He performed the ritual that permitted him to enter his own house — standing within range of the viewer, speaking the formula that indicated the absence of muggers or gunmen lurking in the background — and passed from the late May heat of East Seventy-fifth Street into the air-conditioned citadel of home.
He was immediately caught up in the events of the day. His very executive secretary, Alice, met him in the hall. She had been with him so long that he no longer knew what she looked like.
“Hi, Walter. Did you get it? Are you pleased?”
He held up the small Verdura box he was carrying. “I think she’ll like it.”
“The boys arrived and have gone out again already,” Alice said. “They promised to be on time for lunch. Time sent proofs of their cover story, if you want to read about yourself. All the papers have been calling asking for advance copies of tonight’s speech.”
“That’s the committee’s business. Did we get last week’s grosses?”
“Yes. A bit better than the week before.”
“Real cool, man.” He mocked the jargon of the day with impish eyes. He was a tall man with a fine, well-proportioned figure, but the imp still lurked in his face, around the corners of his slightly upslanting eyes, and shaped the curve of his generous mouth. His habitual expression was impishly mocking. Without giving her more than the surface of his attention, he was aware of her hands fluttering about herself in the way she had when she didn’t know how he would react to what she was going to say.
“There’s a wire of congratulations from the president,” she announced.
“You’re kidding! Who told that creep about our little cultural activities?” Small things like this occasionally assured him that some part of him still functioned at the old level — independently, irreverently, perhaps even creatively.
“David’s waiting upstairs in the library. He brought a friend.”
“Did somebody give them something to drink? Tell Clara to join us. And don’t let anybody through. We’ll go public this evening.” He turned from her. There was an elevator, but he rarely used it; he had always been energetic and liked to keep his youthful body on the move. He climbed the stairs, feeling the house close around him. He had been assured that the air-conditioning reproduced the most ideal outdoor atmospheric conditions, so he knew his sense of suffocation must be psychological. Clara’s cocoon. Inaccurate. Every piece of fine furniture, every glowing picture from Bacon to Zadkine had been coveted more by him than by her.
He turned down a short hall, past some of his splendid possessions and entered the library. He was immediately dazzled by the first sight of David he had had for almost two years: skin
