opened the door, a dusting cloth in his hand. His round, usually expressionless face creased into a wide smile.
“Very glad seeing you home, master. I waiting very long time here.”
“I’m home at last,” he replied.
Yes, he was at home, his own home. Sung unpacked the bags while Rann telephoned his mother.
“Rann! Where are you?” Her voice sounded young and fresh over the air.
“Where I belong—in Grandfather’s—no, in my apartment.”
“You aren’t coming home?”
“This is home now. You’ll come and visit me.”
“Rann—but I suppose you’re right. Are you well?”
“Yes.”
“You sound as if something were wrong.”
“I’ve learned a lot during these months.”
“You’re back sooner than I expected. Do you have plans, son?”
“Yes, I shall write books—and books and books, sometime, that is—”
“Your father always said that’s what you would do. When shall I come?”
“As soon as you like.”
“Let me see—next week, Thursday? My club meets here on Wednesday.”
“Perfect. Until then—”
“Oh, Rann, I’m happy!”
“So am I.”
“And Rann, I almost forgot. Your publisher wants you to call as soon as you can. I told him you would call right away. You won’t forget, will you?”
“No, I won’t forget, Mother. Thank you.”
He hung up, fell into thought, and then in sudden resolution rang France, Paris, and Stephanie. At this hour, reckoning time, she’d be home. At home she was. A Chinese answered in French that if he would wait only one moment, mademoiselle would be at the telephone. She had only just arrived with her honored father.
He waited the moment, which lengthened to several, and then heard Stephanie’s clear voice speaking English.
“But Rann, I thought you yet in Korea!”
“Returned to New York only today, Stephanie! How are you?”
“As ever—well. Working very hard to speak good English. Am I not speaking quite well?”
“Excellent, now what will become of my French?”
“Ah, you will forget nothing! When are you coming to Paris?”
“When are you coming to New York? I have a place of my own—remember I wrote you?”
“Ah you! Writing me one letter—two, maybe!”
“I couldn’t write letters in Korea—too much to do, to see, to learn. I repeat, when are you—”
“Yes, yes, I heard the first time. Well, in truth, my father is opening a shop in New York. For which case we come, perhaps in a few months.”
“How can I wait?”
She laughed. “You are being polite like a Frenchman now! Well, we must both wait and while we wait we will write letters. Are you well?”
“Yes. Do you think of me sometimes?”
“Of course, I not only think of you I read about you. Your book is very famous, and it is to be in French next week. Then I can read it and see why everyone in the English papers talks so much.”
“Do not expect too much of me. It’s only my first book. There will be others. Now, Stephanie, I really must see you. You are a jewel in my memory!”
She laughed. “Perhaps you will not think so now that you have seen beautiful girls in Asia!”
“Not one—do you hear me, Stephanie? Not one!”
“I hear you. Now we must say good-bye. Time is money, telephoning so far.”
“Will you write me?”
“Of course.”
“Today, I mean.”
“Today.”
He heard the receiver put down and there was silence. Suddenly he wanted to see her now, at once. A few months? It was intolerable. He considered flying to Paris tomorrow. No, it would not do. He had much to arrange in his own mind. He had to order his own life, begin his work, plan his time. What was ahead of him now?
Rann decided to postpone the call to his publisher until the following morning. The flight had not been restful, though he had enjoyed Rita Benson’s endless chatter, in a way. He felt now the need of a hot bath and clean, fresh garments and an evening of relaxation under the care of Sung. When he entered the large master bedroom where he had moved when his grandfather died, he found that Sung, the faithful man, had unpacked his luggage putting everything in its place and had laid a comfortable silk robe and pajamas on the bed for him. At home, Rann thought as he ran steaming water into the tub. If Serena had visited his grandfather in these rooms, Rann had experienced no such invasion of privacy. Indeed, nothing interrupted his comfort here and he thought of his gratitude to his grandfather as he rested in the tub. He dried himself vigorously and, deciding he was not quite ready for the pajamas, he selected a pair of trunks from a drawer and went out upon the terrace for the warmth of the sun.
“You have slept, young sir, and I fear you might chill in the late air.”
Thus Sung had waked him. The sun was gone and Rann moved into the library where Sung had left a cocktail on his desk next to the paper.
Rann sipped the cool drink and glanced at the front page of each section of the paper. In the theatre section the headline arrested his attention.
RITA BENSON ADDS RANN COLFAX TO STABLE. Rann read on. “Broadway’s brightest angel, Rita Benson, widow of oil tycoon George Benson, arrived in New York today from Tokyo with none other in tow than Rann Colfax, whirlwind young author of bestseller
Rann could read no more. He picked up the telephone and called the St. Regis, where Rita Benson said she was staying.
“Of course I haven’t read it, dear boy,” she said when he was put through to her room. “But you mustn’t pay any attention to what they say. They have to have something to say. You are new to all of this as yet, but you must learn that we simply go on with our lives no matter what the press might write. Now, how about dinner here with me tomorrow. Then we can go to a show. Of course they will talk, but let them, I say! I cannot start at this stage to base my life on what others may say, and you would be wise to feel the same. Anyone important to you or to me will know the truth and who else matters? Of course I enjoy a handsome young escort. That’s why I do business with handsome young men. I don’t haul them off to bed, dear one, but if I have a choice between a handsome young man and a wrinkled-up old one for an evening, I don’t see that there is any choice. They will soon run out of things to say and it will all die down anyway, and don’t you worry about it.”
Rann was comforted by her light acceptance of the article. He put on cool linen slacks and a slip-over shirt and enjoyed an excellent dinner of sweet and sour chicken, one of Sung’s specialties. After dinner he put on the pajamas and robe that had been laid out for him earlier and went to his favorite room, the library, where the thoughtful Sung had placed his favorite nightcap on his desk. He selected a book from the shelves, a biography of Thomas Edison, and settled into the comfortable chair. He never tired of the lives of great people, and while he knew well the life of Thomas Edison, this biographer he had not read and he approached the book with pleasure.
“Will you be needing anything else, young sir?” Sung inquired of him later in the evening.
“No, thank you, Sung. I shall be going to bed soon.”
He rose and went into his bedroom, where his bed had been turned down and all had been made ready for his comfort on his first night home.
