Frank Herbert Read online

  In a week’s time, Wilfred was the favorite topic of conversation in all the dives across town. “Have you seen Wilfred Long—I mean, Louis Donet?” the conversation would begin. There’d be a long round of laughter and a few more rounds of drinks.

  You have to say this for him, though: he carried it off. I don’t think it was demonstrated any more fully than at the trial when his ex-wife (there was some kind of a European divorce) sued him for her commission on his income. It developed that she had picked Wilfred out of a South African church choir, taken him to London, and financed his voice training. She had a contract, too, for ten percent of his income. When, as Louis Donet, he refused to pay, she hired two high-powered lawyers (Cole and Hamilton) and went after him in the courts.

  The courtroom was as jammed for the trial as the little studio had been the day George Bates had taken his flop. Wilfred was up against a different situation here. Mrs. Long took the stand. Her hair was turning gray, and a slim shaft of light from one of the tall windows along the left wall caught her head in a yellow-and-silver halo. She was every bit the English lady sitting there and telling her story in a calm, dispassionate voice.

  “He was a nothing—a nobody,” she said. “I took him and made him into something of which he could be proud and of which I could be proud.” Using the same calm tones, she leveled a finger at Wilfred and said, “No one could take pride in this … this …”

  She was too much of a lady to use the correct term, but her story became all the more convincing because of her restraint. There was a stirring through the court, and the judge rapped for order. Wilfred, sitting at the trial table, hadn’t moved or changed his bored expression.

  “Continue, Madam,” the judge said.

  “There is no doubt that this man is Wilfred Long,” she said. “I was married to him for five years. He hasn’t a mannerism with which I am not familiar.”

  The judge leaned down from his bench. “It is quite possible, madam,” he said, “that you could solve this case in a simple manner. Did Mr. Long have any peculiar markings on his body which would not be known generally?”

  Without a blush, she looked directly at the judge and said, “He has a cherry birthmark on his right thigh.”

  This time the judge had to rap his gavel repeatedly before the noise subsided. “One more such outburst and I shall clear this court,” he said. He turned to Mrs. Long. “You may step down, madam.”

  In the silence that followed, we could hear someone coughing in the rear of the courtroom. The judge leaned over and addressed himself to Wilfred’s attorney. “Is there any objection to your client stepping into my chambers for a personal examination?”

  With a tired, disinterested wave of his hand, Wilfred arose with his attorney. He raised his eyes to the judge in a condescending manner. “I’ve never seen this woman before in my life,” he said. “She must be mad. However, if it will satisfy those present, I will submit myself to this distasteful ordeal.”

  The judge rapped his gavel once and stood up, the spectators arising with him. “There will be a ten-minute recess,” he said. “Will counsel for the plaintiff accompany us, please?”

  Mrs. Long’s two lawyers arose and, with Wilfred and his attorney in the lead, made their way around the clerk’s desk and into the judge’s private chambers. They were gone the full ten minutes. A hush fell over the courtroom when the door reopened and they filed out. The sessions clerk arose and rapped his gavel, calling the court to order. Everyone stood until the judge had taken his seat, and then we sat down again. The lawyers and Wilfred made their way to the trial table, all seeming to wear the same inscrutable expression. It was maddening. I searched their faces for a clue to what had happened but could see nothing. The judge cleared his throat.

  “I have before me,” he said, “documented evidence that supports the claim of Mr. Louis Donet that he is the said Louis Donet.” (He was referring to a French passport and birth certificate, both of which, it turned out, were forged by a Russian émigré in Paris.)

  “On the other hand,” the judge continued, “I have the claim of Mrs. Maude Chester Long that Louis Donet is one Wilfred Long, an alleged defaulter on a commissions contract. Viewing all the evidence, I am forced to the conclusion that Mrs. Long is laboring under the delusions brought about by a remarkable resemblance between Mr. Donet and her ex-husband. Mr. Donet has no such birthmark as she describes.”

