I called down to the desk to ask if Mr. Donner had reserved another room or suite, other than the one I was now in, the one I had reserved for us in his name more than two weeks earlier. The desk clerk was pleasant, in that way the Brits have, but he couldn’t tell me if Mr. Donner had reserved another suite for himself. Or wouldn’t, I thought. It seemed quite likely that he had. This was where he always stayed when he sang in London. There was no logical way in which he would have altered those plans.
I took up a position in the lobby the next morning, hoping to catch a glimpse of Paul coming out of one of the seven elevators that dumped their passengers into the wide lobby. I waited from eight o’clock until well after eleven but there was no sign of him. I walked up to the front desk and asked for note paper and when I had it wrote Paul a note. I placed it in an envelope and handed it to the desk clerk.
"For Mr. Donner," I said. Then I gave him a pleasant nod and turned to walk away and out of the building. The voice of the clerk stopped me in my tracks.
"Do you want this sent directly up to your room?" he asked me.
"No. To Mr. Donner’s other room, please." I was sure that would do the trick.
"Mr. Donner only has the one suite reserved, sir, the one you’re in."
"Are you sure?" I asked returning to the desk.
"Yes, sir, absolutely."
"I see. Thank you." I took back the note, shoved it into my jacket pocket and headed out to the street. Cunard’s offices were only a step or two down the Strand, so I went there next. The young woman behind the counter was all business.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Donner’s trunks were picked up instantly and taken to his hotel,"
she said.
"Wonderful," I replied. "Thank you all very much." I took a breath. "I should just check to see that they all arrived in perfect condition. Which hotel where they taken to?" I asked.
"I’m terribly sorry, sir, but I am not at liberty to disclose their destination."
"I’m Mr. Donner’s assistant," I told her and I gave her my name. "It’s my job to keep track of these things."
"It is my understanding, sir," and she picked up an official piece of Cunard stationery to hold on to as she said this, "that Mr. Donner has asked that no one be told his whereabouts in London. He has particularly named you in this note."
"That’s impossible!"
"I’m so sorry sir, but that is what it says here."
"I want to see your supervisor, instantly," I said, sounding as much like Paul as I possibly could under the circumstances.
"Of course, sir. Please have a seat and I will have him paged." She picked up her desk telephone and punched in three numbers. After a moment, still smiling at me, she said into the receiver, "Yes, Mr. Orton please to the front desk. Thank you."
She nodded to me and gestured to the three leather chairs at the other end of the room. I dutifully went, sat, and waited. The wait was a short one. Mr. Orton was a stout, short man with a Hitler moustache and a snatch of red hair at the back of an otherwise bald head.
"How may I be of service?" he asked. I told him what I wanted and he slowly shook his head, side to side, while strumming his chin with his splayed fingers. "I’m sorry, of course, but the privacy ( and he said ‘priv’ with a short I ) of our guests is a matter of great propriety to us. I cannot possibly reveal his placement in London. Not to anyone."
"You people have been of absolutely no help, whatsoever."
"I’m sorry sir. I really am."
I got up to go. I had no desire to shake this man’s hand or to thank him for anything including his insufferable, intolerable time. He had brought me nothing of value.
"One thing, before you go," he said.
"Yes? What is it?"
"Your return ticket with us in three weeks, sir. Mr. Donner has canceled your ticket, received a refund for it actually. We’ll have to ask you for the documentation at your earliest convenience."
"My ticket? How am I supposed to return to the States without my ticket?"
"I’m sorry, sir I have no idea. Perhaps you could purchase a less expensive, lower class ticket for yourself."
"With what?" I stopped myself from saying too much more. My financial status here was not something I wanted to disclose in a public place. At least my hotel room was paid for and assured, I thought. At least that.
I walked back to the hotel with this latest blow emblazoning my heart. I was weak, now. Hurt and weakened by all that had happened to me at Paul Donner’s hand. None of this was fair. I had done nothing to hurt him. I had tried to keep myself aloof from Drew at departure, but an accident had changed all that and changed everything else. I was sure that none of what happened at departure would have mattered if it hadn’t been for that awful scene in the apartment with Michael. It was Michael who had destroyed everything for me. How typical, I thought, of Michael to come between two people who actually care for one another. He had managed it with Freddy and me and now with Paul and me. There was no one else, I thought. That’s what I thought.
