A ruling passion : a novel, page 53
"No," Scutigera said. He shook his finger at Valerie. "I like you, missy, you're sincere and good to look at and you try hard, but you jump to conclusions and you think I'll jump with you."
"You had nothing to do with that meeting?" Valerie asked softly.
"A small part. They needed hotel rooms and a room to meet in and
they wanted it kept quiet. That's my business; I'm in the travel business and I don't gossip. And I like to make people happy. That's my real business: I make people happy."
From her armchair beside the window, Valerie asked her audience, "Is Salvatore Scutigera a simple travel agent? Or is he a roving ambassador whose expertise is for sale, maneuvering in the shadows to carry out the wishes of governments that don't want their people to know what they're doing? Keep your eye on him."
She turned to look at another camera. "I'm Valerie Sterling. I'll be back next week, keeping an eye on... Stanley Jewell. Until then, for all of us at 'Blow-Up,' thank you, and good night."
The small editing room was quiet. Nick and Valerie stood at the same time. "Well done," he said. "I like your writing and editing. And you're wonderful on camera. That hasn't changed. How many hours did you interview him to get those lines?"
"Six." She was glowing, still high from the excitement of performing and, for the first time ever, bringing her own work to life. And adding to it was Nick's praise. "Almost seven, in fact. He tended to ramble."
"But you got him to trust you."
"I liked him," Valerie said slowly, "but there's something wrong there. I beheve what he told me, but I think the whole thing was a lie... or a distortion, because it wasn't the main story."
"Is that instinct? Or did you pick up something while you were in his office?"
"Instinct. There was nothing to pick up, that I could see. Everything was so clean I think the maid finished just before I walked in. I doubt there was even a fingerprint."
He glanced at her. 'Tou think he's worth some more of our time, for 'Blow-Up.'"
"I think he might be."
"I'll talk to Les. Is there anything else I should tell him?"
"Tell him 'Scutigera' is ItaUan for 'Centipede.' And sometimes 'Spider.'"
Nick griimed. "I'll tell him. Thanks."
They walked fi-om the dimly lit editing room to the bright corridor, poised to walk in opposite directions, Nick to his office, Valerie to hers. Nick did not want to move. He liked the swift, easy understanding of their talk, and he wanted more of it. He remembered it had been the same when they were in college; it was one of the things he
most missed when they separated. And even now, though he had that kind of understanding with some close friends, with Les and with Chad, he had not found it with another woman.
Beneath the bright lights of the corridor, Valerie smiled at him. "I liked the way you picked up on what I said about fingerprints. It's nice to be understood without a diagram."
He remembered that, too: her openness in sharing her feelings. He had not thought of it in a long time. "It is nice," he said. "We might talk about that sometime."
"We might," she said easily. "Thank you for being here today." She turned and walked toward the dressing room.
"Valerie," Nick said. She turned back to him. "Who's Stanley Je-weU?"
She smiled again. "A Barnum and Bailey lion tamer. You'll have to watch my program next week to find out the rest."
"I'll try to come earlier; I'd like to be there for the taping," he said, and he was, every Thursday from then on. In that first week, after Valerie's program on Scutigera, they did not see each other at all. Nick took a short business trip and Valerie was immersed in researching the life of Stanley Jewell, who had recendy left lion taming to become chief ftmd raiser for the Republican Party.
But first, the day after her show on Scutigera, Les came to her desk. She had moved from the research department to the enormous room that served as office for thirty producers, directors, writers and reporters, and she was sitting there, her back to the room, making telephone calls, when he came to her and sat in the chair beside her desk. "Good show on Scutigera," he said. "Just a few problems."
She hung up the telephone. "Nick said it was good."
"He was right. It also had a few problems. First, the necklace."
"I know," Valerie said. "I'm sorry about that. I know silver reflects too much fight; I can't imagine why I forgot it. I'm sorry."
He handed her the necklace. "You left it on the floor. Second, you let us see your disbefief once. Some reporters do a lot of that, especially on 'Sixty Minutes'; around here, we don't. Third, you let yourself talk too fast; not always, just now and then. Fourth, you didn't follow up on his last statement. When he admitted getting them hotel rooms, maybe you should have moved that up and made it the focus. FifiJi, I would have liked a couple shots of him as a kid, and maybe his neighborhood. Sixth—"
"Will this take long?" Valerie asked icily.
Les sat back and crossed his legs. "I guess it'll take as long as you want. I can be finished in five minutes... or an hour, if I have to explain why I'm doing my job."
There was a silence at her desk, amid the hum of speech around them. Valerie thought of saying that she hadn't had enough time, that no program could be done properly in four minutes. But she did not say it, because she knew it could not be her excuse. Four minutes was more time than was allotted to most news items on the network news shows; it was as long as most interviews on "The Today Show" and "Good Morning, America," and "The CBS Morning News." Of course those weren't in-depth reports, but neither was hers: it was intended only as an introduction to people who might be newsmakers in the future. Within those limits, she knew she could do a lot with four minutes if she really knew her job. "I'm sorry," she said stiffly. "I knew I'd made mistakes; I even knew what most of them were. I'm still learning how to do this job."