  There was pandemonium. The judge pounded his gavel steadily, then gave it up and took a drink of water. He leaned forward, and only those of us in the front rows heard him say to Mrs. Long: “If at a later date, madam, you are able to bring before me sufficient evidence to substantiate your claim, I will reopen this case. Meanwhile, it is dismissed for lack of evidence.”

  Wilfred had done it again.

  (Years later, when it was too late, we learned that the birthmark had been tattooed into oblivion by another Paris artisan. Wilfred had been thorough.)

  I bumped into George as I was leaving the court and had to shepherd him through twenty bars on the way home. We both were in pretty rough condition when we got to his place. Gladys, ever understanding, opened the door. She saw how it was right away.

  “George, George, where have you been?” she demanded.

  “I been out fin’in’ out how to get ahead in the worl’,” he told her and collapsed face forward onto the carpet.

  I leaned against the doorjamb. “It takesh genyush to be a first-clash heel,” I said. The opposite doorjamb suddenly did the funniest thing. It split into four doorjambs with a Gladys standing beside each one. Each Gladys had a kind of accusing and hurt look, and each one said, “It isn’t right to hate someone like that. It just isn’t right.” Somebody pulled a curtain over the scene.

  I awoke the next morning inside a giant object that throbbed in a million places. Reaching upward with one hand, I felt the object; it was my head. There was a sudden crashing noise by my ear. I forced open one eye and saw Gladys clinking a creamer against a coffee cup. She was in a dressing gown and had a paper under her left arm. I saw a picture and the familiar face of Wilfred and grabbed the paper. The story was all over page one. Mrs. Long was returning to England, it said. I threw the paper into a corner, got up, and took my head down to the studio—stopping off at a bar on the way.

  It was four days before George came back to work. The first trumpet had taken over for him, and they’d gotten along as best they could. George had a lot of fast talking to do up front, and they put him on probation. He came into the studio in time for the two o’clock session—it was a Tuesday, I remember. I was downstairs in the cutting room, trying to get up a game for that night. George stood in the doorway for I don’t know how long before we noticed him. He was well oiled. There were a few “Hi ya, George!” calls from the gang, but he didn’t seem to hear them.

  “Wilfred is going to sing for us,” he said.

  “You mean Louis Donet?” I asked.

  Everybody laughed … everybody, that is, except George. He fixed me with a baleful glare, and the laughter died in self-conscious splutters. After that, we always referred to Louis Donet as Wilfred whenever George was around.

  Donet was signed by Brunswick to do five platters starting the first of the following month—November, it was. Nothing was said about Wilfred Long’s unexpired contract. I don’t believe he fooled anyone in the front office; it was more likely that they’d been reading the papers.

  While we were waiting for him to put in his appearance at the studio, the news was released that he’d been engaged to do a concert at Carilon Hall, a place referred to in the trade as “… where the dowagers dangle.” We all figured he was cashing in on his trial publicity but had to admit it was good box office. The hall was sold out two weeks in advance.

  I collared George the day before the concert and showed him a copy of the program and two tickets I’d managed to wangle from Bennie, the scalper.

  “Sorry, Felix,” he said. “I’ve had enough. You can’t touch him.
”

  This was very quiet for George, so I played my trump and opened the program. “Look,” I said, “he’s going to sing ‘Sylvia’ and here, ‘Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life’ and …”

  George grabbed the program.

  “With that voice it’ll be murder,” I goaded him. “We’ve been waiting too long to miss the payoff.”

  “Do you think we could get the concession selling the rotten tomatoes?” George asked, returning the program.

  “I’ll meet you at Vincentes at seven tomorrow night,” I said.

  He nodded and went off down the hall.

