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  “And now that you’re the Dowager Lady Joyce?”

  “Well, that’s just it. Nothing. We have an excellent bailiff, and the place takes care of itself. My son doesn’t need me. So here I am. Not wanted on the voyage.”

  “I find that very difficult to believe.”

  “But it’s true, alas. I’m in the country just enough to keep the place up for my son and to let the villagers know that the lady of the manor hasn’t forgotten them—not that they’d care, they’ve got very modern. For the rest of the time I’ve got a nice-enough flat in a madly fashionable part of London, equidistant from Harrod’s and Victoria Station—my two ports of call. And there I suppose I just lead the London life.”

  “À la Bunty?” I asked, knowing from the dulcet snore at one end of the table and the gibbon’s chatter at the other that I would never be overheard.

  “Oh, dear no. Nothing half so spectacular. Luncheons for four, little dinners for eight, and lots of good works—the English Speaking Union, the Distressed Gentlefolks Aid Association, King George’s Pension Fund for Actors and Actresses.”

  I couldn’t help noticing that a youngish American man, whose name I hadn’t quite caught, shot a look across the table at Lady Joyce.

  “You never think about going back into the theater?”

  “Oh, I think about it a lot. But I wouldn’t—couldn’t really. You see the stage was dashing and daring and cute and forgivable for Monica James when she was a chit of eighteen. But for Lady Joyce who opens bazaars and has an almost-grown-up son it wouldn’t do at all. Besides, I was frightful. I’ve seen some of my old films on television, and I was so embarrassed just sitting alone and seeing me make an ass of myself that I had to shut the set off and have a stiff drink.”

  “You were better than you think, and the pictures you did for Starr . . .”

  “Ah, Starr was a different matter. Childish and selfish as he may have been, he could get a performance out of anyone. Even me. In his perverse way he was really a genius. But who can live with a genius?”

  “And you’ve never seen him since your dramatic escape from South Africa?”

  “Just once. It was around the time that Starr got into some fearful scrape in England. It was during some dismal period between the cattle show and our hunt ball—two gala functions you may be sure. My husband and I were staying at Claridge’s (he usually liked Brown’s but Claridge’s was a sort of treat for me because I’d been such a grand old trump and given up a trip to the Continent so that he could buy a vicious underslung Aberdeen-Angus bull—you’ve no notion how hideously expensive they are, but I’m told that this one has more than paid for himself in fees). Well, anyhow, we were all dressed up—thank God—and having supper, and I was just wondering whether I’d been a grand enough old trump to order caviar or had I best stick to the dressed crab when I looked up and saw Leander charging at me like a—well, like a bull. I seemed to have bulls on the mind at that point.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Do? Well, what could I do? I’d had no warning, no rehearsal, not even Starr to direct me. And need I tell you that my husband simply was not of the Design for Living, ménage à trois, why-can’t-we-be-friends turn of mind at all? So after Leander had kissed me—and with such feeling—I introduced my two husbands in my best garden-party manner and prayed that Leander would go away or die on the spot—or that I would.”

  “Did he?”

  “No such thing. He called for a chair, sat down, took over the ordering, and set about to charm us outrageously while the champagne flowed. So finally, after picking at a Dover sole for what seemed to be a year and a half, I thought if I go, he’ll go, and it will only be a matter of months before I’m forgiven and we can settle down into Boar Hall with the new bull and go on as though nothing had ever happened. So I got up and said, ‘If you’ll forgive me I have rather a headache, but don’t hurry on my account, dear.’ So I went upstairs and got into bed with Graham Greene.”

  “I beg your pardon,” I said.