"Okay, we know that," Les said with a grin. "We even expected it. So what happens now?"
Valerie saw in her mind Nick and Les sitting in an office, feet up, drinking coffee and discussing her mistakes. How dare they pass judgment on me? But then she remembered that she had demanded sixteen minutes, not four; she'd let herself in for this.
"You tell me the rest of my mistakes and I correct them," she said lightly. "Next time Nick tells me I'm good, I'd like to think he means it."
"He did mean it. You were good. You'll be better. There's only one more problem: you didn't give us a reason to think this guy might get bigger or more important. We've got this little fact about him and it's interesting, but what might he be doing that we should be thinking about, other than more of the same? Maybe that's enough, but if so, why? Why should we be interested in him other than the fact that he's got great connections and does some favors? Does that make sense to you?"
"Yes. It's probably the most important thing you've said. Thank you."
'Tou're welcome." He paused. "You don't have to prove you can do it yourself, you know. We're here to help."
She nodded absendy. She was making notes, Les saw: listing her mistakes.
She kept the list in front of her for the rest of the week, while she
prepared her next show. First she made dozens of telephone calls, to Jewell himself to set up an interview, then to people whose names she found in magazine and newspaper stories about him, asking them for information and opinions. When she knew what she wanted to ask, she went to New York, where Jewell was staying for the week, and spent a day with him in his hotel room, along with her director and two cameramen. The next day, she had slides made from the photographs he had loaned her, of himself, the circus, his new office, and some location shots she had requested. At the same time, she was writing her script, and when the first draft was finished she spent a day with a tape editor in one of EScN's editing rooms, splicing together quotes she thought would give her viewers the best and most complete picture of Jewell in his old hfe and the beginnings of his new one.
That was the pattern for all the weeks. And at the end of each week, Nick would appear in the studio or the control room as Valerie was clipping on her microphone and testing the sound level, and stand quietly in a corner, watching the taping. Afterward they would talk briefly in the bright corridor outside the darkened studio. As the weeks passed, their brief talks became longer. They always were about "Blow-Up" or Valerie's program, but now and then they drifted naturally into something personal: a play Nick and Chad had seen, a book Valerie was reading, a newspaper story Nick had admired, a statement by a congressman they both found amusing. There would be moments when the corridor was empty, and their voices would weave together in the silence, until someone walked past and greeted them. And it was then, when they were interrupted, that the moment became intimate. But neither of them acknowledged that; they would talk and laugh together for another minute or two; their hands might accidentally touch; and then they would go off" in opposite directions.
It was as if they were getting acquainted all over again, much more cautiously than the first time. Valerie found herself thinking about Nick during the day, and much more often in the evening, when she sat at home with Rosemary, reading or flipping through television channels to see what the competition was doing. She thought of him most at night when she lay in bed in her small room crowded with fiirniture from her childhood, and fought die longings of her body that swept through her only then, only in bed, when she was not absorbed with work and the conversation of friends and co-workers.
She wondered if she was finding Nick attractive because he was wealthy, or because she was trying to recapture her youth, or because
she was lonely for the closeness of a man, or because she genuinely was drawn to him all over again, for the same reasons she had been the first time.
I won't know until I spend some time with him, she thought. And it doesn't look like that's going to happen unless I make it happen.
Well, why shouldn't I? I sent him away, a long time ago. Maybe it's up to me to ask him to come back.
If thafs really what I want. It wouldn't be fair to go after him and then decide I don't want him after all.
Besides, if I did that, I'd be out of a job.
Oh, the hell with it, she thought in exasperation, and sat up, turning on her light and picking up her book. Maybe reading about other people's dilemmas would put her to sleep. Thinking about her own certainly wasn't doing it.
It was a time when she made dozen of decisions a week about her program, and could not make one about her personal life. She no longer tried to push Rosemary into finding something to do, because it created tension between them and made Valerie feel guilty. She could not get interested in the men she met and so did not go out at night, unless it was with Rosemary to a concert or a movie. She bought a few new dresses and suits to wear on her program, but shopping was not the pleasure it once was and so she continued to wear the wardrobe she had brought from New York and Middleburg, now over two years old. It was a good thing she had her work, she thought; that was where she got all her satisfaction these days.
And then, suddenly, she went to Italy, and everything in her life changed.
Of course she had been to Italy many times, in a life that was now gone. But this was different. This time she was with Nick.
It did not begin that way. She knew he was going to Italy in June; he told her at the end of May, as he walked with her from the studio, where she had finished taping a program. It was the first time he had told her he was going away, though he took two or three short trips a month that she knew about, and perhaps more. "I'll miss a couple of your programs," he said. "I'm sorry about that."
"So am I," Valerie replied. "I've gotten used to knowing you're there, beyond the lights. I wonder what I'll do differendy with you gone."
"Are you sure you will?"
She nodded. "I think everything we do is affected by whoever is watching."
