As she entered the room, Laurace went to meet her. “Welcome, welcome,” she said, and clasped both hands in hers.
Clara Rosario’s fingers responded only slightly, as did her mouth to the smile offered her. She seemed alien, her own finery a little too bright-colored. Though her hair was marcelled midnight, skin tawny, lips full, she was of white race, hazel-eyed, straight-nosed, wide across the cheekbones. Laurace stood three inches higher. Nonetheless Clara carried herself boldly, as well she might, given a figure like hers.
“Thank you,” she said, with a staccato accent. Glancing about: “Quite a place you got here.”
“We’ll be private in the sanctum,” said Laurace. “It has a liquor cabinet. Or would you prefer tea or coffee? I’ll order it brought.”
“Uh, thanks, but I could use a drink right now.” Clara laughed nervously.
“You can stay for dinner, can’t you? I promise you a cordon bleu meal. By then we should have completed our … business, and be able to relax and enjoy it.”
“Well, not too late. They expect me there, you know? I jolly them along and— Could be trouble, too, for me to head off. Men are kind of on edge these days, wondering what’s going to go wrong next, you know?”
“Besides, we don’t want anybody wondering what you’re up to,” Laurace agreed. “Don’t worry. I’ll send you back in plenty of time.” She took Clara’s arm. “This way, please.”
When the door had shut behind them, Clara stood a while, tensed. Between curtained windows, the smaller room was wholly foreign; Straw mats -covered the floor, leopard pelts the curiously shaped chairs. Two African masks dominated one wall. On a shelf between them rested a human skull. Opposite stretched an eight-foot python skin. At the farther end stood a marble altar. Upon its red-bordered white cloth were a knife, a crystal bowl full of water, and a bronze candlestick with seven twisty branches. Lighting was from a single heavily shaded lamp on a table beside silver boxes for cigarettes and matches and an incense holder whose smoke turned breath pungent. Almost lost in their everydayness were the cabinet and console radio that flanked the entrance, or the coffee table which near the middle held glasses, ice bucket, seltzer, carafe, ashtrays, small dishes of delicacies.
“Don’t be alarmed,” said Laurace. “You must have seen magicians’ lairs in the past.”
Clara nodded. “A few times,” she gulped. “You mean you—”
“Well, yes and no. These things aren’t for use; they’re meant to convey sacredness, power, mystery. Also,” Laurace added matter-of-fact!y, “nobody would dare open that door without my leave, under any circumstances whatsoever. We can talk in perfect safety.”
Clara rallied. She would not have endured through her centuries without ample courage; and her hostess offered nothing but friendship, of a sort and provided it be possible. “I guess we’ve gone mighty different ways, you and me.”
“Time we bring them together. Would you like some music? I can get two good stations.”
“No, let’s just talk.” Clara grimaced. “I don’t need music all the time, you know? I run a high-class house.”
“Poor dear.” Much sorrow was in the gentleness. “You don’t have it so easy, do you? Have you ever?”
Clara lifted her head. “I get by. How about that drink?”
She chose a strong bourbon-and-branch, together with a cigarette, and settled onto the sofa before the table. Laurace poured a glass of Bordeaux and sat down on a chair across from her. For a space there was silence, apart from the dulled noise of the rainstorm.
Then Clara said, half defiantly, “Well, what about it? What are we going to talk about?”
“Suppose you start,” Laurace answered, her words continuing soft. “Whatever you want. This is just the first of pur real meetings. We’ll need many more. We have everything to learn about each other, and decide, and finally do.”
Clara drew breath. “Okay,” she said fast. “How did you find me? When you showed up at my apartment and, and told me you’re immortal too—“ It had not brought on hysteria, but Laurace had soon realized she’d better go. Afterward it had been a matter of three careful telephone conversations, until now. “I thought at first you were crazy, you know? But you didn’t act it and how could a crazy person have found out? Later I wondered if you wanted to blackmail me, but that didn’t make sense either. Only … all right, how do you know what I am, and how can 1 know you really are what you claim?” She raised her glass in a jerky motion and drank deep. “I don’t want to offend you, but, well, I’ve got to be more sure.”