The Eternal Wonder

Sung was waiting for him when he arrived home and brought a drink to him in the library.

“Sung, you must not wait up for me when I am out late,” Rann told him. “It seems I shall be late often for a while.”

After a hot shower, Rann put on fresh pajamas and lay in the huge old bed in the darkened master bedroom, the night noises of the city beneath him giving a faint background for his thoughts as he remembered the events of the day and reflected on his life that had brought him here. He could almost hear his father’s voice speaking to his mother many years ago.

“Give our boy freedom, Susan,” his father often said. “Give him freedom and he will find himself.”

Had he found himself, he thought? Was this then Rann Colfax? he wondered as sleep came to him.

The room was still darkened when Rann opened his eyes the next morning and he had to think for a moment to recall where he was. His dreams had been a mixture of Lady Mary in England and Stephanie in Paris and his mother in Ohio. How would these women react to the changes taking place in his life? The now familiar surroundings brought him back into the present. He rose and opened the draperies and the French doors leading to the terrace. The warm sunshine fell into the room. Rann put on a pair of shorts and walked out into the sun and glanced at the angle of his shadow. About ten o’clock, he judged, and time for some sun before the afternoon shadows engulfed the terrace. He settled himself comfortably on a long chair, the sun warming his lean frame.

“I got all papers like you say, young sir,” Sung told him when he brought Rann’s coffee to the terrace. It still amazed and pleased Rann the way his servant watched him and anticipated his wants. “They are on your desk when you ready. Shall I bring here?”

“No, let them wait. I’ll enjoy the sun first.”

Margie’s phone call interrupted his thoughts.

“Rann, have you read the papers yet?”

Rann confessed that he had not.

“Well, I didn’t think anyone would make his deadline for today, but one did—Nancy Adams of the Trib. I’m afraid she is nasty, Rann. It will sell books, which is good, but her overall tone is nasty. You must pay no attention. What are you doing for luncheon? We have an appointment with the agent at three o’clock and I thought we might have luncheon beforehand.”

Rann agreed to meet her at noon, replaced the receiver, and began sorting through the papers for the Tribune. The article was on the bottom of the front page. BLACK MARKET BOY HITS BRIGHT LIGHTS. There was a photograph of him and Rita getting out of the limousine in front of the theatre. Rann read the article in which Nancy Adams explained that he, Rann Colfax—who had made a fortune on the black market in Korea, either through personal involvement or by writing about it—had been seen in the right places last night with wealthy widow Rita Benson, living high on his profits. Rann smiled bitterly as he remembered he had been Rita’s guest for dinner and his publisher had arranged ahead of time to pay for everything else.

The closing line in the article disturbed Rann deeply: “It would seem that someone should care enough to check with General Appleby in Korea to see exactly how it is that Mr. Colfax was so easily cleared of involvement with the black market. One has only to read his book to see he obviously must have firsthand knowledge of the entire sickening operation.”

“But she had no right to say the things she said,” Rann protested to Margie as they sat over luncheon later.

“Oh, but yes she has.” Margie’s voice was gentle but firm. “That is the price we pay for freedom of the press,” she went on. “She can write anything she wishes as long as she covers herself, which she did. She said you made a fortune off the black market—either by being involved personally, or by writing about it. That’s true. You did write about it in your book, and you are making a fortune. You will make even more after her article. But you can’t let it get to you.”

They continued the discussion throughout luncheon and later at the office of the agent.

“You are hot, Rann,” Ralph Burnett, the head of the agency, said to him. “We have plenty of clients already but we will take you on. Anything anybody wants to discuss with you about your work, refer them to us. That’s all there is to it. But you have to stay hot. If you do that, we’ll all make a bundle. After today’s article, your book will jump to number one within a week, you’ll see.”

And it did. Rann sat at his desk, the book-review section of the newspaper open before him. A long, thoughtful review of his book was on the page opposite the bestseller list. George Pearce, Margie, and Ralph Burnett should be very pleased, he thought to himself.

This review pleased him also. The reviewer had understood so well everything he had tried to convey that Rann, himself, was surprised. Not all of the articles that had appeared—and there had been many—were as thoughtful or as carefully written. They had all been good and factual, except that Nancy Adams had followed up with two more articles in the Tribune, one in which she told of a person-to-person phone call to General Appleby in Korea. General Appleby had not accepted her call, telling the operator merely that he had no comment to make, but reporting the phone call gave her the opportunity to write her nasty insinuations all over again. Two days later she had written of a meeting she had with Sen. John Easton, a young presidential hopeful from a New England state and a member of a committee investigating military affairs, who had promised to read the book and meet with her again. She vowed that her readers would have a full report on what the senator had to say and again used the opportunity to repeat her former remarks.

In the two weeks since Rann came to New York, all that he did was reported. He wondered that the public could actually be interested in his every move. He went to the premiere with Rita on Thursday, and on Saturday they attended a charity ball. On Friday, he had dined with George Pearce and Margie, a busy but simple routine, and all was written in the gossip columns. His mother had dutifully called him several times regarding the articles and he was truly sorry for the way he had affected her life. All he could do was continue to assure her all was well with him. The telephone on his desk interrupted his thought. It was Donald Sharpe.

“Professor Sharpe, you must forgive me for not writing to thank you for introducing me to George Pearce. I’ve only been back for two weeks and they have been so busy.…”

“I know.” Donald Sharpe laughed. “I read the papers. You surely do get around. Who is Rita Benson? She must be something to take up so much of your time.”

Now Rann laughed. “She is a very nice lady I met on the plane from San Francisco and now she is interested in making a movie of my book. In fact, her attorneys are working to come to terms with my agent now. The newspapers blow everything up.”

“I know.” Donald Sharpe was silent for a moment. “What are you working on now, Rann?”

“I’m not. In fact, I can’t even think of anything I want to write. I’m sure I will but this newspaper business takes all of my energy going from rage to fits of laughter.”

“I can tell you how to cope with that, Rann. It may sound strange to you, but just don’t read them. There is nothing you can do about anything they say and you can go on with your work if you ignore them. If you pay attention to every thing people say about you, then you will never accomplish all that you could and should accomplish otherwise. I’ve known people in your position before and, believe me, the only possible way to go on is to ignore all of it.”

“I suppose you are right. Everyone who knows anything at all about this business says the same thing. I’m sure you understand, however, that it’s a lot easier said than done.”

“Of course it is, dear boy, but it’s something to work for. Try it this way now and it will work. You will arrive at this position eventually—after much heartbreak and soul-searching—but if you can follow advice and begin now to pay no attention to what other people say, and especially the press, you will save yourself a lot of agony. In my own small way, I have had to learn this for myself.”

The reference to him as “dear boy” and the personal overtone to the conversation brought the memory of that night in Donald Sharpe’s home vividly into Rann’s mind and he felt his face flush as he spoke.

“Professor Sharpe, I—”

Donald Sharpe interrupted. “Wait, Rann. Before we go any further in our relationship there are a couple of things we should clear up, and I think I can do it very quickly. In the first place, call me Don. We are not too far apart in age or station for that now, I think. In the second place, I’m sorry for what happened between us years ago but we must not let that stand in the way of our future friendship if we can help it—and we are both intelligent, so I think we can work it out. I reacted to you as any man in my position would have. Perhaps you can