  “One of his books. Something about a man from Havana. I was so undone I really couldn’t keep track of it that night. So I waited and I waited and I waited, thinking of some terrible brawl going on out in the street and how the Joyce name would be dragged through the mire all because of some little upstart of an actress like me who married above her station. Eventually I just dropped off from sheer exhaustion only to be awakened at five o’clock in the morning when my husband came rollicking in so drunk he could hardly undress himself. Well, he and Leander had closed Claridge’s and then gone off to some bottle club—I leave you to guess who paid. My dear, he’d just never met anyone so charming by half as Leander. Couldn’t understand why I’d ever left him. In fact he found Leander so utterly charming that he’d gone and lent him five hundred pounds! I was fit to be tied! And yet you know I wasn’t really cross at Leander. I’ve never been able to stay angry at him, even though there were times when I’d have happily shot him right through his black heart. I think I was angrier at my husband for being such a fool.”

  “And for not being sufficiently jealous and outraged?”

  “That, too, I suppose. Poor Leander. I wonder what’s become of him.”

  “Would you really like to know?” I asked.

  “I’d give a great deal to know where he is today.”

  “About how much?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “I think you’ve come to the right place.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she said.

  “Starr is here. On the q.t. He lives right next door to us, about a mile from here. In fact, we’re going there for drinks this evening.”

  “And did you also know you were taking a guest?” she said.

  “No. Who?”

  “Me.”

  Luncheons in Mexico start late and last long, but none so late nor so long as Bunty’s. Although she’s dealt a death blow to every solid old British tradition inbred in generations of Maitland-Grims, she still clings tenaciously to the most tiresome of all—that one where the ladies withdraw, even in the afternoon, leaving the men to heavy, unwanted dollops of port or brandy and to the heavy, unwanted conversation of each other. And so instead of our being allowed to make half an hour’s polite conversation and go home for a much needed nap, Bunty rose shortly after five and said, “Henry’s a wee bit hors de combat, so will you do the honors for the boys in library, darling?” I don’t know quite which darling she meant, me I guess, as she was staring near-sightedly in my direction. “The loo’s through a divine secret panel next the fireplace. I hope you can find it.” I hoped so, too.

  The library was a dim cave tricked out with leather-bound volumes of greater age than value or interest, some antique swords and shields, an arrangement of avocados, gourds, and gardenias (with rhinestone dew), and an enormous painting of an elfin Bunty by Marcel Vertès that looked more like an advertisement for Schiaparelli products than a portrait. I won first prize for finding the “loo” and from the display of toothbrushes, straight razors, shaving bowls, and hangover cures spread out on the marble shelves, deduced that Henry had abandoned Bunty’s boudoir and was obviously bedded down on the big ratchet sofa in the library. I wondered if Bunty had exiled him or whether the move was voluntary because Bunty talked in her sleep also. Either way I couldn’t work up much sympathy.

  When I returned to the merrymakers, Henry Maitland-Grim had been gently settled into a great oak chair of the Inquisition Period. It couldn’t have been less comfortable if it had been fitted out with electrodes, but our host was past caring. The honors with the decanters were being handled by the young American who had sat across the table from me at lunch. “Port or cognac, Mr. Dennis, sir?” he said with a winning smile.

  “Neither, thank you.” For some obstinate reason—vanity, perhaps—I don’t care to be called “sir” by people who are over twenty-five and this one certainly was. “Could I have a glass of water instead?”

  “Certai
nly, sir.” A fine, showy bit of work with the ice tongs, an authoritative glugging of the Garci Crespo bottle, and I was served. It was a great performance that might have accompanied cherries jubilee in a posh restaurant, but it was just a bit too stagey for serving up a glass of water. Then he fastened me with a sincere brown-eyed gaze and, with a splendid show of teeth, said, “I don’t really know any of the fellahs here, do you, sir?”

  “I’ve met them before.”

