dinner to be served to the mother of his young master. It was already dark in New York at five o’clock and the chill in the air promised that winter was not far away. The fire burned brightly in the grate as Sung refilled their glasses from a pitcher of Bloody Marys he had prepared earlier, and the aroma of hot Chinese hors d’oeuvres roasting in the oven filled the apartment.
Rann continued, “Nancy Adams has said everything she can say. She blew this whole thing up and involved Senator Easton. I went to Washington and answered questions for his committee. General Appleby flew in from Korea and told of all the arrests they had made there and that was all there was to it.”
“Well”—his mother frowned—“she could have written an article reporting the outcome. She could have said that you are innocent after all the nasty things she implied.”
“Rann is right, Susan. Reporters seldom write articles stating they were mistaken in the first place, and it would certainly be out of character for Nancy Adams. Rann is a public figure now. His book is still number one on all the lists. He simply has to put up with what they say and go on with his work, which brings me around to this.” Donald Sharpe pulled a thin black leather attache case onto his knees and snapped open the latch, removing a large manila envelope. “It’s your father’s manuscript, Rann. Your mother gave it to me to read some time ago and it’s so good I think you should do something with it.”
“It doesn’t seem to me that I can expand his basic ideas any further than he has already done. I think he has made his point. I am glad to have it, however, and I’ll read it again and try to figure some way in which it could be useful in publication. I think it should be published if possible because it is a beautiful piece of work and it represents a great deal of my father’s time and study. Also, as you know, I agree so completely with his theories regarding art and science.”
“And I too, as you also know.” Donald Sharpe rose and placed the manuscript in the center of the large green blotter on the desk under the window, where Rann had moved it so that he could look out when he glanced up from his work. It was among the few changes Rann had made in the apartment since the death of his grandfather.
He enjoyed the visit from his mother and Donald Sharpe. Donald Sharpe returned to Ohio after one week but before he left Rann arranged a dinner party so that his mother could meet George Pearce and Margie and so they could both meet Rita Benson. They were impressed with Rita and George, as everyone was, but both appreciated Margie’s down-to-earth approach to Rann and his career. After Donald Sharpe left, Rann and his mother had luncheon with George and Margie, then had dinner and went to the theatre with Rita.
“I like your friends, Rann,” his mother said to him. They were in the drawing room, where Sung had served them a late drink when they arrived home after the theatre.
Rann smiled at her. “Even Rita Benson, Mother?”
His mother sensed his teasing. “Yes, perhaps particularly Mrs. Benson, after Margie, of course. She is not at all the way the newspapers make her out to be.”
“People are rarely what newspapers make them out to be. I’m glad that you approve of my friends, Mother.” Rann spoke the truth. He knew he would continue as he was even if she disapproved, but it was good to have her approval.
“THERE IS NOTHING MORE I can do for you,” his mother said.
Her eyes were soft and brown, her smile was wistful. She was still a pretty woman.
“Had you planned to do something for me, Mother?”
He made his voice playful, although he perfectly understood what she meant. Obviously, he knew after a few days that she had come with the vague idea that he might want her to keep house for him. She had not said so, nor had he said he did not, but Sung had made it clear by perfect service, always silent, that he needed no help in the keeping of the house and the tending of its young master, the grandson of the old man who had saved him from the unknown terrors of the American immigration officers. The house for years had been his island of safety. He knew little more of America than if he had stayed in his native village outside Nanking, China. It did not occur to him to seek other Chinese since those outside in this foreign island spoke their own Cantonese dialect, which he did not understand any more than they could understand him. He had never trusted anyone in America except his old master. Especially he did not trust women, not since he had been cheated by his own sister.
Long ago, Sung had bought with his savings a small business in China, a wayside tea shop, and he had put his own older sister in charge while he continued his work as a waiter in a hotel in Shanghai. She told him every month that there were no profits. Then through a neighbor he heard that there were profits but she used them for her husband, an idle opium smoker, and their children. He said nothing to her, since she was his elder, but he decided at that time to leave his country forever and go to America, where he had no relatives. No one had told him about immigration laws. What would have happened to him if he had not found a haven in this house, he could not imagine. But here he was, with a young master to serve forever. He was perfectly courteous to the mother but by his very perfection he conveyed to her exactly what he intended, which was that there was no need for her—indeed, no place for her—in this house.
“No,” she was saying, “I hadn’t planned my life at all, Rann, until you returned home from Korea. I didn’t know how it might change you.”
“It was an interruption,” he said, reflecting. “It did not change me. Only people can change me, I think, and that takes time. There was no time for anyone—foolish routines, and the official Americans were—”
He shrugged and pushed away the distasteful memory in silence.
“So, what next for you, Rann?” his mother asked.
Rann put down his coffee cup. “I shall sort myself out,” he said.
“Shall you go back to college?”
“I can’t see any reason for it. I know where to look for the knowledge I need.”
“In books?”
“Everywhere.”
“Then I’ll be going home, I think, Rann.”
“Only when you like, Mother.”
SHE LINGERED A FEW DAYS LONGER and he devoted himself to her. She was a dear person but it was true he no longer needed her. Nevertheless, he was not impatient. He took her to museums and theatres and to a symphony concert. These were pleasant hours but noncommunicative. When they came home again, Sung met them at the door and served them their nightcap drink in the library or drawing room. Once, when they were alone, she tried to talk about Lady Mary.
“Is there anything you want to tell me about Lady Mary?”
“Oh—no, that’s all over.”
“With no regrets?”
“No regrets on either side, Mother.”
“An experience for you,” she suggested.
“Yes—I learned something about myself, at least.”
“No more?”
“No more.”
It was impossible, indeed unnecessary, to explain to her. He needed hours alone, hours and days, weeks and months, in which to begin again his work.
She rose. “I think I’ll go home tomorrow, darling.”
He got to his feet and, putting his arms gently about her, he kissed her cheek. No, he would not tell her any more about Stephanie, either. There was perhaps nothing more to tell. Whatever might be he wanted to keep to himself, to live it before he spoke of it.
“As you wish, Mother. But you’ll come whenever you like?”
“Next time you come to me, darling.”
“As you wish, Mother,” he said again.
The distance between them was composed of time. She belonged to his past and even to his present but his future was as yet his own.
THERE WAS NO NEED TO hurry that future—yet the length of his own youth pressed upon him. Whatever he
