III
WHEN Ken awoke, Mr. Lowell had already departed. It was long past noon, the western sun was already slanting into the bedroom, with its plaster monk enshrined in a niche opposite Ken's bed. The monk regarded his own round belly with suitable piety and Ken mused upon the strange difference between his own life of this day to come and his past life.
For he was quiet, composed, rested. The long night was gone. This day was to begin his career.
Kari it was who informed him that "Missee Lowell he is gone away, with suitable orders to you." These orders included a rub-down and massage, far more soothing than any Ken had received from "Bones" Trotter, the Selma High trainer. When Kari was through with him, in accordance with Mr. Lowell's instructions, a certain Seward Pawne appeared, announced himself as the assistant to Mr. Lowell's private secretary and explained that Ken was to visit Marchiotti, the tailor.
Mr. Pawne was English, exceedingly self-effacing, with a round, pudgy expression of contentment and a deferential attitude.
"Mr. Lowell is very thorough-going," he said. "He has told me exactly how to entertain you during his absence."
And thus Ken saw Southern California. Long rides into the mountains, Johnson at the wheel. Horseback up bridle-paths back of Flintridge, an evening in the Pasadena Theatre, dinner in Los Angeles at Victor Hugo's.
Mr. Pawne carefully assisted Ken in correcting his pronunciation. Ken discovered new words and old words said in a new way. He learned details of etiquette, the correct manner of entering a theatre, how to order a course dinner, what to wear, especially what to wear.
Marchiotti, swarthy, with warm Italian eyes that gleamed as he measured Ken, created sack suits, morning and evening dress, sport costumes, a riding habit, overcoats, even an aviator's jacket and hood.
On the day on which his wardrobe was complete, Ken received a visit from Mr. Pawne.
"Is everything satisfactory, Mr. Gracey?" he asked.
"Oh yes," Ken replied. "But when does Mr. Lowell return?"
"That's hard to say. And I do suppose you are a trifle bored."
"I'd like to be doing something. This is swell, living like this, fixed up in this outfit too, but I really haven't got anything to do."
"Mr. Lowell did say to take you to the school of Terpsichore, Mr. Gracey, that is, if you cared to study dancing," Mr. Pawne remarked.
To Ken's query, Mr. Pawne explained that Buddy Nolan taught dancing on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood. He was the very best teacher in the city, said Mr. Pawne.
"And may I drive a car there, myself?" asked Ken. "Certainly. You may use the Rolls roadster."
With Mr. Pawne at his side, Ken drove the high old Rolls-Royce down to Hollywood. The School of Terpsichore occupied a Grecian temple on the Boulevard. The Muse, in person, adorned the portal. She was weather-beaten but still graceful.
Buddy Nolan interrupted a class to greet Mr. Pawne and to show Mr. Gracey his establishment. The School of Terpsichore supplied many dancers to the movies and the theatre. Neophytes in practise clothes, boys in shorts, girls in trim bathing suits, stretched and rolled and bent their bodies earnestly.
"Will this do, Mr. Gracey?" Mr. Pawne whispered, as the tour of the school ended.
"It's great!" Ken cried. "I'll stay here today."
A day at Buddy Nolan's ripped away the veil from Ken's mind. He felt alert, alive for the first time since arriving in California. These languid semi-tropic days and moist nights, the rich food, the luxury in which he lived had deadened the nervous resilience which had characterized his activities back home in Selma. Now that he danced, the crafty face of Mr. Lowell vanished temporarily from his memory. The cajoling voice, the unctuous manner, that mystifying wizardry, compound of wealth and sinister devotion, was withdrawn as if it had never been.
At the conclusion of Ken's first class, Buddy Nolan sent for him.
"You're marvelous," beamed the dancing teacher. "My dear, you are marvelous. I have never had such a beginner since I opened the school. You already possess a definite style. You are as graceful as a woman."
Nolan was tiny, frail, with a light, shrill voice. He dressed in slacks and smoked incessantly. On his ring finger was a huge moonstone, which he rubbed from time to time against his cheek. "My boy," he continued, "we are going to be fast friends. I don't care if you are La Lowell's protégé, I am going to make you mine … in the dance, of course."