His eyebrows rose. "You think people are always acting for the benefit of an audience?"
Valerie thought of Sybille. "Some people are always acting," she said thoughtfully, "no matter who's around. But what I meant was, we change the way we behave, depending on who's watching and what we think that person expects. The way we talk, whether or not we use complicated words and ideas, when we smile, how much we gesture ... and probably a lot more. We're all chameleons of one sort or another."
"But you don't know for sure that I'm watching; you can't see me off in my corner, or in the control room. What if I walked out halfway through your program?"
"I'd think there was a crisis somewhere, because you're too polite to walk out for any other reason."
He chuckled. "That doesn't answer my question."
"It wouldn't matter whether you left or not. What matters is that I believe you're watching. That's why some people can't bear to be alone; they don't know how to behave without thinking that someone is watching."
Nick contemplated her. He thought of Sybille. "An interesting idea," he said. "I look forward to seeing the tapes of your program when I get back."
"I look forward to seeing them as soon as I've made them," she said, and they parted in laughter.
Nick left for Italy the first week in June. He had never been there, and on the flight over the Atlantic he looked up firom his book fre-quendy, at the dimly lit cabin, his fellow passengers reading or sleeping or playing cards, and wished he were traveling with someone who could share his discoveries. He had planned on taking Chad, but just the week before, as the school year was ending, a classmate had invited him to his family's summer home in Vermont where they could swim and ride horses and hike in the woods. "I want to do both," Chad had said in frustration as they sat at dinner. "How come things always come at the same time? Life isn't fair."
"Probably not," Nick said seriously. "Ifs just as hard for me, you know, because I'd like you to do both, too."
"So why can't we go to Italy in July?"
"Because I have meetings in three cities and I can't put off any of them. I wish I could. I do have some others later this year; what would you think of London in September?"
"School," said Chad gloomily. "The way things are going, I won't
live long enough to do a hundredth of the things I want."
Nick chuckled. "Since you just turned twelve, I think you have time to do considerably more than that. How do you think I feel, at my advanced age?"
Chad studied him. "Old, I guess. You don't go out as much as you used to, and you never talk about getting married anymore. I'm going to grow all the way up without a mother." They were silent, both of them thinking about the mother that Chad did have. "I mean, a mother who's here. Telling me to clean my room and what time to be home, and things I can't do."
"I tell you those," said Nick quietly. "So does Elena. And Manuel."
"Sure." Chad concentrated on making a pyramid of peas in the center of his plate. "It's okay. Dad," he said at last, looking up with a mischievous grin. "I don't want you to rush into anything; you'd probably make an awfiil mistake. Give yourself another eleven years, just to make sure."
Nick burst out laughing. "Thanks a lot; I just might do that."
"That's what I was afraid of"
"Or I might not." Nick gazed at his son. "Do you remember Valerie Sterling? We had lunch with her—"
"In Middleburg. That day we went to the church. Sure I remember; she was terrific."
"She's working at E&N," Nick said.
"She is? Yeh, but she's married."
"Her husband died."
Chad's face brightened. "Good deal! Well, I mean, it's too bad, but ... I can't even remember him, you know, I mean, he didn't seem, like, special...Not that that makes 't£iood. .." He stopped to untangle his thoughts. "So is that why she's working for you? 'Cause he died?"
"That's one of the reasons."
"So are you taking her out, or what?"
"Not yet. I've thought about it."
"Well, you could wait another eleven years."
"I don't think I'd wait that long." Elena brought their dessert, and Nick changed the subject, relieved because he found he liked talking about Valerie but was uncomfortable with the direcmess and speed of his devastatingly logical son.
Still, sitting on the plane, he wished Chad were with him. The times they had traveled together had been journeys of delight for Nick, seeing cities and their people through Chad's innocent, unsparing eyes. Even familiar places had seemed new with Chad beside him. I won't
leave him behind again, Nick thought. I'll find a way to reschedule meetings. If I don't he might never do a hundredth of the things he wants to do.
At dawn they were over the Italian Alps. Frothy clouds, tinged pink and coral from the rising sun, nesded in the valleys between the snow-covered peaks; the sky was a burst of light. And when they landed in Rome and the Italian passengers gave an ovation of ecstatic applause, the sun was up, already hot, turning the city's umber brick buildings to deep red-gold.
Nick's room in the Hotel Hassler, at the top of the Spanish Steps, looked out over red tile rooftops and the domes of dozens of churches interspersed with the dark green of Cyprus, pine and plane trees. The cobblestone Piazza de Spagna, at the foot of the Spanish Steps, was a kaleidoscope of families, business people, tourists, and children climbing over the dolphins in the fountain of Barcacia. The steps themselves, broad and steep, with carts of bright flowers beneath picnic umbrellas, were densely populated with people of all ages who lounged in the sun, read, gossiped, held passionate discussions, climbed up and down, and photographed the panorama of Rome in the distance. The steps, Nick would discover, were never empty. They thinned out at dawn, but by late afternoon they were carpeted with people, shifting, wriggling, gesticulating, being part of the scene.
