Prater Violet Read Free Page B

this. His expression was getting more and more enigmatic. Even Chatsworth seemed to be aware of it. He was becoming a little unsure of his audience. He tried another opening, which began by congratulating the headwaiter on the Crêpes Suzette. “Give Alphonse my compliments, and tell him he’s excelled himself.” The headwaiter, who evidently knew just how to handle Chatsworth, bowed deeply. “For you, monsieur, we take a leetle beet extra trouble. We know you are connoisseur. You can appreciate.”
    Chatsworth fairly beamed. “My wife tells me I’m a bloody Red. Can’t help it. It just makes me sick, the way most people treat servants. No consideration. Especially chauffeurs. You’d think they weren’t human beings. Some of these damned snobs’ll work a man to death. Get him up at all hours. He daren’t call his soul his own. I can’t afford it, but I keep three: two for day and the other fellow for the night. My wife’s always after me to sack one of them. ‘Either we have three,’ I tell her, ‘or you drive yourself.’ And she’ll never do that. All women are bloody bad drivers. But at least she admits it.”
    Coffee was served, and Chatsworth produced a formidable red morocco-leather case of beautiful workmanship, as big as a pocket Testament, which contained his cigars. They cost five and sixpence each, he informed us. I refused, but Bergmann took one, lighting it with his grimmest frown. “Once you’ve got a taste for them, you’ll never smoke anything else,” Chatsworth warned him, and added graciously, “I’ll send you a box tomorrow.”
    The cigar somehow completed Chatsworth. As he puffed it, he seemed to grow larger than life size. His pale eyes shone with a prophetic light.
    â€œFor years, I’ve had one great ambition. You’ll laugh at me. Everybody does. They say I’m crazy. But I don’t care.” He paused. Then announced solemnly, “Tosca. With Garbo.”
    Bergmann turned, and gave me a rapid, enigmatic glance. Then he exhaled, with such force that Chatsworth’s cigar smoke was blown back around his head. Chatsworth looked pleased. Evidently this was the right kind of reaction.
    â€œWithout music, of course. I’d do it absolutely straight.” He paused again, apparently waiting for our protest. There was none.
    â€œIt’s one of the greatest stories in the world. People don’t realize that. Christ, it’s magnificent.”
    Another impressive pause.
    â€œAnd do you know who I want to write it?” Chatsworth’s tone prepared us for the biggest shock of all.
    Silence.
    â€œSomerset Maugham.”
    Utter silence, broken only by Bergmann’s breathing.
    Chatsworth sat back, with the air of a man who makes his ultimatum. “If I can’t get Maugham, I won’t do it at all.”
    â€œHave you asked him?” I wanted to inquire, but the question sounded unworthy of the occasion. I met Chatsworth’s solemn eye, and forced a weak, nervous smile.
    However, the smile seemed to please Chatsworth. He interpreted it in his own way, and unexpectedly beamed back at me.
    â€œI bet I know what Isherwood’s thinking,” he told Bergmann. “He’s right, too, blast him. I quite admit it. I’m a bloody intellectual snob.”
    Bergmann suddenly looked up at me. At last, I said to myself, he is going to speak. The black eyes sparkled, the lips curved to the form of a word, the hands sketched the outline of a gesture. Then I heard Chatsworth say, “Hullo, Sandy.”
    I turned, and there, standing beside the table, incredibly, was Ashmeade. An Ashmeade nearly ten years older, but wonderfully little changed; still handsome, auburn-haired and graceful; still dressed with casual undergraduate elegance in sports coat, silk pullover and flannel bags. “Sandy’s our story editor,” Chatsworth was telling Bergmann.