A Treasury of Stories (Collection of novelettes and short stories)

That evening Gerry stood with his back to the dance floor, shaking spasmodically first one leg then the other, resting the baton against his waistcoat, leading his saxophones like whimpering panthers. And all about him danced Zoe Werner, a thing possessed, devils in her eyes, a bacchante brave with silver and with jet. They played Poor little rich girl, Poor little rich girl, Better take care. Diluted breezes came in under the scalloped awnings. This pitiful music drowned out the sound of the sea for a little while only, but the sound of the sea would last forever.

“Look, Gerry, how’s this for real dancing?” Her hair began uncoiling and then all at once tumbled headlong down her back. She gave a hilarious scream of dismay and ran out of the room.

A little while after that there was an intermission, and Sharlee met Gerry on his way out through the lobby for a breath of air.

“Gerry, I haven’t seen you all day.”

He murmured something about being called back.

“There’s loads of time,” she said. “You won’t have to play again for another half hour.”

He lit a cigarette with a trembling hand, but she could see that he wasn’t even thinking of her; he was all keyed up to the intrigue set for him, looking over her shoulder toward the elevators all the time.

“What?” he said absently.

“Gerry Jones,” she lamented in a peculiar sing-song, “you’re the talk of the season, you two. I’ve stood all I can. You’re the laughing-stock of this place—”

“What are you doing — trying to start a scene with me here?” he demanded angrily. “You couldn’t pick a better spot, could you?”

“I’m not trying to start any scene,” she repeated in a trance-like calm. “I’ve got my ticket to go back to New York.”

He woke up to what she was saying then.

“That night we met,” she went on very earnestly, “must have been a mistake. I’ve thought it over.” And going over to the perfume case she switched off all the lights.

At this point Mrs. Werner, her hair freshly done up, stepped out of one of the elevators, a black velvet cape gathered jealously about her. Her eyes were particularly Venetian this evening.

Poor Gerry Jones, trying to unravel his destiny in a few broken whispers. “You make me feel like two cents, sweetheart—”

“Say it with your music,” said Sharlee. “You’re so weak you’re not worth saving.” And she walked off.

Zoe Werner’s candle-like fingers closed on Gerry’s arm.

“What’s all the shooting for?”

“Sharlee just told me she’s going back to New York.”

“Oh, you silly children. You sil-lee, sil-lee children.”

“Dear lady,” he told her, “we are children. Why did you ever meddle with us?”

She regarded him gloomily. “The good die young,” she said with a touch of sarcasm.

Gerry went back to his music. People wanted to dance; they wanted gay music to shut out the sound the sea was making. Gerry stood up in his place and trembled spasmodically, shifting his weight first to one leg then to the other, and swung the baton dreamily before his chest. Before him swam the image of a beautiful woman in beautiful clothes. A vain selfish woman, the sort of woman Zoe Werner was.

And at first he thought she was more beautiful than an artery of mauve lightning in an angry sky. Every day for days and days of her life she had rubbed creams of almond blossom and of orange blossom, essences of honey and heliotrope dew gently, ever so gently, into her skin. Every day for days and days of her life she had bathed her shoulders in steam and jasmine, pressed a sponge choked with ice cold water to her heart, touched a glass rod with a drop of liquid violets and French chemistry to her lashes and the lobes of her ears. She had protected herself against drafts with spun silk and with lace of Ireland and of Flanders. She had protected herself against cold with the skins of leopards and of seals, with shawls of Persia and Seville. She had protected herself from darkness with electricity in rose and pearl and amber globes, and when the globes burst, it was seen that there was no light to be had from them at all, only an illusion.

And all at once he looked closer and saw that there was no face there at all, only grinning decaying teeth and eyeless sockets and the worm-eaten bridge of a nose. It was a death’s head. The mouth was painted and the cheeks, and the ears were colored shell pink. She even had a gardenia in her hair. And with it all she was a ghastly looking thing. The gay music wavered, then broke, and the bottom fell out of it. The dancing outlasted it only a matter of a second or two. People came to a halt and looked at one another uncertainly, not knowing what to make of it.

“Water!” said a voice at the far end of the room. “He’s fainted. Take him outside.”

Sharlee was upstairs, getting ready to go away. She took time off from her packing to bury her head in the pillows and sob. Then there were voices outside and someone knocked on the door.

“Yes?” said Sharlee, jumping up and dabbing at her eyes.