  From a glance at the male contingent, “fellahs” was about the last thing you could apply to them. Bunty hadn’t been able to bag any social lions that day and had had to satisfy herself with a shrill English milliner who hadn’t made much of a go of his hat business in London and, under the wing of a naughty old Mexican gentleman, was thriving down here where hats are almost never worn. There was a youngish Spaniard (Cuban, it turned out later) with a very grand name overflowing with de’s and la’s and los’s and y’s (not quite his own, it turned out later) who, under the patronage of a naughty old Mexican lady, had recently opened a decorating establishment on the Calle Niza. There was also a very intense young American playwright-producer-director, much heralded by the many local little theater groups as the new Samuel Beckett, whose off-Broadway play in New York had been roasted by three of the daily newspapers, ignored by the other four, and closed after one performance. The nice thing about Mexico is that there’s always room for one more and if you don’t do whatever it is you do very well wherever it is you come from, you can always bluff your way down here. It is the haven and the heaven of the second-rate. Bunty certainly had the scrub team out on the field today.

  The young American gave the “fellahs” a faintly scornful glance—not that I blamed him—and then treated me to a sincere grin of friendly admiration. “Your books have certainly given me a great deal of pleasure, sir. I’ve had a lotta laughs.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I don’t know why it always embarrasses me to have people compliment my books—I’d be furious if they came right out and said they hated them—but it does. Eventually he’d get to his eccentric aunt; everyone does.

  “I was especially nuts about one I ran across in the Knickerbocker Club library, and I couldn’t help thinking of my own aunt—great-aunt, that is—old Mrs. Chauncey van Damm up in Tuxedo Park. She was quite an eccentric.” He began to launch into an anecdote about this lovable eccentric and Mrs. Twombley in an electric car and I knew I could shut off my hearing-aid, so to speak. In a few well-chosen words he’d got his point across very nicely: fine old club; fine old family; fine old fortune; fine old address; fine old friends. But then if he’d done his name-dropping so well, why had I noticed?

  The anecdote and the electric car came to a halt in a morass of mutually insincere chuckles. He flipped open a very gold cigarette case stamped B van D. I thought instantly of BVD’s, as I’m sure everyone else does, and refused. He lighted a Yetl (con filtro), coughed piteously, treated me to another winning smile, and said, “Is Lady Joyce an old friend of yours?”

  “Not really. I just met her a long time ago.” I’d thought of going into the meeting with Starr but discarded it as none of BVD’s business. I also found myself not liking him as much as I should, considering the effort he was making, and damned myself as a hungover old crab, patronizing a perfectly well-mannered younger man who was only trying to be polite. Still, I didn’t exactly warm to him. I hate to be charmed.

  “It’s a very fine family in England,” he said. “Very old. Irish, actually.”

  “Is it really?” I said, wondering just when I could get the hell out and go home.

  “Yes. You’ve got to be terribly careful down here.”

  “Careful of what?”

  “You meet so many phonies.” His fine brown eyes swept the room. Much as I wanted to, I could not gainsay him. If I’d liked him better, I could have filled him in on countless petty scandals from the recent past concerning the small armies of bogus dukes and countesses, con men, and cagey little hustlers who had made minor killings on the Mexican social circuit. But I didn’t.

  “Are you working on something now?” he asked smoothly.

  I’ve always felt that if the answer were “On the blonde across the street” or “Why, yes, I’ve just perfected a bomb that will blow us all to kingdom come next Tuesday,” the only reply would be a smiling “That’s nice.” The only thing more boring than the question “Are you working on something now?” is the answer. However, we were both saved by the clattering entrance of Bunty.

  “You naughty boys! If you’re going to spend the whole day telling horrid stories, at least come in and tell them to us.” Her husband gave a loud snort and then slumped back into his coma. “Poor Henry, he’s simply exhausted from all his research. Well, come along this instant, the rest of you, you’ve been together long enough.” How right she was.

  The ladies were all looking a bit heavy-eyed, but too done-in to protest when Bunty, in her terrible Mayfair-accented Spanish, squealed to her beach attendants, “Pedro! Mario! Mas Bunty Bombs por favor!” Overloaded with food and drink as we were, we could only hope to take a couple of sips, pour the rest of the Bunty Bomb into one of the horticultural excrescences, and make our getaway.

