The Last Tycoon. Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
Schwartz’s face fell into its more disintegrated alignments. One eye looked upward through the tall elms. He raised his hand and bit without interest at the cuticle on his second finger. There was a bird flying about the chimney of the house, and his glance followed it. It perched on the chimney pot like a raven, and Mr. Schwartz’s eyes remained fixed upon it as he said: “We can’t get in, and it’s time for you two to go back to the plane.”
It was still not quite dawn. The Hermitage looked like a nice big white box, but a little lonely and vacated still after a hundred years. We walked back to the car. Only after we had gotten in, and Mr. Schwartz had surprisingly shut the taxi door on us, did we realize he didn’t intend to come along.
“I’m not going to the Coast—I decided that when I woke up. So I’ll stay here, and afterwards the driver could come back for me.”
“Going back East?” said Wylie with surprise. “Just because—”
“I have decided,” said Schwartz, faintly smiling. “Once I used to be a regular man of decision—you’d be surprised.” He felt in his pocket, as the taxi driver warmed up the engine. “Will you give this note to Mr. Smith?”
“Shall I come in two hours?” the driver asked Schwartz.
“Yes … sure. I shall be glad to entertain myself looking around.”
I kept thinking of him all the way back to the airport—trying to fit him into that early hour and into that landscape. He had come a long way from some ghetto to present himself at that raw shrine. Manny Schwartz and Andrew Jackson—it was hard to say them in the same sentence. It was doubtful if he knew who Andrew Jackson was as he wandered around, but perhaps he figured that if people had preserved his house Andrew Jackson must have been someone who was large and merciful, able to understand. At both ends of life man needed nourishment: a breast—a shrine. Something to lay himself beside when no one wanted him further, and shoot a bullet into his head.
Of course we did not know this for twenty hours. When we got to the airport we told the purser that Mr. Schwartz was not continuing, and then forgot about him. The storm had wandered away into Eastern Tennessee and broken against the mountains, and we were taking off in less than an hour. Sleepy-eyed travellers appeared from the hotel, and I dozed a few minutes on one of those Iron Maidens they use for couches. Slowly the idea of a perilous journey was recreated out of the debris of our failure: a new stewardess, tall, handsome, flashing dark, exactly like the other except she wore seersucker instead of Frenchy red-and-blue, went briskly past us with a suitcase. Wylie sat beside me as we waited.
“Did you give the note to Mr. Smith?” I asked, half asleep.
“Yeah.”
“Who is Mr. Smith? I suspect he spoiled Mr. Schwartz’s trip.”
“It was Schwartz’s fault.”
“I’m prejudiced against steam-rollers,” I said. “My father tries to be a steam-roller around the house, and I tell him to save it for the studio.”
I wondered if I was being fair; words are the palest counters at that time in the morning. “Still, he steam-rollered me into Bennington and I’ve always been grateful for that.”
“There would be quite a crash,” Wylie said, “if steamroller Brady met steam-roller Smith.”
“Is Mr. Smith a competitor of Father’s?”
“Not exactly. I should say no. But if he was a competitor, I know where my money would be.”
“On Father?”
“I’m afraid not.”
It was too early in the morning for family patriotism. The pilot was at the desk with the purser and he shook his head as they regarded a prospective passenger who had put two nickels in the electric phonograph and lay alcoholically on a bench fighting off sleep. The first song he had chosen, Lost, thundered through the room, followed, after a slight interval, by his other choice, Gone, which was equally dogmatic and final. The pilot shook his head emphatically and walked over to the passenger.
“Afraid we’re not going to be able to carry you this time, old man.”
“Wha’?”
The drunk sat up, awful-looking, yet discernibly attractive, and I was sorry for him in spite of his passionately ill-chosen music.
“Go back to the hotel and get some sleep. There’ll be another plane tonight.”
“Only going up in ee air.”
“Not this time, old man.”
In his disappointment the drunk fell off the bench—and above the phonograph, a loudspeaker summoned us respectable people outside. In the corridor of the plane I ran into Monroe Stahr and fell all over him, or wanted to. There was a man any girl would go for, with or without encouragement. I was emphatically without it, but he liked me and sat down opposite till the plane took off.
“Let’s all ask for our money back,” he suggested. His dark eyes took me in, and I wondered what they would look like if he fell in love. They were kind, aloof, and, though they often reasoned with you gently, somewhat superior. It was no fault of theirs if they saw so much. He darted in and out of the role of “one of the boys” with dexterity—but on the whole I should say he wasn’t one of them. But he knew how to shut up, how to draw into the background, how to listen. From where he stood (and though he was not a tall man, it always seemed high up) he watched the multitudinous practicalities of his world like a proud young shepherd to whom night and day had never mattered. He was born sleepless, without a talent for rest or the desire for it.
We sat in unembarrassed silence—I had known him since he became Father’s partner a dozen years ago, when I was seven and Stahr was twenty-two. Wylie was across the aisle and I didn’t know whether or not to introduce them, but Stahr kept turning his ring so abstractedly that he made me feel young and invisible, and I didn’t dare. I never dared look quite away from him or quite at him, unless I had something important to say—and I knew he affected many other people in the same manner.
“I’ll give you this ring, Cecilia.”
“I beg your pardon. I didn’t realize that I was—”
“I’ve got half a dozen like it.”
He handed it to me, a gold nugget with the letter S in bold relief. I had been thinking how oddly its bulk contrasted with his fingers, which were delicate and slender like the rest of his body, and like his slender face with the arched eyebrows and the dark curly hair. He looked spiritual at times, but he was a fighter—somebody out of his past knew him when he was one of a gang of kids in the Bronx, and gave me a description of how he walked always at the head of his gang, this rather frail boy, occasionally throwing a command backward out of the corner of his mouth.
Stahr folded my hand over the ring, stood up and addressed Wylie.
“Come up to the bridal suite,” he said. “See you later, Cecilia.”
Before they went out of hearing, I heard Wylie’s question: “Did you open Schwartz’s note?” And Stahr:
“Not yet.”
I must be slow, for only then did I realize that Stahr was Mr. Smith.
Afterwards Wylie told me what was in the note. Written by the headlights of the taxi, it was almost illegible.
Dear Monroe, You are the best of them all I have always admired your mentality so when you turn against me I know it’s no use! I must be no good and am not going to continue the journey let me warn you once again look out! I know.
Your friend, Manny.
Stahr read it twice, and raised his hand to the morning stubble on his chin.
“He’s a nervous wreck,” he said. “There’s nothing to be done—absolutely nothing. I’m sorry I was short with him—but