flimsy wire coat hanger, and they hang the voices on that.”
He was not a stupid man, and while they were seated at the banquette he became aware that her subtle movements—the touchings, the leanings, the sudden, unexpected caress of her hair against his cheek—these things were directorial suggestions, parts of her balletic performance. She was rehearsed. He wasn’t certain of his role, but wanted to play it well.
“The voices,” she went on, “the mighty voices that give me the feeling of suppressed power. With some singers I get the impression that there is art and strength there that hasn’t been tapped. I get the feeling that, if they really let themselves go, they could crush eardrums and shatter stained glass windows. Perhaps the best of them, throwing off all restraint, could crush the world. Break it up into brittle pieces and send all the chunks whirling off into space.”
He was made inferior by her soliloquies and made brave by wine and brandy.
“Why the hell are you telling me all this?” he demanded.
She leaned closer, pressed a satin-slicked breast against his arm.
“It’s the same feeling I get from you,” she whispered. “That you have a strength and resolve that could shatter the world.”
He looked at her, beginning to glimpse her intent and his future. He wanted to ask, “Why me?” but found, to his surprise, it wasn’t important.
The Mortons’ party leavened their heavy evening. Florence and Samuel, wearing identical red velvet jumpsuits, met them at the door with the knowing smirks of successful matchmakers.
“Come in!” Flo cried.
“It’s a marvelous party!” Sam cried.
“Two fights already!” Flo laughed.
“And one crying jag!” Sam laughed.
The party had a determined frenzy. He lost Celia in the swirl, and in the next few hours met and listened to a dozen disoriented men and women who floated, bumped against him, drifted away. He had a horrible vision of harbor trash, bobbing and nuzzling, coming in and going out.
Suddenly she was behind him, hand up under his jacket, nails digging into his shirted back.
“Do you know what happens at midnight?” she whispered.
“What?”
“They take off their faces—just like masks. And do you know what’s underneath?”
“What?”
“Their faces. Again. And again.”
She slipped away; he was too confused to hold her. He wanted to be naked in front of a mirror, making sure.
Finally, finally, she reappeared and drew him away. They flapped hands at host and hostess and stepped into the quiet corridor, panting. In the elevator she came into his arms and bit the lobe of his left ear as he said, “Oh,” and the music from wherever was playing “My Old Kentucky Home.” He was sick with lust and conscious that his life was dangerous and absurd. He was teetering, and pitons were not driven nor ice ax in.
There was Valenter to open the door for them, the sweetheart rose wilted. His face had the sheen of a scoured iron pot, and his lips seemed bruised. He served black coffee in front of the tiled fireplace. They sat on the leather couch and stared at blue embers.
“Will that be all, Mith Montfort?”
She nodded; he drifted away. Daniel Blank wouldn’t look at him. What if the man should wink?
Celia went out of the room, came back with two pony glasses and a half-full bottle of marc.
“What is that?” he asked.
“A kind of brandy,” she said. “Burgundian, I think. From the dregs. Very strong.”
She filled a glass, and before handing it to him ran a long, red tongue around the rim, looking at him. He took it, sipped gratefully.
“Yes,” he nodded. “Strong.”
“Those people tonight,” she said. “So inconsequential. Most of them are intelligent, alert, talented. But they don’t have the opportunity. To surrender, I mean. To something important and shaking. They desire it more than they know. To give themselves. To what? Ecology or day-care centers or racial equality? They sense the need for
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