Who's that awful girl who lives down the hall from you -Judy?'
'Poovey,' I said.
'Go knock on her door, why don't you, and ask her if she'll give you a pack. She looks like the sort who keeps cartons in her room.'
It was getting warmer. The dirty snow was pockmarked from the warm rain, and melting in patches to expose the slimy, yellowed grass beneath it; icicles cracked and plunged like daggers from the sharp peaks of the roofs.
'We might be in South America now,' Camilla said one night while we were drinking bourbon from teacups in my room and listening to rain dripping from the eaves. 'That's funny, isn't it?'
'Yes,' I said, though I hadn't been invited.
'I didn't like the idea then. Now I think we might've got by all right down there.'
'I don't see how.'
She leaned her cheek on her closed fist. 'Oh, it wouldn't have been so bad. We could have slept in hammocks. Learned Spanish.
Lived in a little house with chickens in the yard.'
'Got sick,' I said. 'Been shot.'
'I can think of worse things,' she said, with a brief sideways glance that pierced me to the heart.
The windowpanes rattled in a sudden gust.
'Well,' I said, 'I'm glad you didn't go.'
She ignored this remark and, looking out the dark window, took another sip from the teacup.
It was by now the first week of April, not a pleasant time for me or anyone. Bunny, who had been relatively calm, was now on a rampage because Henry refused to drive him down to Washington, D. C., to see an exhibit of World War I biplanes at the Smithsonian. The twins were getting calls twice daily from an ominous B. Perry at their bank, and Henry from a D. Wade at his; Francis's mother had discovered his attempt to withdraw money from the trust fund, and each day brought a fresh volley of communication from her. 'Good God,' he muttered, having torn open the latest arrival and scanned it with disgust.
'What does she say?'
' 'Baby. Chris and 1 are so concerned about you,'' Francis read in a deadpan voice. ' 'Now I do not pretend to be an authority on Young People and maybe you are going through something I am too old to understand but I have always hoped you would be able to go to Chris with your problems.''
'Chris has a lot more problems than you do, it seems to me,'
I said. The character that Chris played on The Young Doctors' was sleeping with his brother's wife and involved in a baby smuggling ring.
'I'll say Chris has problems. He's twenty-six years old and married to my mother, isn't he? 'Now I even hate to bring this up,'' he read, ' 'and I wouldn't have suggested it had not Chris insisted but you know, dear, how he loves you and he says he has seen this type of thing so often before in show business you know. So I phoned the Betty Ford Center and precious, what do you think? They have a nice little room waiting just for you, dear' – no, let me finish,' he said, when I started to laugh.' 'Now I know you'll hate the idea but really you needn't be ashamed, it's a Disease, baby, that's what they told me when I went and it made me feel so much better you cannot imagine. Of course I don't know what it is you're taking but really, darling, let's be practical, whatever it is it must be frightfully expensive mustn't it and I have to be quite honest with you and tell you that we simply cannot afford it, not with your grandpa the way he is and the taxes on the house and everything…''
'You ought to go,' I said.
'Are you kidding? It's in Palm Springs or someplace like that and besides I think they lock you up and make you do aerobics.
She watches too much television, my mother,' he said, glancing at the letter again.
The telephone began to ring.
'Goddammit,' he said in a tired voice.
'Don't answer it.'
'If I don't she'll call the police,' he said, and picked up the receiver.
I let myself out (Francis pacing back and forth: 'Funny? What do you mean, I sound funny'?') and walked to the post office, where in my box I found, to my surprise, an elegant little note from Julian asking me to lunch the next day.
Julian, on special occasions, sometimes had lunches for the class; he was an excellent cook and, when he was a young man living off his trust fund in Europe, had the reputation of being an excellent host as well. This was, in fact, the basis of his acquaintance with most of the famous people in his life. Osbert Sitwell, in his diary, mentions Julian Morrow's 'sublime little fetes,' and there are similar references in the letters of people ranging from Charles Laughton to the Duchess of Windsor to Gertrude Stein; Cyril Connolly, who was notorious for being a hard guest to please, told Harold Acton that Julian was the most gracious American that he had ever met – a doubleedged compliment, admittedly – and Sara Murphy, no mean hostess herself, once wrote him pleading for his recipe for sole veronique. But though I knew that Julian frequently invited Henry for lunches a deux, I had never before received an invitation to dine alone with him, and I was both flattered and vaguely worried. At that time, anything even slightly out of the ordinary seemed ominous to me, and, pleased as I was, I could not but feel that he might have an objective other than the pleasure of my company. I took the invitation home and studied it. The airy, oblique style in which it was written did little to dispel my feeling that there was more in it than met the eye. I phoned the switchboard and left a message for him to expect me at one the next day.
'Julian doesn't know anything about what happened, does he?' I asked Henry when next I saw him alone.
'What? Oh, yes,' said Henry, glancing up from his book. 'Of course.'
'He knows you killed that guy?'
'Really, you needn't be so loud,' said Henry sharply, turning in his chair. Then, in a quieter voice: 'He knew what we were trying to do. And approved. The day after it happened, we drove out to his house in the country. Told him what happened. He was delighted.'
'You told him everything?'
'Well, I saw no point in worrying him, if that's what you mean,' said Henry, adjusting his glasses and going back to his book.
Julian, of course, had made the lunch himself, and we ate at the big round table in his office. After weeks of bad nerves, bad conversation, and bad food in the dining hall, the prospect of a meal with him was immensely cheering; he was a charming companion and his dinners, though deceptively simple, had a sort of Augustan wholesomeness and luxuriance which never failed to soothe.
There was roasted lamb, new potatoes, peas with leeks and fennel; a rich and almost maddeningly delicious bottle of Chateau Latour. I was eating with better appetite than I had had in ages when I noticed that a fourth course had appeared, with unobtrusive magic, at my elbow: mushrooms. They were pale and slender-stemmed, of a type I had seen before, steaming in a red wine sauce that smelled of coriander and rue.
'Where did you get these?'I said. Hfj 'Ah. You're quite observant,' he said, pleased. 'Aren t they marvelous? Quite rare. Henry brought them to me.'
I took a quick swallow of my wine to hide my consternation.
'He tells me – may I?' he said, nodding at the bowl.
I passed it to him, and he spooned some of them onto his plate. 'Thank you,' he said. 'What was I saying? Oh, yes. Henry tells me that this particular sort of mushroom was a great favorite of the emperor Claudius. Interesting, because you remember how Claudius died.'
I did remember. Agrippina had slipped a poisoned one into his dish one night.
'They're quite good,' said Julian, taking a bite. 'Have you gone with Henry on any of his collecting expeditions?'
'Not yet. He hasn't asked me to.'
'I must say, I never thought I cared very much for mushrooms, but everything he's brought me has been heavenly.'
Suddenly I understood. This was a clever piece of groundwork on Henry's part. 'He's brought them to you before?' I said.
'Yes. Of course I wouldn't trust just anyone with this sort of thing, but Henry seems to know an amazing lot
