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  He photographed her also when she was poised and calm, standing or sitting in the bathtub or with a dryer in her hand and her hair floating over her face to shield it from the camera. Then, to assist his memory of her, he photographed for his own possession each step of her dressing: in panties, putting on stockings and shoes, with her blouse open, with it buttoned up, stepping into her skirt, buttoning it at the waist.

  With the passage of time, Domostroy changed his attitude toward Andrea’s place in his life. He still needed her, but he began to resent his need. Though he would rush to be with her, anxious not to miss a single moment of the lovemaking she dispensed so obligingly, as he got to know her better he rebelled more and more against his dependence. He feared that in his relationship with her he had begun to resemble those sexual addicts for whom he had always felt contempt, men and women who came to rely so completely on the guaranteed fulfillment of their own brand of sexual pleasure that they looked for it only in the safety and predictability of private sex clubs such as the Sorcerer’s Apprentice.

  There was another reason for Domostroy’s rebellion. In Andrea’s incessant curiosity about Goddard the man, in her never-ending speculation about his life, his money, his lovers, and his travels, she consistently relegated the most important thing about him—his music—to a position of no great consequence, a view Domostroy found crude and offensive.

  “One day,” said Domostroy, gathering Andrea into his arms until their lips touched, then breathing his words into her mouth, “one day you might be lying like this in somebody else’s arms—somebody who might be Goddard—and he might ask you about something—an image, an idea, an association—that he read in one of our letters—and you’d better be ready for it!” He squeezed her by her shoulders until she twitched in pain. “To make it easier for him to trace you, I plan to refer to some of the subjects you’re currently studying at Juilliard—Chopin’s life and letters, for instance. But you’ll always have to be on guard. Even in the heat of the sack, you’ll have to remember exactly what it was that I wrote and be able to recognize his slightest nuances in trying to find out if it was you who wrote the letters.”

  She freed herself from his arms and said waspishly, “Don’t be a fool, Patrick. When Goddard’s in bed with me, he won’t be—like you—cross-examining me. Hell have other things on his mind.”

  “Do you think Goddard will miss not seeing my face, or think I’m ugly or scarred?”

  “Maybe, but by then he should be in love with the rest of you.”

  “He might already be in love with someone else.”

  “He might. But if she’s his intimate friend and knows who he is, then he has no mystery for her, and she none for him. If she takes his greatness for granted, she leaves his vanity starved, whereas you in your letters fulfill it. Being his lover, she can at best only fuel his lust—but you can awaken his self-love, the drum major of love. With her, he feels understood. With you, he’s wanted and admired. Imagine his temptation to be with you!”

  “Imagine mine!”

  “I do. I also know that once Goddard knows where to start looking for you, you and I will have to find new places to see each other. I wouldn’t be safe here, or even at the Old Glory; he—or his spies—might be watching. And you wouldn’t want to lose Goddard merely for the sake of keeping Patrick Domostroy, would you?”

  “I certainly would not!” she replied. Then she said, “How will Goddard ever know who I am?”

  “From clues I drop in the letters to him. Ill make him succeed in tracing you, don’t worry.”

  What if he fails?”

  “I’ll send more letters. With more clues.”

  She stretched and yawned. “I wonder what our mystery man is doing right now,” she said.

  “He might be wondering who you are!” said Domostroy.

  II

  James Osten stopped in front of a Fifth Avenue watch shop, studied the window display, and went inside, where he was promptly accosted by a young salesman.

  “Good morning, sir,” said the salesman in a heavy Italian accent, smiling at Osten with unconcealed admiration and swishing behind the counter like a ballet dancer. “Can I be of service to you?”

  “Yes,” said Osten, “indirectly.” And pointing at a gold wristwatch in the window, he said, “I like that watch.”

  “My compliments on your taste,” the salesman breathed, all smiles, as he removed the watch from the window. “This is the thinnest watch ever made. And,” he added with a suggestive flash of his eye, “it’s a unisex design.”

  As Osten examined the watch, he pictured it on Donna’s dark wrist. “How much is it?” he asked.

  Naming the price, the salesman forced a casual smile. “It is truly a timeless timepiece. Its value will never go down. Therefore, it’s a very good hedge against inflation—even at the price of a Cadillac!”

  “I don’t plan to hedge inflation with it,” said Osten. “It’s a gift for a friend.”

  “Marvelous choice,” purred the salesman. “You know, it’s water-resistant.”

  “Good,” said Osten. “My friend hates water.”

  The salesman pretended not to hear the quip. “Your friend is sure to find the black face very dramatic,” he said.

  “More than likely,” said Osten. “My friend is black.”

  “He’s sure to cherish such a gift,” the salesman said primly.

  “He is a woman,” said Osten as he took a roll of bills from his pocket and counted out the exact amount in a neat stack on the counter.

  “That’s a lot of money to carry around like that!” remarked the salesman, impressed with the stack. “Aren’t you afraid somebody might rip you off?”