For three days the wine of youth coursed through Ken's veins. He practised until his muscles stretched taut over weary bones. His long legs swung high again and again over his head. Buddy Nolan helped him personally to acquire a back kick. In experimenting with this step, Buddy stumbled upon a side-kick, a natural graceful swooping movement, which he enthusiastically hailed as a novelty greater than any he had created.
The other students of the School of Terpsichore marvelled at Ken's ease. He liked them for their frank admission that he would surely excel them all upon the stage. Yet he was shy and did not join them in their gossip nor in their frequent walks to the corner drug store for sodas and alkies mixed with Coca Cola. A pert little girl, who identified herself as Anita Rogers, "unattached and willing to stay so," challenged him with the taunt "high hat"; but he only smiled at her as she pouted and turned away.
He enjoyed his hours of freedom greatly. The blue Rolls purred easily through highways and boulevards. It took Ken from mountain to ocean, from Beverly Hills to Hollywood, where, in daytime, the papier-mâché quality of the city's homes and business buildings made life itself seem cheap, gaudy and gay.
Ken was tempted to park the Rolls and to roam through the movie city, which lay restless beneath white sunshine at the foot of the endlessly varied hills. But the car and the city were not his to play with. He drove hurriedly on, as if fleeing through a dream.
Star-ridge, like Hollywood, was unreal. Mr. Pawne became an incredible character, a pottering nuisance; Kari's innumerable attentions and his pidgeon English fluttered annoyingly about. The vast house held Ken imprisoned as in a gilded sarcophagus.
He could not meet his dancing-schoolmates on their own plane. He could read in their eyes the fear and contempt they felt for him. He was rich; many of them were very poor. He was "different"; they were "ordinary."
One of the boys—a snub-nosed, pleasant Jimmy Smith, who was very adept at picking up new and sensational tap "breaks"—watched Ken's performance with envy and admiration.
"Been working long?" he asked.
"Two weeks," said Ken curtly and turned away. In Ken's mind at the moment was exhilaration at the discovery that he could kick straight and true to the back of his head. He was surprised to hear Jimmy Smith say: "Because you're old Lowell's latest chicken doesn't mean you can lord it over me, Gracey."
"What do you mean by that?" Ken asked.
"As if you didn't know—" said the other and turned away with a gesture of disgust.
Buddy Nolan met Ken at the gate.
"Going home?"
"Not for an hour or two," Ken replied. "Mr. Pawne said Mr. Lowell might fly in from Tanopah today. He owns mines up there in Nevada."
"How about a drink with me at the Rendezvous?"
"What's that?"
"A spot on Hollywood Boulevard."
"I'm on."
As Ken drove the dance master to the Rendezvous, he heard lavish praise of Mr. Lowell.
"La's a powerful friend, Ken," said Nolan. "Would it surprise you to know that he put me in business?"
"Not at all. But tell me, Bud, how come Jimmy Smith doesn't like him?"
Nolan rubbed the moonstone on his cheek and gazed quizzically at Ken. Then he began to chuckle.
"Called you a name, I bet."
"No—"
"He's not the type, Ken. Forget him."
"Don't say anything to him about it, will you?"
"I never talk to that kind about personal matters. Don't let La Lowell hear you gossip about him to outsiders."
"I didn't say a word, Bud."
Ken was vaguely nervous as he entered the Rendezvous. It was a large, rambling house of shingles streaked with patches of faded color. A low wall almost hid it from the view of passersby. Within, a long room, tables set before benches which lined the walls.
Bud was greeted by Jackie Jackol, a square-chinned woman of forty-five, husky-voiced, loose-limbed, hair plastered closely against her rounded head.
The Rendezvous was half-filled. Nearly all the guests were men although, in a dim corner, sat a quartette of young women.
"This is the place to come if you want to be free," said Bud. "By that, I don't mean that you can't enjoy yourself elsewhere. But I'm sure you feel the peace of this room. I'd rather drink bad gin here than champagne at the Cocoa-nut Grove."
"Why?" Ken asked naively.
"Look around," said Bud. "Everyone knows everyone else. Jackie's a true friend. The boys and girls come to her with their problems and their troubles. She solves everything by serving gin. If you can pay—great. If you can't—great.