At the hotel I checked in with the desk to see if there were any calls waiting for me. No calls, no messages, no callers either. I went back up to the room, tired and hungry for the long day had brought me little rest and no food. I was wondering how to remedy all that when the phone suddenly jangled, its sharp, harsh belltones rattling my brain for an instant.
"Hello?" I said. "I mean, are you there?" I added, trying to sound British. I had remembered that phrase from an old Kay Kendall movie.
"Hullo, Max?" came a now familiar voice. "It’s Drew. Drew Hatton. Is this a bad time?"
"No. No, Drew, not at all. This is a perfect time, actually."
"Oh, super. I’ve waited all day to chat with you and I thought you might be free for a spot of tea."
"Tea....tea sounds sort of ... insipid, actually," I said, dragging out the syllables since I didn’t know as yet what I might be ready to do.
"Still no luck then, locating the man?"
"No. None."
"So sorry to hear that. Let me pick you up in half an hour then."
"You always seem to be picking me up, Drew."
"Now, come on, dear boy. I’ve already told you my intentions are honorable."
"Yes, but you don’t expect me to believe that, do you?"
"And why not? I am older than you and wiser than you, too."
"Doesn’t mean you’re not the same sort of lecher everyone else is."
"Why ‘everyone else’ Max? What’s that for?"
"Well, everyone today seems to be hitting on me, on the straight, at the bird. I’m like the center of some large, general target practice. That’s what I think,"
"Poor little Max. Attracting the fish like a worm on a hook, are you? Sad."
"Look, it’s not like that. I’m not enticing today. I’m ugly as sin."
"Well, I think you need someone to take you out for a meal, out for a drink or out to a show. Something should be changing your mind."
"A show?" I said, suddenly remembering the one thing I’d forgotten. "Sounds great."
"Excellent! Where shall I take you, then?"
"Wigmore Hall," I said, naming the concert hall where Paul was scheduled to give a recital in just two days.
"Wiggy Hall? Done," he said. "What’s on tonight?"
"Oh, I don’t care, but we should get going now, don’t you think?"
"Absolutely. I’ll pick you up in ten minutes. That’s room....?" I told him the number. "Excellent. So get your war paint on, Max."
"Never wear the stuff, Drew. Never needed to."
"Well, dear heart, we don’t stay young and flawless forever, now do we?"
"Don’t be bitchy." He was gone. I freshened up, changed my shirt and tie and was just tucking in when the buzzer at the door sounded.
We cabbed it over to Wigmore Hall. It was still only early afternoon and when we walked into the lobby the first thing I saw was the three-sheet poster for Paul’s concert just two days later. Drew saw it also.
"Oh, I see," he said, "still longing for your Camelot?"
"You do spend a lot of time in America, Drew," I said. "To hear about our Broadway musicals with your lack of time is wonderful."
"Musical," he said thinking hard about what he was saying. "Oh, you mean that Richard Burton thing with the Andrews girl. No, dear boy, I was referring to the place where our King Arthur and his wife Guinevere lived."
"Yes, I know, Drew. It’s all in the show.’
"All? I seriously doubt it. Put it all in and there’d be no room for the songs."
I started to hum "If Ever I Would Leave You," and he nodded as though he knew exactly what it was and what it meant. I stepped up to the box office window and inquired about tickets for Paul’s recital. There was very little from which to choose, so I opted for two seats in the rear of the gallery. "At least," I thought, "he’ll never see me up there. Even if his voice could reach it easily he won’t be allowed to see us all."
Drew wanted to pay for them, but I wouldn’t accept his generosity. There was nothing else to buy at Wigmore Hall, so we left and re-entered the cab which Drew had held for us.
"Where to?" he asked me.
"I don’t know. This is your town, so you choose."
