The Eternal Wonder (28 page)

This review pleased him also. The reviewer had understood so well everything he had tried to convey that Rann, himself, was surprised. Not all of the articles that had appeared—and there had been many—were as thoughtful or as carefully written. They had all been good and factual, except that Nancy Adams had followed up with two more articles in the
Tribune
, one in which she told of a person-to-person phone call to General Appleby in Korea. General Appleby had not accepted her call, telling the operator merely that he had no comment to make, but reporting the phone call gave her the opportunity to write her nasty insinuations all over again. Two days later she had written of a meeting she had with Sen. John Easton, a young presidential hopeful from a New England state and a member of a committee investigating military affairs, who had promised to read the book and meet with her again. She vowed that her readers would have a full report on what the senator had to say and again used the opportunity to repeat her former remarks.

In the two weeks since Rann came to New York, all that he did was reported. He wondered that the public could actually be interested in his every move. He went to the premiere with Rita on Thursday, and on Saturday they attended a charity ball. On Friday, he had dined with George Pearce and Margie, a busy but simple routine, and all was written in the gossip columns. His mother had dutifully called him several times regarding the articles and he was truly sorry for the way he had affected her life. All he could do was continue to assure her all was well with him. The telephone on his desk interrupted his thought. It was Donald Sharpe.

“Professor Sharpe, you must forgive me for not writing to thank you for introducing me to George Pearce. I’ve only been back for two weeks and they have been so busy. …”

“I know.” Donald Sharpe laughed. “I read the papers. You surely do get around. Who is Rita Benson? She must be something to take up so much of your time.”

Now Rann laughed. “She is a very nice lady I met on the plane from San Francisco and now she is interested in making a movie of my book. In fact, her attorneys are working to come to terms with my agent now. The newspapers blow everything up.”

“I know.” Donald Sharpe was silent for a moment. “What are you working on now, Rann?”

“I’m not. In fact, I can’t even think of anything I want to write. I’m sure I will but this newspaper business takes all of my energy going from rage to fits of laughter.”

“I can tell you how to cope with that, Rann. It may sound strange to you, but just don’t read them. There is nothing you can do about anything they say and you can go on with your work if you ignore them. If you pay attention to every thing people say about you, then you will never accomplish all that you could and should accomplish otherwise. I’ve known people in your position before and, believe me, the only possible way to go on is to ignore all of it.”

“I suppose you are right. Everyone who knows anything at all about this business says the same thing. I’m sure you understand, however, that it’s a lot easier said than done.”

“Of course it is, dear boy, but it’s something to work for. Try it this way now and it will work. You will arrive at this position eventually—after much heartbreak and soul-searching—but if you can follow advice and begin now to pay no attention to what other people say, and especially the press, you will save yourself a lot of agony. In my own small way, I have had to learn this for myself.”

The reference to him as “dear boy” and the personal overtone to the conversation brought the memory of that night in Donald Sharpe’s home vividly into Rann’s mind and he felt his face flush as he spoke.

“Professor Sharpe, I—”

Donald Sharpe interrupted. “Wait, Rann. Before we go any further in our relationship there are a couple of things we should clear up, and I think I can do it very quickly. In the first place, call me Don. We are not too far apart in age or station for that now, I think. In the second place, I’m sorry for what happened between us years ago but we must not let that stand in the way of our future friendship if we can help it—and we are both intelligent, so I think we can work it out. I reacted to you as any man in my position would have. Perhaps you can understand that now. You reacted to me as any boy in your position would have. Certainly, I can see that. I won’t say I don’t wish things could have been different. There is no need for us to lie, but as long as it’s this way, then let’s be friends on whatever basis we can. I think that’s all there is to say on that subject.”

Rann was relieved that Donald Sharpe had spoken so frankly.

“I think I’d like that, Don. So long as we can both remember the facts of the situation.”

“I shan’t ever forget, dear boy. Now, your mother tells me she is coming to New York in a couple of weeks and I think I might fly in with her. Who knows? Maybe now that I’ve given him you, George Pearce may be willing to publish something of mine. At any rate, hold a little time aside for us and we will see you soon.”

Rann promised he would and sat in thought after the conversation had ended. A great deal had taken place in his own life since that night he had spent in Donald Sharpe’s home and while his personal feeling of physical revulsion remained strong, he was better able to understand the pity his mother had expressed for the man at that time. It must be difficult, indeed, for a man like him to find any satisfying relationships, caught, as he was, between sexes. With his total recall, Rann could hear his father’s voice as it had been during one of their long talks together.

“The world is made up of many different kinds of human beings, son, and while you, yourself, and only you, can be responsible for the kind of person you are to be, you must, however, get to know as many different types as you can, for these are the basic components of life as we know it today. Because there are thieves and because you know does not mean that you must steal. Because there are cannibals and prostitutes does not mean it’s all right for you to eat human flesh or sell your own body, but the fact that it is not right for you need not stop you from knowing those who do or from trying to understand why they do so. You will be many times hurt, for you have a deep appreciation of beauty and order in all that you do and people, alas, are not always beautiful or orderly. They will not always be what you would have them be, so be content if at least they can be honest with you and you can learn to understand them as they are. You must hold yourself apart and be the kind of person you want to be. In this way, someone—somewhere—will come along to prove to you that all things of beauty must be good, and when that person does come along you will know him, for you will have known many others before, and you will be ready for the lasting relationship that is, in itself, man’s deepest satisfaction.”

