We entered a long rectangular room. The ceiling was crossed with beams of rough pine. The walls were blindingly white and the tiled floor the color of dried roses. The furniture was Mexican country antiques. Over the fireplace was one of
Diego Rivera’s lily paintings. Above a long sofa was a tapestry that looked like a Miro. A big round crystal vase on a table held a dozen long-stemmed white roses and stalks of eucalyptus.
“Lunch is almost ready,” she said. “How about a drink?”
“Mineral water,” I replied.
She went to a bar and poured a glass of Perrier and a small sherry and brought them to the sofa where I was sitting. I took the Perrier from her. She settled in beside me.
“Salud,” she said, and we touched glasses. “I’m glad you came.”
“So am I,” I said. In the silence she seemed distant. I tried to think of things to say and settled, finally, on admiring her house.
“Thank you,” Rennie replied. “It’s my weakness. I bought it ten years ago with the only money I ever made in Hollywood.”
“From movies?”
She laughed. “Oh, no. Real estate investments. I never made a cent out of the movies.”
Just then, a squat Mexican woman in a lime-green frock appeared at the archway that led into the dining room and said, “Senora, lunch is ready.”
“Thank you, Fe,” Rennie said, and turning to me added, “It’s so gorgeous out, I thought we’d eat on the patio.”
She led me through the dining room onto a patio built around a small pool. The pool was fed by a stream that trickled from a concrete wall set into a hillside garden. Near the pool was a table set for two.
“Your husband?” I asked.
“He’s at an interview,” she said nervously. “He may show up later.”
We sat down and I looked at her. The light picked out the lines that fanned from beneath her eyes. She looked tired.
“Is everything all right?” I asked.
“I’m sorry, Henry,” she replied. “It has nothing to do with you. There was a scene with Sandy this morning.”
“About what?”
“What else, Tom’s career.” The maid brought out salads and set them before us, a mix of sweet and bitter greens. She lifted her fork, then put it down again. “Tom is an actor who can’t act,” she said. “My solution is for him to learn. Sandy’s solution is for him to make all the money he can before he’s found out.”
The maid reappeared and poured Rennie a glass of wine. I shook my head as she tipped the bottle toward my glass.
“What’s Tom’s solution?” I asked, cutting a piece of lettuce.
“It depends on who talked to him last,” she replied, grimly.
“Who’s been responsible for his success?”
“He has,” she said, abandoning any pretense at eating. She produced her cigarette case and lit a cigarette. “Some people are just so beautiful that life seems to speak to us through them — they’re vital, radiant. Tom is like that. It’s more startling in men than women, I think, because we don’t usually let ourselves think of men that way. But Shakespeare knew. Remember the sonnets? ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day,’ was written to another man.”
“Golden boy?” I offered.
“Something like that.” The maid removed our salad plates and replaced them with plates of spinach pasta in a cream sauce. “I’m a fool for beautiful men,” she added. “No doubt there are psychological explanations.”
“To appreciate beauty?”
“It’s more than that,” she replied, tilting her head back to reveal the pouched skin beneath her chin. “I always wanted to be beautiful.”
I began to speak but she cut me off.
“Don’t say it, Henry. I’m not fishing for a compliment.” She crushed her cigarette in a heavy marble ashtray. “I’m forty-seven years old. I look into the mirror and see my mother. When a woman reaches that point, she loses whatever illusions she has about being beautiful.”
“Is it so important?”
She finished her wine. “It’s life and death,” she replied, “if you’re not. You, of course, are.”
I couldn’t think of a reply that didn’t sound wildly immodest or incredibly smug. “Thank you.”
“You’re embarrassed,” she said, smiling.
“It’s not something I think about.”
“I thought homosexuals did,” she said.
“I suppose that depends on which homosexuals you know,”
I replied.
The maid made another pass at the table, pouring more wine, bringing us plates of veal and baby carrots.
I heard tires squeal and then a door in the house slammed shut. The maid appeared with a frantic look on her face.
“S enora — ” she began.
Rennie looked at her and then at me. “Henry, Tom’s — “
Suddenly Tom Zane appeared at the doorway, drinking from a bottle of champagne. His face was flushed beneath his tan and his golden hair was disheveled.
“It’s the ambassador,” he said, recognizing me. “And, of course, my lovely wife.”
He swayed above the table. The maid brought him a chair.
“Sorry I missed lunch,” he slurred. “How’s about a little apres-lunch drinky.” He attempted to pour champagne into Rennie’s wine glass. She moved it away and the champagne sloshed onto the table. He blotted it with the sleeve of his coat.
“I think you better eat something,” Rennie said mildly and told the maid to bring him a sandwich.
“It’s all right. I ate breakfast.” He had trouble getting his mouth around the last word. The maid brought him a ham sandwich. He wolfed it down and asked for another.
“How was the interview?” I asked.
“The reporter was a dyke,” he said. “She spent the whole goddamn time giving the eye to some broad at the next table.” He looked genuinely injured as he related this. Another sandwich was brought to him.
“Was Sandy there?” Rennie asked.
“Hell,” he said, his mouth full. “He was after the busboy. This town’s a regular Sodom… Sodom and…” He looked at me for help.
“Gomorrah,” I said.
“That’s right, gonorrhea. You ever had the clap, Ambassador?”
I shook my head.
“Smart man,” he said. “Keep your peter in your pocket. But you’re queer, huh?”
Rennie said, “Tom, stop that.”
“It’s okay,” Zane said. “I’m a little queer myself.” He held up his hand and measured an inch between his thumb and forefinger. “Maybe this much.” He shone a beautiful smile on me. “Maybe more.”
“I think all people are basically bisexual,” Rennie said, irrelevantly.
“That right?” Zane asked. “You ever made it with a dyke, honey?”
“You know I haven’t,” she replied.
“What about you, Ambassador? You fuck girls, too?” He looked at me, smiling. “I bet you’re not even a real queer. I bet it’s just a line. Does it work?”
“All the time,” I replied.
He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “You try it with Rennie?”
Rennie said, sharply, “You’re drunk, Tom, and you’re embarrassing my guest. Stop it.”
He attempted a smile that withered under her gaze. To me he said, “Sorry. Too much to drink.” He rose,