  It started to rain about five o’ clock the next afternoon, and both of us were soaked by the time we got to the hall. It had been George’s bright idea to walk. The rain didn’t seem to have cut the crowd any, though. Carilon Hall was filled with all that tinsely chitter-chitter-chitter that usually accompanies a gathering of the intelligentsia. We barely got into our balcony seats before the house lights dimmed, turning off the small talk. The curtains parted, showing a big Steinway, and a pianist by the name of Torrell came on stage and took his seat. There was a slight wait, and then Wilfred appeared from the wings. A scattered wisp of applause echoed through the house, and he bowed. The pianist struck the opening chords of “Sylvia,” and Wilfred began to sing—I mean, Louis Donet began to sing. This voice and this stage personality didn’t belong to Wilfred Long, not the Wilfred Long I’d known. We could see the dowagers in their plush boxes below us lift their lorgnettes and lean forward as he delivered those low, vibrant, passionate notes. You could almost count the delicious shivers running up and down their fat spines.

  Well, we had to admit it: he was good. No … he was better than good. He was tremendous. He had stage presence, and that voice … ah, that voice. Where in hell had he found those pagan pipes?

  During the intermission, we stayed in our seats. George was leaning back with his eyes closed. “You know,” he said, “when I close my eyes and try to forget it’s that bastard singing, I almost enjoy myself.” He opened his eyes and looked at me without lifting his head. I had to turn away. Unrequited hate is as terrible to witness as unrequited love.

  Overnight, Louis Donet was in. Brunswick put him on a long-term contract after reading the morning paper reviews; he was booked solid for two years in advance. Then he married Eugenia Moran, and they left on a combined tour and honeymoon in Europe. They were gone five months. During that time, we slid back into our accustomed rut at the studio. You know how it is with a regular job—one month looks just like any other.

  Wilfred returned to us on a Monday. I came into the office about eleven o’clock that morning and passed Radcliffe’s door; it was open just a crack. Inside, I could hear Radcliffe arguing with a vaguely familiar voice. “I will have it or else,” the vaguely familiar voice said, and Wilfred burst out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

  I went into my cubicle and called Radcliffe. “Well?” I said.

  “So you’ve been peeking in keyholes again,” he growled.

  “We have a Monday morning special on murders,” I told him. “Two for the price of one. What is it our prima donna will have or else?”

  “He will have a special orchestra for his recordings!” Radcliffe shouted, and slammed the receiver down.

  I looked at the phone and thought of what this would do to George. An open slap in the face—it would break him.

  It did.

  When George came back from his three-week bender, he didn’t have a job. I offered to help him, but he turned me down with the same damn quotation from Shakespeare and just disappeared. There wasn’t even a farewell party. Just blooey! A little man by the name of Feldman was imported from Chicago to take over. Damn good musician and a nice guy, too, but he just didn’t seem to fill George’s shoes.

  I heard from some of the crowd that George had gone back to Cincinnati and returned to his old job of piano accompanist for a local symphonic group. They said he was doing a little teaching on the side. After a while, we put him in the back of our minds.

  Things were pretty rocky for me at about that time. Sales had hit a terrible skid, and I was receiving my share of the blame as it filtered down from the top. Our full sales chart looked like a profile of the Matterhorn, and it seemed I was the only one who’d admit what was wrong. I believe this was because I was the only one around the office who hadn’t made a foolish prediction about this new “fad,” radio. Odds had been given quite freely that radio wouldn’t last more than six months—then a year—then two years. “Who wants to sit at home and listen to music?” they said. Now the betting was on how long we could stay in business.

  I gave the company another year to last at the outside and decided to quit the ship. This decision was abetted by an offer from Rheinhardt & Sellars, the San Francisco advertising firm, and a different kind of an offer that I had made to Lisa Engman the night before. The answer to both offers was “Yes.”

  Radcliffe came into my office that morning wearing a face like ten years of ulcers. “Jacobsen,” he said. (He usually called me Felix.) “Jacobsen, you’ve got to do something about this publicity. It’s this lousy publicity that’s killing our sales.” (Evidently he’d just come down from the directors’ meeting.)

