on this for a bed was a made-up double mattress with a reading lamp over it, leaving plenty of space on the dais for books, ashtrays, a tray of drinks, and a chess board. A small fireplace had been built to serve both the dais area and Harry’s black chair behind the desk. It had an extremely cozy air, with its slanting ceilings and small windows, and made me think of nothing so much as a secret pied-à-terre place of assignation to bring a girl. Harry had the only set of keys in the household, which once in a while he would give to the one maid he allowed in to clean it. Nobody else was allowed in it. And in all the years I had known him, I had only been invited up there three or four times.
One entire long wall had been completely covered in bookshelves, about a quarter of which had locked glass windows in front of them and housed Harry’s famous pornography collection. Another shorter one had cabinets built against it, which stored all Harry’s charts and carried on its top under its special lamp all his navigational tools and his Mixter and Bowditch. Though Harry had never owned a yacht that I know of. A third wall was hung with the plaques and framed certificates and citations of his life, and other memorabilia. Harry called this his Shit Wall. There were things like his Life Memberships in the National Rifle Association and National Skeet Association, his citations from the Screen Writers Guild for Academy Award Nominations. There were his framed Silver Star and Bronze Star citations from the war, a certificate making him an admiral in the Great Navy of the State of Nebraska some fan had sent him, some newspaper clippings, a menu signed by himself, Irwin Shaw and William Styron from the South of France, several poker hands, a framed tie from a club he had become a member of, a framed key from the Chief Purser of the old Liberté which would let him into First Class, framed covers of Newsweek or Time with the portraits of friends who had made it, and a framed photo of some anonymous girl’s bare behind all bent over cunningly so that nothing shocking really showed except her pubic hair peeking through under. Harry would never say who she was except that she was a famous movie star he had known.
In the other corners around not counting the shotgun corner were scattered a couple of scope-mounted hunting rifles; his skis, his poles, and his boots in their carrying rack; his Aqualung tanks and regulators; several pairs of different types of crutches and some canes; and near the bar was a folding table-like thing called an Adams Trainer Exerciser. About the only thing missing was a Ping-Pong table. But there wasn’t room for one.
“No, I’m not at all sure I want to be away from Louisa that long,” he said, coming back from the bar with a tray, and sat back down in the tall-backed black leather swivel chair.
“You could take her with you,” I said.
He looked at me with surprise. “I could, couldn’t I?”
“Install her in Madrid.”
“Except there’s nothing to do in Madrid. She’d be bored. I’d be out at the studio all the time, or out on location.”
“Shopping.”
“There’s nothing to shop for in Madrid. Maybe some of those knitted Spanish rugs is about all.”
“Museums. She’s never seen the Prado. Has she?”
“That’s true,” he said thoughtfully. He rocked himself in the black chair several times. “That’s true.”
“She’d love it,” I said.
“Maybe,” Harry mused, “maybe. Well, I sure don’t feel like going without her,” he said. Then he grinned, to make sure I knew what he meant. I think he was still feeling particularly high after his session with the two producers.
I took a drink, then left my nose in my glass and studied the ice in there. Harry and I had never really talked openly about sex—except for what was implied when he nudged me and smiled or nodded imperceptibly over some especially well-endowed girl at a party, or who would pass by us in the street.
One entire long wall had been completely covered in bookshelves, about a quarter of which had locked glass windows in front of them and housed Harry’s famous pornography collection. Another shorter one had cabinets built against it, which stored all Harry’s charts and carried on its top under its special lamp all his navigational tools and his Mixter and Bowditch. Though Harry had never owned a yacht that I know of. A third wall was hung with the plaques and framed certificates and citations of his life, and other memorabilia. Harry called this his Shit Wall. There were things like his Life Memberships in the National Rifle Association and National Skeet Association, his citations from the Screen Writers Guild for Academy Award Nominations. There were his framed Silver Star and Bronze Star citations from the war, a certificate making him an admiral in the Great Navy of the State of Nebraska some fan had sent him, some newspaper clippings, a menu signed by himself, Irwin Shaw and William Styron from the South of France, several poker hands, a framed tie from a club he had become a member of, a framed key from the Chief Purser of the old Liberté which would let him into First Class, framed covers of Newsweek or Time with the portraits of friends who had made it, and a framed photo of some anonymous girl’s bare behind all bent over cunningly so that nothing shocking really showed except her pubic hair peeking through under. Harry would never say who she was except that she was a famous movie star he had known.
In the other corners around not counting the shotgun corner were scattered a couple of scope-mounted hunting rifles; his skis, his poles, and his boots in their carrying rack; his Aqualung tanks and regulators; several pairs of different types of crutches and some canes; and near the bar was a folding table-like thing called an Adams Trainer Exerciser. About the only thing missing was a Ping-Pong table. But there wasn’t room for one.
“No, I’m not at all sure I want to be away from Louisa that long,” he said, coming back from the bar with a tray, and sat back down in the tall-backed black leather swivel chair.
“You could take her with you,” I said.
He looked at me with surprise. “I could, couldn’t I?”
“Install her in Madrid.”
“Except there’s nothing to do in Madrid. She’d be bored. I’d be out at the studio all the time, or out on location.”
“Shopping.”
“There’s nothing to shop for in Madrid. Maybe some of those knitted Spanish rugs is about all.”
“Museums. She’s never seen the Prado. Has she?”
“That’s true,” he said thoughtfully. He rocked himself in the black chair several times. “That’s true.”
“She’d love it,” I said.
“Maybe,” Harry mused, “maybe. Well, I sure don’t feel like going without her,” he said. Then he grinned, to make sure I knew what he meant. I think he was still feeling particularly high after his session with the two producers.
I took a drink, then left my nose in my glass and studied the ice in there. Harry and I had never really talked openly about sex—except for what was implied when he nudged me and smiled or nodded imperceptibly over some especially well-endowed girl at a party, or who would pass by us in the street.
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