She made her exit and did not neglect to slam the door.
“Oh dear,” said Benjamin Ruby quietly.
“Quite,” said Montague Reece.
The young man called Rupert Bartholomew, having reinstated his portfolio, got to his feet.
“I reckon I’d better—?”
“Yes?” said Mr. Reece.
‘Take myself off. I mean to say, it’s a bit awkward.“
“What’s awkward?”
“Well, you see, Madame — Madame Sommita asked me— I mean to say she said I was to bring this”—he indicated, precariously, his portfolio.
“Look out,” said Ben Ruby. “You’ll scatter it again.” He did not try to suppress a note of resignation. “Is it something you’ve written?” he said. It was more a statement than an inquiry.
“This is right. She said I could bring it.”
“When,” Reece asked, “did she say it?”
“Last night, well — this morning. About one o’clock. You were leaving that party at the Italian Embassy. You had gone back to fetch something — her gloves I think — and she was in the car. She saw me.”
“It was raining.”
“Heavily,” said the young man proudly. “I was the only one.”
“You spoke to her?”
“She beckoned me. She put the window down. She asked me how long I’d been there. I said three hours. She asked my name and what I did. I told her. I play the piano in a small orchestra and give lessons. And I type. And then I told her I had all her recordings and — well, she was so wonderful. I mean to me, there in the rain. I just found myself telling her I’ve written an opera — short, a one-acter — sort of dedicated to her, for her. Not, you know, not because I dreamt she would ever hear of it. Good God, no!”
“And so,” Benjamin Ruby suggested, “she said you could show it to her.”
“This is right. This morning. I think she was sorry I was so wet.”
“And have you shown it to her?” asked Mr. Reece. “Apart from throwing it all over the carpet?”
“No. I was just going to when the waiter came up with this morning’s papers and — she saw that thing. And then you came. I suppose I’d better go.”
“It’s hardly the moment perhaps—” Mr. Reece began when the bedroom door opened and an elderly woman with ferociously black hair came into the room. She held up a finger at Rupert, rather in the manner of summoning a waiter.
“She wanta you,” said the woman. “Also the music.”
“All right, Maria,” said Mr. Ruby, and to the young man, “Maria is Madame’s dresser. You’d better go.”
So Rupert, whose surname was Bartholomew, clutching his opera, walked into La Sommita’s bedroom like a fly, if he’d only known it, into a one-way web.
“She’ll eat that kid,” Mr. Ruby said dispassionately, “in one meal.”
“Halfway down her throat already,” her protector agreed.
ii
“I’ve wanted to paint that woman,” said Troy Alleyn, “for five years. And now look!”
She pushed the letter across the breakfast table. Her husband read it and raised an eyebrow. “Remarkable,” he said.
“I know. Especially the bit about you. What does it say, exactly? I was too excited to take it all in. Who’s the letter from, actually? Not from her, you’ll notice.“
“It’s from Montague Reece, no less.”
“Why ‘no less’? Who’s Montague Reece?”
“I wish,” said Alleyn, “he could hear you ask.”
“Why?” Troy repeated. “Oh, I know! Isn’t he very well off?”
“You may say so. In the stinking-of-it department. Mr. Onassis Colossus, in fact.”
“I remember, now. Isn’t he her lover?”
“That’s it.”
“All is made clear to me. I think. Do read it, darling. Aloud.”
“All of it?”
“Please.”
“Here goes,” said Alleyn and read:
Dear Mrs. Alleyn,
I hope that is the correct way to address you. Should I perhaps have used your most celebrated soubriquet?
I write to ask if from November 1st you and your husband will be my guests at Waihoe Lodge, an island retreat I have built on a lake in New Zealand. It is recently completed and I dare to hope it will appeal to you. The situation is striking and I think I may say that my guests will be comfortable. You would have, as your studio, a commodious room, well lit, overlooking the lake, with a view of distant mountains and, of course, complete freedom as to time and privacy.
“He sounds like a land-and-estate agent — all mod. cons. and the usual offices. Pray continue,” said Troy.
I must confess that this invitation is the prelude to another and that is for you to paint a portrait of Madame Isabella Sommita, who will be staying with us at the time proposed. I have long hoped for this. In my opinion, and I am permitted to say in hers also, none of her portraits hitherto has given us the true “Sommita.”
We are sure that a “Troy” would do so quite marvelously!
Please say you approve the proposal. We will arrange transport, as my guest, of course, by air, and will settle details as soon as we hear, as I so greatly hope, that you will come. I shall be glad if you will be kind enough to inform me of your terms.
I shall write, under separate cover, to your husband, whom we shall be delighted to welcome with you to the Lodge.
I am, believe me, dear Mrs. Alleyn,
Yours most sincerely,
[in spiky writing] Montague Reece.
After a longish pause Troy said: “Would it be going too far to paint her singing? You know, mouth wide open for a top note.”
“Mightn’t she look as if she were yawning?”
“I don’t think so,” Troy brooded and then with a sidelong grin at her husband, “I could always put a balloon coming out of her mouth with ‘A in alt’ written in it.”
“That would settle any doubts, of course. Except that I fancy it refers to male singers.”
“You haven’t looked at your letter. Do look.”
Alleyn looked. “Here it is,” he said. “Overposh and posted in Sydney.” He opened it.”
“What’s he say?”
“The preamble’s much the same as yours and so’s the follow-up: the bit about him having to confess to an ulterior motive.”
“Does he want you to paint his portrait, my poor Rory?”
“He wants me to give them ‘my valued opinion as to the possibility of obtaining police protection in the matter of the persecution of Madame Sommita by a photographer, of which I am no doubt aware.’ Well, of all the damn cheek!” said Alleyn. ‘Travel thirteen thousand miles to sit on an island in the middle of a lake and tell him whether or not to include a copper in his house party.”
“Oh! Yes. The penny’s dropped. All that stuff in the papers. I didn’t really read it.”
“You must be the only English-speaking human being who didn’t.”
“Well, I did, really. Sort of. But the photographs were so hideous they put me off. Fill me, as I expect they say in Mr. Reece’s circles, in.”
“You remember how Mrs. Jacqueline Kennedy, as she was then, was pestered by a photographer?”
“Yes.”
“It’s the same situation but much exaggerated. The Kennedy rumpus may have put the idea into this chap’s head. He signs himself ‘Strix.’ He’s actually followed the Sommita all over the world. Wherever she has appeared in opera or on the concert stage: Milan, Paris, Covent Garden, New York, Sydney. At first the photographs were the usual kind of thing with the diva flashing gracious smiles at the camera, but gradually differences crept in. They became more and more unflattering and he became more and more intrusive. He hid behind bushes. He trespassed on private ground and cropped up when and where he was least expected. On one occasion he joined the crowd round the stage door with the rest of the press, and contrived to get right up to the front.
“As she came into the doorway and did her usual thing of being delighted and astonished at the size of the crowd, he aimed his camera and at the same time blew a piercingly loud whistle. Her jaw dropped and her eyes popped and in the resulting photograph she looked as if someone had thumped her between the shoulder blades.