"It’s not my town, Max. New York is my home now."
"Yes, so you said, but you’re from here so this is always going to be your town."
He nodded sweetly, suggesting a fish restaurant where the Dover Sole was superb and the place was awash with ‘common clay’ so I wouldn’t feel out of place. We went and gorged ourselves on fish and potatoes with parsley and frozen peas. It was a tiny restaurant off a tiny alley just off a large square in the West End. I almost knew where I was, but not really. London at dusk is a place that’s too easy to get lost in, even when you know where you’re going. But here, at Manzi’s the food was really good and I was having a good time in spite of myself.
Drew had ordered wine and we drank freely with our dinners. At the end, I reached for my wallet to pay for the food, but Drew put his hand over mine and squeezed tight.
"Don’t think of it, dear boy. They know me here and they won’t take your money when you’re dining with me."
"Why is that?"
"I’m a regular, you see. I have a house account."
"Well, let me relieve you of the burden of payment, Drew."
"No, Max. It can’t be done."
"I don’t know what you think you’re buying here....."
I didn’t get any further with that statement, for Drew stood up suddenly and walked away. I turned around and watched him depart the room, sure I’d really done it this time with my pig-headed, New York attitude. I threw down a five-pound note as a tip, and grabbed my coat off the chair as I rushed out after him.
The tiny vestibule which only held three people without crushing the walls was empty and I opened the door, sure I’d find him outside waiting for me. The street was crowded but there was no sign of Drew. I knew he couldn’t have gotten far and the taxi wasn’t waiting for us this time. I was starting down the alley when I heard my name being called from above. I stopped dead in my tracks and looked around, finally spotting Drew in a third floor window.
"What are you doing up there?" I shouted.
"Up here is where I live when I’m in London," he replied.
"Above the restaurant?" I asked loudly.
"Absolutely."
"That’s incredible!"
"Why? London is filled with such places."
"I’m sorry, Drew, about what I said in there. Terribly sorry."
"Oh. Think nothing of it. I’ve forgotten it already."
"Thanks. Well.... I guess I should get back to my hotel."
"No, no. It’s early. Come up for a drink"
"Now?" He nodded. "How?"
"Just come back in and walk up the two flights. It’s easy. See you." He pulled back into the room and shut the window quickly. I did as I was told.
The staircase was narrow and tipped in a hundred different directions, each tread moving my body a different way. It was almost as though the staircase had been created by a British humorist, or by Lewis Carroll for his Alice books. At the first landing there was a short corridor in each direction, each one clearly connecting with a second hallway that went off to the rear of the building. There were also a lot of doors. I made the tight turn to the next staircase and repeated my experience of the first one all over again.
At the second landing there were only three doors in a short hall. I wasn’t sure which one would lead me in the right direction, so I just stood and waited for a minute, convinced that Drew would ultimately open one of the three. I was right. He did. It was the one on the left. It opened into a sumptuous apartment that seemed to go on for a long way. The room I stood in was filled with antiques, and photographs and paintings and lamps and small divans and overstuffed chairs. The windows were framed with ornate ruby and gold drapes and hangings. The doorway into the long hallway was shrouded in a similar drape. The carpets were lush and oriental and overlapped one another covering the entirety of the wood floor.
"I’ll take that coat, Max," he said doing it.
"Thanks." He could see I was studying his room.
"You like?"
"It’s fabulous, Drew. Utterly fabulous."
"Fabulous enough to make you forget your troubles for a few minutes, do you think? I can pour you a drink while you look around."
"Thanks, but I don’t need one. Just climbing those stairs of yours has gotten me drunk."
"Yes, they’re known to do that."
He was pouring a drink for me anyway. I could hear the liquid as my eyes, now hurting me from the quick attempt I was making to absorb it all, blinked over and over. He handed me the glass. I took a quick look, and saw it was wine again, the same wine we’d had below with our fish.
"I thought it best not to mix and match, Max."
"Yes. Thanks for that."
He clinked his glass to mine and said something in French and drank his glass dry. I sipped mine. My headache was increasing from the profusion of colors, fabrics, lights in the room.