  I stood up, picked the wire basket full of flimsies from the previous day’s copy off the desk, and placed it on his head—hat fashion. It slid down over one eye, and he stood there in a shower of onionskin paper, mouth hanging open, while I put on my hat and walked out the door. I’ll wager that was the most silent resignation they’d ever had—nothing but the slither of paper.

  Lisa and I were married and in San Francisco in two weeks. It was the wisest move I ever made. A man doesn’t really appreciate life until he’s married and has a family. (Two boys and a girl.)

  Three years kind of whizzed by, and one Friday I had to go to Portland to install a new branch manager there. In Portland, I crossed paths with Wilfred again. The first thing I saw as I drove uptown from the depot was a scare-face poster announcing Louis Donet, world-famed baritone, at the Civic Auditorium. “Saturday and Sunday,” it said. This was Sunday.

  I had a damnable time getting a ticket, but finally I remembered Susy Paulus, drama editor on The Journal. I’d fixed her up with some tickets once in New York. She had just one.

  It was a half hour to curtain time when I got to the auditorium. I felt slightly foolish among all those strangers—digging up old memories. Opening the program, I glanced down it, really not seeing anything until a name leaped out and almost smashed me senseless. “George Bates, accompanist.” I couldn’t believe it. Things still were hazy when the program started. To this day I can’t remember the music. The whole thing was a jumble of lights and faces.

  Wilfred looked the same, but I was shocked at the change in George. He was thin, very thin, and his eyes held a haunted, almost feverish look. His playing hadn’t suffered—he had the same nimble, talented fingers—but that face.

  After the show, I went backstage. I saw George standing in the hallway, smoking a cigarette, and was a little at a loss on how to greet him. Finally, I walked up and stuck out my hand.

  “George, you old son-of-a-gun,” I said. “Long time no see.”

  He dropped his cigarette, and the look on his face was almost pitiful. The old memories must have flooded back all in one big wave.

  “Felix,” he muttered as if he couldn’t believe it. “Felix, boy, where’ve you been all these years?” He put his hand on my shoulder. His eyes were bright.

  “Oh, around,” I said, and gestured with my hand. “Donet in there?” I nodded toward the door.

  “If you mean that bastard Wilfred Long,” he said, “yes, he’s in there.” George took my arm. “Come on. Let’s go get us a drink and pick up the loose ends.”

  Before we could start, the dressing room door opened, and Wilfred stood there in a mandarin dressing gown. He started to speak to George in his same old condescending manner.

  “George
, how many times must I tell you that the audience pays to hear me sing, not to listen to your piano playing? You deliberately tried to drown me out in the third stanza of my first number tonight. I won’t …”

  He saw me for the first time. “Hello, Felix,” he said (just like that) and turned back to George. “Don’t forget it next time.” He closed the door.

  George and I went out and found an all-night speak on Third Avenue. We crawled into a little booth with a curtain across the front. As we sat down, I noticed that George’s face was as gray as the bar mop that had been left on the table. I ordered two double scotches out of habit, and when the waiter brought them, sat there toying with my glass. George still hadn’t spoken since we’d left the auditorium. Abruptly, he looked up at me and grinned. It was the old George, that grin. I breathed a sigh of relief. I hadn’t realized how tense I’d been.

  “You’re wondering why I’m working for that SOB and why I take that stuff,” he said. He moved his glass in a little circle in its sloppings and looked down at it. “Well, it’s this way: I’m waiting for him to make a slip and go back to Wilfred Long for just one second. He knows it, too. He can’t go on forever. I’ll be there when it happens to hang it on him for his first wife, for myself, and for all the others—there’ve been plenty.” He laughed bitterly, picked up his drink, and gulped it.

  His laugh frightened me—the suppressed venom in it and that quavering overtone which is next to madness. I searched for something to change the subject. “How’s Gladys?” I asked.

  The glass dropped out of his hand and clattered onto the table. He ignored it and looked past me.

  “Dead,” he whispered.

  “Oh.”

  I didn’t know what else to say, and there was a long silence.