"That's Hal Romans, over there. He's a psychic, on the side. Odd chap, a little demented perhaps, but true. That's Jean Duval, the little fellow—stealing an hour from his studio—he is an artistic publicity man, catering to the more decadent movie stars.
"The girl in the center, Kay Regan—she's a young lawyer. She doesn't practise because she spends too much time worrying about the fate which made her a woman instead of a man. I call her a bi-sex, flat-feet, the result of a lover who beat her, but she's convinced she was born wrong—so what can poor Buddy do?
"That stringy blonde next to her would be quite pretty if she'd bathe regularly. She hails from up North where she got religion. She preached the Four-Square Gospel for Aimee until she was thrown out of the Temple for using the dressing rooms for odd purposes."
"You mean she's queer?"
"Divinely so, dearie," said Buddy, and rubbed the moonstone against his cheek. "Jackie, for heaven's sake, bring us some gin and ginger ale."
At six thirty, Ken drove the Rolls into the garage. Kari greeted him at the patio entrance.
"Missee Lowell waits for you in the music room," he said.
The gin had been fuming in Ken's head. He had driven at breakneck speed through Glendale to Flintridge, pursued by a demon thought. While he sat drinking with Buddy Nolan, the ugly idea had slowly filtered into his mind. As Buddy talked, it spread. He was seeing the faintly discerned outlines of reality for the first time.
In Selma, such things had been a joke, a nasty joke. To have believed in their actuality would have stamped one as a dope, a hop-head. The boys back home had been plenty lusty, plenty filthy, too—but in a noisy, reassuring way. They cursed, they were mean, cruel, even disgusting at times. But they were men.
Ken, who had read few novels, who had visited no big cities except for flying trips during training periods, had never conceived the possible existence of such coteries as he had seen grouped about the Rendezvous. While Buddy was talking, as he established with finality the reasons for these attachments of man to man, Ken had not been able to speak. The gin had slowly warmed him. He had viewed the Rendezvous with more acute eyes. As he drank, the certainty grew. These boys and men were … the conventional Selma word was "fairies." Buddy, too.
But why did Buddy admit Ken to his confidence? Why this talk of Mr. Lowell?
Not until the moist, foggy evening air struck Ken's cheeks and he had bidden Buddy a calm good-night at the entrance to the school, did Ken have the necessary time for quiet reasoning. He reviewed the events since he had left Selma. He tried to remember what had happened to him.
He had been mildly drunk all the time … sometimes with liquor, sometimes with Mr. Lowell's words, sometimes with the beauty with which Mr. Lowell and California surrounded him.
Now, quick with the energy of dancing practise and the shock of gin, he wondered why—why—really why had Mr. Lowell brought him from Texas to California? Of course it was absurd to identify Mr. Lowell with these pallid, languid young men who dressed so smartly and chatted so volubly. They were vapid nobodies. Mr. Lowell, a big business man, did things.
Yet … Buddy Nolan did things. Buddy worked hard. He made money. He was famous in Hollywood. Buddy considered these denizens of the Rendezvous as his brethren. And Buddy regarded Mr. Lowell as a god, a paternal god, whose open hand brought riches, comfort and peace.
Wonderingly, Ken thought of Star-ridge, its staff of men. The great house on the hillside was a man's paradise, an Eveless Eden.
What fraternity of men was Ken entering? What were its ramifications? Its code? And in what manner had he been seduced into joining this monastic life?
The Rolls, as Ken considered these questions, entered the driveway and a moment later Ken learned that Mr. Lowell was at home.
From the patio to the balcony were twenty-four ascending steps. Desert trees had been planted on the patio level, a joshua with arms lifted in prayer, a pale green cactus, huge with stiletto-like spikes; a sword cactus with prickling blades spread out in the manner of an opening fan.
Ken strode to the foot of the steps. As he did so, his mind tightened. He could feel the sharp, crackling sensation as of a cap being drawn down upon his head.
He started up the steps. He knew in that moment that he hated Mr. Lowell. He could see through it all. The horrible old man was spidery. He sat inverted in the midst of this, his web, and lured innocent boys into his gaping maw. He had already taken Ken from his home, from his friends—not through any unselfish devotion, but for purposes scarcely to be mentioned even to one's self. He had already outwitted Ken. The significance of that night in Malibu became clearer and clearer as Ken ascended the steps.