"It’s a bit much to take, Drew, all this stuff in one small space."
"It’s me, Max. Very much me."
"Yes, I’m sure it is."
"Sweet or rude, Max? Which was that?"
"Oh, sweet, definitely sweet."
"Good. I prefer sweet."
I had moved into the center of this room and found a chair. I sat down, still holding my glass, but the chair’s plush interior gave way and sank me down close to the floor, with my knees pointing upward in front of me. I nearly dropped my wine, but Drew was right there and he took it from my slipping grip.
"I should have warned you about that Morris chair," he said. "It’s so old. Hardly gives any lap at all."
"None, I would say," I said. "Why do you keep it then?"
"Sentimentality, Max. Mere sentiment."
I wanted to say something nice to him. I was having difficulty with that though.
"Thanks for today, Drew. I really appreciate your time and attention."
"Easy commodities for me. Max, I have a lot of time on my hands while I’m here. My mother is in hospital and visiting hours are limited, so I have both days and nights free. I place them at your disposal."
"I didn’t know you had a mother," I said, regretting it instantly. "I mean a mother in the hospital. What’s wrong with her?"
"Actually," he said and he smiled wanly, "she’s dying, Max. She’s very old and very tired and she’s dying. She doesn’t want visitors, just me for an hour each day, and she doesn’t want to live."
"At least she wants you every day," I said.
"Yes, the torture of it give her some enjoyment, I think."
"Torture?"
"Yes, she gets in her one hour harangue about my life, my lifestyle, my lifelessness. She loves to pull out her stiletto and stick it in between my third and fourth ribs. It gives her hope, I think."
"My God, hope of what?"
"Hope of some reaction, I suppose. I think she’d like it if her nastiness got to me in a way that would make me violent enough to smother the last breath of life out of her."
"That’s horrible."
"If I could shorten her final hours, Max, I would do it. I would. She’s a horrid person. She’s never been kind to me. I’m all she has, though, and so it’s my duty to remain silent and let her have her say. After all, when she’s gone, I inherit it all, so how can I be anything other than the son she abuses."
"Why is she like that? Was she always so?"
"Ever since my father died, yes."
"It’s hard for me to understand, Drew. I come from a very different sort of family."
"Do you? Yes, I suppose you must."
"How ill is your mother? How close to the end of all this is she?"
"We don’t know. It could go on for a year, I imagine. She seems hearty and strong to me, at least for the hour I’m allowed to suffer for her."
"Is there anything I can do? Any way I can help?"
"Well, I hesitate to ask, you know how I am Max. You have quite captured my heart and my attention, ever since our departure from New York and you’ve put up with so much yourself. I wouldn’t want to complicate things for you, but if you’d care to step down the hall, disrobe and wait for me, that would be comfort to me."
"I see."
"Would you, Max? Just this once?"
"Well, you know Paul thinks that we..."
"Yes, but we didn’t. Not for six days at romantic sea."
"Exactly. And I’ll hear him on Thursday night."
"And you want to return to him pure."
"Well, pure isn’t exactly the description I’d use, Drew."
"I’m tired of this game, Max. You know what I’d like. You’re entirely free to go or stay. I’d like you to stay, just this once. Please. If Thursday goes well for you, I shall step back and never trouble you again, but if it doesn’t go well, and if this little experience piques your interest at all, at least there’d be a place for you to return to, a place where the two of us could equally solace one another for the troubles in our lives."
"That’s quite a speech, Drew."
"Wasn’t it, though."
I sipped my wine and he watched me drink, a slow smile lighting up his face as he gauged my decision through my actions. I kicked off one shoe and stood up to kick off the other one. I had little left to lose, so why not lose it here, I thought.
"That’s my Maxie," he said softly.
I walked softly past him, through the heavily curtained door and down the dimly lit corridor into the next phase of my odd life. My eyes hurt and my body felt just a tad weak which I thought was odd so soon after a hearty meal. For an instant I flashed on the face of my sister, Brianna, and wondered if she had ever done anything quite like this in her career.