You Find Him – I'll Fix Him

  We rode up in the automatic elevator, meeting no one in the lobby. We got inside her apartment without anyone seeing us. When she had shut the front door and had taken me into a large pleasant lounge, lit by shaded lamps and decorated with bowls of flowers, I suddenly got the impression that we were the only two in the apartment.

  She dropped her wrap on a chair and went over to an elaborate cocktail cabinet.

  "Will you have rye or gin?"

  "You aren't alone here, are you?" I asked.

  She turned and stared at me. In the shaded lights, she looked stunning.

  "Why, yes – is that a crime?"

  I felt my palms turn moist.

"I can't stay. You should know that."

She continued to stare at me, her eyebrows lifting.

"Are you so frightened of my father then?"

  "It's not a matter of being frightened of your father," I said, angry that she had so shrewdly put her finger right on the point. "I can't stay here alone with you, and you must know it."

  "Oh, don't be stupid," she said impatiently. "Can't you act like an adult? Just because a man and a woman are alone together in an apartment, do they have to misbehave themselves?"

  "That's not the point. It's what other people will think."

  "What other people?"

  She had me there. I knew no one had seen us enter the apartment.

  "I could be seen leaving. Besides, it's the principle of the thing ..."

  She suddenly burst out laughing.

  "Oh, for heaven's sake! Stop acting like a Victorian and sit down."

  I should have grabbed my hat and walked out. If I had done that I would have saved myself a lot of trouble, and that's an understatement. But I have a reckless, irresponsible streak in me that occasionally swamps my usual cautions judgment, and that's what it did at this moment.

  So I sat down and took a stiff rye and crushed ice she gave me and watched her while she fixed a gin and tonic.

  I've kicked around Rome for four years now and I haven't led an entirely celibate life. Italian women are good and exciting.

  I have had my big moments with them, but as I sat there, looking at Helen in her white dress, I knew this could be the biggest moment of all my moments: this was something special, something that made me short of breath and a little crazy in the head.

  She went over to the fireplace and leaned against the overmantel while she regarded me with a half-smile.

  Because I knew this was dangerous, and I wouldn't need much encouragement to walk right into trouble, I said, "Well, how are you making out at the university?"

  "Oh, that was just a gag," she said carelessly. "I had to tell my father some story or he wouldn't have let me come here alone."

  "You mean you don't go to the university?"

  "Of course I don't."

  "But won't he find out?"

  "Why should he? He's too busy to bother about me," she returned and I caught the bitterness in her voice. "He's only really interested in himself and his latest woman. I was in the way, so I told him I wanted to study architecture at the university at Rome. As Rome is miles away from New York, and once here, I couldn't suddenly walk into his room where he might be trying to convince some little gold digger that he is much younger than he looks, he fell over himself to send me here."

  "So the horn specs, the flat-heeled shoes and the scraped-back hair were part of the gag, too?" I said, realizing by telling me this she was making me an accessory, and if Chalmers found out, the chopper might come down on my neck as well as hers.

  "Of course. When I'm at home I always dress like that. It convinces my father that I am a serious-minded student. If he saw me as I am now, he would have hired some respectable old lady to chaperone me."

  "You're pretty cold-blooded about it, aren't you?"

  "Why not?" She moved over and dropped into a lounging chair. "My mother died when I was ten. My father has had three other wives: two of them were only two years older than I am now, and the other was younger. I was as welcome to all of them as an outbreak of polio. I like being on my own: I have lots of fun."

  Looking at her, I could believe she did have lots of fun: probably more than was good for her.

  "You're just a kid, and this is no way for you to live," I said.

  She laughed.

  "I'm twenty-four and I'm no kid, and this is the way I want to live."

  "Why tell me all this? What's to stop me sending a frantic cable to your father, telling him what's going on?"

  She shook her head.

  "You won't do that. I've talked to Giuseppe Frenzi about you. He gives you a very good reference. I wouldn't have brought you up here if I wasn't sure of you."

  "Just why did you bring me up here?"

  She stared at me: the expression in her eyes made me suddenly breathless. There was no mistaking that expression: she was giving me an invitation to go ahead and make love to her.

  "I like the look of you," she said. "One can get very tired of Italian men. They're so intense and so direct. I asked Giuseppe to bring you to the party, and here we are."