Midway, he halted. He must not fail to let the old man know that he was no fool. He must go straight to him now and say—
But what could he say to Mr. Lowell? That, as in a dream, he had gone to Malibu, as in a dream he had experienced a new emotion, one so intangible that he could not tell what had passed between himself and the old man?
As Ken hesitated on the steps, the organ responded to a gentle touch. A pastoral melody, flute-like, a shepherd inviting his flock to share the shadow of a cliff, an old, old melody, derived from some ancient Grecian theme, drifted down from the music room.
Ken listened as he entered the balcony. He stood motionless in the music room loft.
Mr. Lowell was dressed in a black velvet robe. His white arms, bare to the shoulder, moved in the slow rhythm of the plaintive tune. His gray Van Dyck seemed white in the brilliant overhead light.
Ken stood still—listened.
The melody ended.
Without turning, Mr. Lowell spoke.
"I know that is you, Kenneth."
"Yes, Mr. Lowell."
"This song I just played was for you."
He rose, smiling, and advanced toward Ken. He resembled an ancient philosopher approaching one of his pupils, Socrates greeting a Spartan youth come to Athens to study life and lore at his feet.
"I am glad, dear boy, that you have enjoyed yourself," said Mr. Lowell. "Mr. Pawne tells me you are studying dancing."
"Yes—I've limbered up swell. Won't be long before I'll be ready with a real routine."
"Have you made any new friends?"
"No."
"Not one?"
"Buddy Nolan."
"He is a splendid fellow. Ah, yes … I remember him very favorably."
"We went to the Rendezvous together this afternoon."
"The Rendezvous?" Mr. Lowell's eyes narrowed. Ken's heart pulsated more rapidly.
"It's a place where a lot of boys go."
"But how did you get there?"
"I drove the Rolls."
"Mr. Pawne let you drive the Rolls?"
"Why, yes. I asked him myself."
Mr. Lowell had quickly crossed the room to the organ. He touched a button. "It isn't your fault, Ken, but I prefer that you do not visit places like the Rendezvous. Of course you were entirely innocent in the matter, but Buddy Nolan should not have taken you there. What did he say to you?"
"Nothing." A lump grew in Ken's throat.
"You must have talked about something."
"We did. He pointed out different people—"
"I thought so. Mr. Pawne—" Mr. Lowell called through the window. Mr. Pawne was scurrying across the patio, his patent-leather shoes glistening in the pale straw glow of the lamps.
"Come right up, Mr. Pawne," Mr. Lowell ordered crisply. He turned and faced Ken. "You are not to associate with anyone in Nolan's school. If he persists in talking to you about anything other than business, I shall have to send you elsewhere."
Mr. Pawne, thoroughly aware that something was wrong, entered. "What is it, Mr. Lowell?"
"I thought I told you not to let Mr. Gracey out of your sight while I was away."
"I didn't understand you to say exactly that."
"Exactly that? You didn't understand? But those were my words. And you permitted him to drive the Rolls-Royce?"
"I did, Mr. Lowell. He was bored."
"You permitted him to be bored?"
The old man's voice rose to a shrill peak. He glared at Mr. Pawne, who recoiled from his glance. Mr. Lowell placed an arm around Ken's shoulder. "I can see that no harm has come to you. And no harm will come to you in the future."
"I took good care of the car," said Ken apologetically.
"Of course you did. But I shouldn't have cared if you had wrecked it."
Mr. Pawne placed a finger-tip on his lips. "Mr. Lowell, sir," he began, "I'm sorry—"
"I'm sorry too, Pawne," said Mr. Lowell. "Mr. Crofton will give you your check in the morning. Good-night."
As the door closed on Mr. Pawne, Ken blurted a protest against the dismissal of the Englishman. Mr. Lowell cut him short.
"Kenneth," he said, "I don't want anyone around me who knows too little for comfort—or too much." He smiled and patted Ken's hand. "You, my dear, are you happy?"
Ken hesitated. "You aren't?" Mr. Lowell pursued his inquiry. "Why?"
"I'm just … just …"
"I know … lonesome … unhappy. Well, tonight we shall entertain you. Go to your room and I shall send Kari to you. He'll dress you properly."
Ken smiled for the first time that evening.
"A party?"
"A little gathering of my closest friends."