . runner-up for the Academy Award." He did it all very well, I thought. Smiles gleamed in the patio's half-light. The star's paste jewels, borrowed from her studio, glimmered like an airliner's lighted windows. I moved toward the house, but
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