Rann knew now that he could accept Donald Sharpe as a friend, whatever else he was, and that this friendship need not in any way affect him and what he knew himself to be, except to broaden his own understanding of yet another of the multitude of facets of human nature. Rann’s thoughts were interrupted again by the telephone on his desk. It was Rita Benson.

“Rann, if I send my car for you, can you come for cocktails and dinner? I’ve had Hal Grey here for the weekend and we’ve talked of nothing but your book and there are a few angles we would like to go over with you. You could stay over and we will ride back to the city together tomorrow.”

He said he would go. Sung prepared a light luncheon for him and packed an overnight bag and Rann was ready when the
doorman announced that Mrs. Benson’s car had arrived. Traffic was light on Sunday afternoon and Rann enjoyed the drive through the suburbs onto the parkway and into Connecticut to Rita Benson’s home. It was a large old stone house she had bought and modernized and was well situated on acres of lawns and gardens, all meticulously kept. Cocktails were served to them on the south terrace, and they were enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun. Hal Grey, seated on a long chair facing Rita and Rann, was talking.

“There are problems with the project, Rann,” he was explaining. “It’s an excellent story and will lend itself well to the screen, but the trouble is that there is no role important enough for an American star, which we must have to ensure a box office. I had thought the scriptwriters could write in the role of the author as the star so we would be doing the story
of
the book, which would include the story
in
the book and it would give us the role we need.”

The conversation continued through dinner and on into the evening and Rann agreed to work with the scriptwriters to create the needed role.

The next day, back in the city, the three of them met with Rann’s agent and Rita’s and Hal Grey’s attorneys, and the necessary papers were signed. George Pearce was delighted and insisted on taking them all to dinner afterward to celebrate. Hal Grey’s office arranged a press luncheon for the next day, where the formal announcements were to be made.

Rann was unable to suppress a feeling of hostility for Nancy Adams of the
Tribune,
so, knowing he would see her at luncheon the next day, he expressed his feelings to George Pearce and Rita Benson that evening. Margie and Hal Grey had excused themselves after dinner because of early morning appointments and the three of them had taken Rita’s car to Rann’s apartment, where Sung had served them drinks in the drawing room.

“Your apartment is charming, Rann. So decidedly masculine and yet I suspect a woman’s touch here and there.”

Rita sat on the couch facing the fireplace, the fire already crackling though Rann had put a match to it only minutes before when they had entered the room. Something Chinese, Rann supposed, in the way Sung laid a fire always made them catch very quickly.

“It must be Serena, my grandfather’s second wife. I’ve not changed anything since he died and left the place to me.”

Rann settled into a comfortable armchair on one side of the fire, and George chose its counterpart on the other side. Rann realized these were the first visitors he had brought here since he returned. It had not occurred to him to change anything in the apartment.

“You really should redo the place to suit your own personality, Rann.” Rita sipped her drink and placed the glass on the cocktail table. “It is good for one to express one’s self in one’s surroundings.”

“Perhaps I don’t know yet what it is I would express, Rita—but I have time for that. Right now I have a problem I think the two of you can advise me on, which is why I wanted to talk to you this evening. Tomorrow, we will have to talk to Nancy Adams—”

George Pearce interrupted. “I know. I’ve thought of that. You are understandably upset and angry over all the articles she has written, and now she has that upstart of a senator, what’s-his-name, promising a full-scale investigation based on your book. The thing to remember is that she can’t really hurt us. Oh, she can irritate and infuriate, but the more she writes the more books we sell and the richer you get in the long run. The worst that can happen is that you will have to answer some questions, but you are innocent so that can’t hurt. I say forget about it. Ignore her and go on. She is one of this new breed calling themselves investigative reporters and she is doing her job, which is to sell newspapers. The thing to remember is that she also sells books. Just don’t, under any circumstances, lose your temper with her. Then she can say something that is true. She can say you lost your temper when questioned.”

“I know how to handle it.” Rita looked thoughtful as she spoke. “Let the press conference be mine. That way, the reporters can direct their questions to me and I can ask Rann or Hal for information we want them to give.”

George Pearce took a long drink from his glass. “That’s a good idea, Rita. It seemed logical to me that you should answer their questions.”

“Of course it is. After all, at this point it is I who have spent a million dollars. That, my dears, is still news.”

They all laughed.

“There is one other point I’d like your advice on.” Rann stirred the fire as he spoke. “I had thought I’d call Senator Easton and offer to answer any questions he might have. I have nothing to hide and this way we might bring things to a head.”

“Just let it rest,” George said. “Let him call you if he wants to. You haven’t done anything—so forget it.”

“You are right, George.” Rita rose from the couch. “And now I have to get home or I probably won’t be there tomorrow.”

Rann said good night to them at the door and returned to the fire to finish his own drink.

“THERE IS NOTHING MORE
FOR
her to say, Mother.”

Rann was sitting in his grandfather’s study with his mother and Donald Sharpe. They had arrived on an afternoon flight and his mother was settled in his guest room while Donald Sharpe had chosen a small neighborhood hotel in the next block as his headquarters, and Sung had worked for two days to prepare the first 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 attaché 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.”