pilot and his whole crew were plastered.’
‘There. See? You live as dangerously as any man at the front. … If I meet
that boy you’re talking to, I’ll tell him that.’
Their eyes were locked; Jean withdrew her hand, embarrassed. But for
Spaulding the important thing was that she believed him. She accepted his
cover extension without question. It
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occurred to him that he was at once greatly relieved and yet, in a way,
quite sorry. He found no professional pride in lying to her successfully.
‘So now you know how I’ve avoided the State Department syndrome. I’m still
not sure why it’s relevant. What the hen, with .a hundred and ten men and
marines. . . .’
‘The marines don’t count. They have sundry interests down here in La Boca.’
‘Then the staff – those without the “Wives and kinder” – they can’t all be
quivering.’
‘But they do and I’ve been grateful. They’d like to get to the Court of St.
James’s someday.’
‘Now you’re playing mental gymnastics. I’m not following you.’
‘No, I’m not. I wanted to see if Bobby had told you. He hasn’t. I said he
was kind…. He was giving me the chance to tell you myself.’
‘Tell me whatT
‘My husband was Henderson Granville’s stepson. They were very close.’
They left the restaurant shortly past four and walked around the docks of
the Dixsena Sud waterfront, breathing in the salt air. It seemed to David
that Jean was enjoying herself in a way she hadn’t in too long a time. That
it was part of the instant comfort between them, he realized, but it went
further. As if some splendid relief had swept over her. –
Her loveliness had been evident from those first moments on the staircase,
but as he thought back on that brief introduction, he knew what the
difference was. Jean Cameron had been outgoing, good-natured … welcoming
charm itself. But there’d been something else: a detachment born of
self-control. Total control. A patina of authority that had nothing to do
with her status at the embassy or whatever other benefits derived from her
marriage to. the ambassador’s stepson. It was related solely to her own
decisions, her own outlook.
He had seen that detached authority throughout the morning – when she
introduced him to various embassy employees; when she gave directions to
her secretary; when she answered her telephone and rendered quick
instructions.
Even in the byplay with Bobby Ballard she glided firmly, with
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the assurance of knowing her own pattern. Ballard could shout humorously
that she could ‘get irresponsibly drunk’ because by no stretch of the
imagination would she allow herself to do that.
Jean kept a tight rein on herself.
The rein was loosening now.
Yesterday he had looked at her closely, finding the years; and she was
completely unconcerned, without vanity. Now, walking along the docks,
holding his arm, she was pleasantly aware of the looks she received from
the scores of waterfront Bocamos. Spaulding knew she hoped he was aware of
those looks.
‘Look, David,’ she said excitedly. ‘Those boats are going to crash head
on.’
Several hundred yards out in the bay, two trawlers were on a collision
course, both steam whistles filling the air with aggressive warnings, both
crews shouting at eacb~ other from port and starboard railings.
‘The one on the right will veer.’
It did. At the last moment, amid dozens of guttural oaths and gestures.
‘How did you know?’ she said.
‘Simple right of way; the owner would get clobbered with damages. There’ll
be a brawl on one of these piers pretty soon, though.’
‘lAt’s not wait for it. You’ve had enough of that.’
They walked out of the dock area into the narrow La Boca streets, teeming
with small fish markets, profuse with fat merchants in bloodied aprons and
shouting customers. The afternoon catch was in, the day’s labor on the
water over. The rest was selling and drinking and retelling the
misadventures of the past twelve hours.
They reached a miniature square called – for no apparent reason – Plaza
Ocho Calle; there was no street number eight, no plaza to speak of. A taxi
hesitantly came to a stop at the comer, let out its fare and started up
again, blocked by pedestrians unconcerned with such vehicles. David looked
at Jean and she nodded, smiling. He shouted at the driver.
Inside the taxi he gave his address. It didn’t occur to him to do
otherwise.
They rode in silence for several minutes, their shoulders touching, her
hand underneath his arm.
‘What are you thinking off David asked, seeing the distant
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but happy expression on her face.-
‘Oh, the way I pictured you when Henderson read the scram~ ble the other
night…. Yes, I call him Henderson; I always have.’
‘I can’t imagine anyone, even the president, calling him Henderson!
‘You don’t know him. Underneath that Racquet Club jacket is lovable
Henderson.’
‘How did you picture me?’
Wery differently!
‘From what?’
‘You…. I thought you’d be terribly short, to begin with. An attach6 named
David Spaulding who’s some kind of financial whiz and is going to have
conferences with the banks and the colonels about money things is short, at
least fifty years old and has very little hair. He also wears spectacles –
not glasses – and has a thin nose. Probably has an allergy as well – he
sneezes a lot and blows his nose all the time. And he speaks in short,
clipped sentences; very precise and quite disagreeable.’
‘He chases secretaries, too; don’t leave that out.’
‘My David Spaulding doesn’t chase secretaries. He reads dirty books.’
David felt a twinge. Throw in an unkempt appearance, a soiled handkerchief
and replace the spectacles with glasses – worn occasionally – and Jean was
describing Walter Kendall.
‘Your Spaulding’s an unpleasant fellow.’
‘Not the new one,’ she said, tightening her grip on his arm.
The taxi drew up to the curb in front of the entrance on C6rdoba. Jean
Cameron hesitated, staring momentarily at the apartment house door. David
spoke softly, without emphasis.
‘Shall I take you to the embassy?’
She turned to him. ‘No.’
He paid1the driver and they went inside.
The field thread was invisibly protruding from the knob; he felt it.
He inserted the key in the lock and instinctively, gently shoul. dered her
aside as he pushed the door open. The apartment was as he had left it that
morning; he knew she felt his relief. He hold the door for her. Jean
entered and looked around.
‘It really isn’t so bad, is iff she said.
‘Humble but home.’ He left the door open and with a smile,
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a gesture – without words – he asked her to stay where she was. He walked
rapidly into the bedroom, returned and went through the double doors onto
his miniature, high-walled patio. He looked up, scanning the windows and the
roof carefully. He smiled again at her from under the branches of the fruit
tree. She understood, closed the door and came out to him.
‘You did that very professionally, Mr. Spaulding,’
‘In the best traditions of extreme cowardice, Mrs. Cameron.’
He realized his mistake the minute he’d made it. It was not the moment to
use the married ‘title. And yet, in some oblique way she seemed grateful
that he had. She moved again and stood directly in front of him.
‘Mrs. Cameron thanks you.’
He reached out and held her by the waist. Her arms slowly, haltingly, went
up to his shoulders; her hands cupped his face and she stared into his
eyes.
He did not move. The decision, the first step, had to be hers; he
understood that.
She brought her lips to his. The touch was soft and lovely and meant for
earthbound angels. And then she trembled with an almost uncontrollable
sense of urgency. Her lips parted and she pressed her body with
extraordinary strength into his, her arms clutched about his neck.
She pulled her lips away from his and buried her face into his chest,
holding him with fierce possession.
‘Don’t say anything,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t say anything at all…. Just
take me.’
He picked her up silently and carried her into the bedroom. She kept her
face pressed into his chest, as if she were afraid to see light or even
him. He lowered her gently onto the bed and closed the door.
In a few moments they were naked and he pulled the blankets over them. It
was a moist and beautiful darkness. A splendid comfort.
‘I want to say something,’ she said, tracing her finger over his lips, her
face above his, her breasts innocently on his chest. And smiling her
genuine smile.
‘I know. You want the other Spaulding. The thin one with spectacles.’ He
kissed her fingers.
‘He disappeared in an explosion of sorts.’
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‘You’re positively descriptive, young lady.’
‘And not so young…. That’s what I want to talk about.’