  My wife oozed across the room, giving me one of those private let’s-get-the-hell-out-of-here looks. She was followed by Lady Joyce, who did much the same. “I’ve been having such a nice talk with your wife,” she said. “In fact, I’ve made her promise to take me along to Leander’s.” She lowered her voice and added, “My only other alternative is to learn the twist with some ghastly American chums of Bunty’s. No offense meant.”

  “We know exactly what—and probably even who—you mean. And I can’t say that we blame you.”

  “I think the twist might possibly—just possibly—be passable,” my wife said, “if you’re underweight and under twenty-one, but . . .” She stopped. Suddenly, silently, BVD, all splendid teeth and eyes, was in our midst. “I do hope you’ll stop in and see me sometime,” he said smoothly. “I’ve taken a flat on the Hamburgo—just bachelor digs, you know—right near the American Ambassador’s house. If you’ve got a pencil . . .”

  “I’ll telephone for a taxi,” I said.

  “But do let me drop you off,” he said. “My car’s right outside.”

  “Oh, don’t bother to do that,” my wife said.

  “It’s out of your way, anyhow,” I added.

  “Very far?”

  “Well, it’s about a mile from here. We could walk when it comes to that.”

  “Not in these heels on those cobblestones,” my wife said darkly.

  “Then I won’t hear of your not coming,” BVD said generously.

  There were farewells and embraces and promises of getting together immediately with Bunty. Bunty was quite put out with Lady Joyce for leaving with us, but after an interminable amount of small talk we made our escape. In a moment we were all in an opulent Continental Phaeton, gliding grandly homeward through the tortuous streets and alleys of San Angel.

  The car, which he drove expertly and effortlessly, struck me as quite a lot like young BVD himself—glossy, expensive, conservative, if any contemporary American automobile can be described as faintly conservative. As with its owner, I only wished I liked it better, and again scolded myself for being such an unreasonable old crank.

  It was only a matter of minutes or so before we reached the great carved doors of Casa Ximinez, which our transportation officer professed to find fascinating. “I’ve always been crazy about these old places,” he said with a winning grin.

  I knew what was coming next. My wife was about to rise to the bait like a trout. She can no more resist handing out the empty invitation than she can stop breathing. “Wouldn’t you like to come in and have a drink?” she said, and she seemed slightly staggered when, instead of saying some fatuous thing like Thanks-but-I’m-late-for-an-appointment-in-town, BVD treated us all to a charming smile and said, “I’d love to—but just for a minute.” I cast
my wife one of our intramural God-damn-you-to-hell-with-your-great-big-mouth looks and graciously opened the door to Number 1.

  While I struggled with the ice trays and took orders for drinks, our young male guest was showing Lady Joyce around the place quite as though he’d lived there for all four centuries, pointing out various architectural features and commenting learnedly on the various periods of Madame X’s fake antiques. I did, however, derive a certain wry pleasure from discovering that in almost every statement he was totally incorrect.

  Once again I called myself every kind of mean, cantankerous, unreasonable old bastard and tried to convince myself that I was jealous of his good looks and good manners. It’s so rare nowadays that anyone gets to see anything like good manners that I purr with pleasure whenever I’m around a truly polite person who displays them. Just my hangover, I decided.

  By the time the drinks were passed around, he was seated decorously on the sofa playing Do-you-know with my wife and Lady Joyce, and it seemed that he knew just everyone.

  Through the window I could see St. Regis in a white jacket bustling about the patio arranging chairs and tables, bottles and hurricane lamps, and plumping up a great vase of rather weary-looking gladiolus. “I see,” I said almost too pointedly, “that St. Regis is just about ready for us.”

  “St. Regis!” Lady Joyce cried. “Darling old Albert Schmackpfeffer!”

  “I beg your pardon?” I said.

  “Alistair St. Regis—né Albert Schmackpfeffer of, oh, where was it, something like Montevideo, New Jersey. . . .”