  “Not at all,” said Osten. “I’ve learned how to make myself invisible!” He laughed, then added, “That reminds me: I want the face of the watch replaced by one without the watchmaker’s name.”

  “No name?” The salesman was horrified. “But then it would be invisible—no one will know it’s the world’s most exclusive timepiece!”

  “Exclusive or not, a timepiece merely pieces time, right? Only music lets you hear time passing. My girl friend is into music—not time.”

  Without a word, the salesman picked up the watch and carried it to the back of the shop. In a matter of minutes he returned “Here it is, as you requested it,” he said, handing the watch to Osten. “It’s just lucky that to please your black friend you didn’t also want the watch thickened,” he murmured with a sneer, opening the shop’s steel door for Osten. “That couldn’t be done on the spot, you know!”

  Without taking the slightest notice of him, Osten walked out.

  He selected a small hotel buried between two burlesque theaters off Broadway. He woke up the porter, an elderly black man in a Mexican hat and mirrored glasses who was dozing next to the switchboard, and asked him for a room with a bath.

  “For yourself? Or will there be two?” asked the porter sleepily, rubbing his eyes.

  “I’m alone,” said Osten.

  “Sure, that’s what they all say,” said the porter with a sigh as he reached for a key. “How long you staying?”

  “A day. But just in case I get hooked on somebody from the shows next door, I’ll pay for two.” He handed the man some bills.

  The man muttered, “No luggage?”

  “It’s all up here,” said Osten, pointing at his head.

  Osten stayed in his room only long enough to use the toilet. Then he went down the corridor to the public telephone. After carefully closing the folding door of the phone booth, he dialed Nokturn Records.

  “Nokturn Records, the house of Goddard, good morning!” answered the operator, her voice almost a recording and as out of place as Nokturn’s advertising pitch which, given Goddard’s anonymity, had always struck Osten as patently ridiculous.

  Before Osten spoke, he coughed. By slightly straining the muscles of his throat in this way, he was able to lower the pitch of his normal voice and make it sound raspy and gutt
ural. The little trick, employed so often, had become habitual. Osten asked for Oscar Blaystone, the president of the company. When Blaystone’s secretary answered, Osten asked to speak to him.

  “May I say who’s calling?” asked the secretary.

  “Mr. River,” said Osten. “Swanee River.”

  “Mr. Swanee River?” she repeated suspiciously.

  “That’s right.”

  “Mr. Blaystone can’t be disturbed at the moment. He’s in conference. I’m afraid you’ll have to give me your number, and I’ll—”

  “Be brave,” Osten interrupted. “Just tell him Swanee River is on the line. He’s expecting my call. I’m his swan song, so to speak!” he chuckled.

  Soon he heard Blaystone assuming a cordial breakness-like voice on the other end. “Hello? Mr. River? Swanee River? Let me call you back on my private line. Where are you?”

  “In a melting pot,” he said.

  “A melting pot?”

  “Yeah. Manhattan in the summer,” said Osten, and he read Blaystone the number on the phone.

  A minute after he hung up, Blaystone called back. “I got your cable with the new code name two weeks ago,” he said reproachfully. “I’ve been waiting for your call ever since.”

  “I’ve been busy,” said Osten. “Anyway, we talked recently.”

  “Recently? That was six months ago!” said Blaystone. “You must keep in mind,” he continued with exaggerated emphasis, “that I have no way—absolutely no way—of getting in touch with you when I need you. And I do need you. There are a lot of papers to be signed by Goddard—and soon. But all I get is your phone voice, these talks and your various code names, each one canceling out all the others. Do you know what I’m saying?”

  “I do. You say it every time I call you. Anything else?” asked Osten.

  “Yes! For starters, I need a new authorization from you for transfer of your foreign royalties from the last album. In less than a month that LP earned back your advance. In Great Britain, you have established an all-time record. Imagine—Great Britain alone! In Latin America, your Spanish-language songs sold over—”

  “Use the same Swiss account, the same number, I gave you last time,” Osten broke in.

  “All right. But I need your Goddard signature on the new tax forms. And please don’t change the shape of the G in your signature the way you did last time. We have no way to reach you to have it confirmed! It’s the only ID you have, at least as far as we and the IRS are concerned. Then there’s this matter of Etude Classics. I put through that renewed two-year agreement whereby you—Goddard—reimburse Nokturn—including agents’ fees and all the rest—for distributing and promoting Etude Classics. The whole deal is absolutely secret—just like the one that’s about to expire—and Etude has no way of knowing, or even suspecting, that you keep them in business.”

  “And it better stay that way,” said Osten. “Etude isn’t the only company I keep in business. I keep Nokturn going too.”

  “Yes, of course,” Blaystone agreed hastily, “but that’s no secret.” He paused. “You do realize, don’t you, that without your subsidy, Etude Classics would have gone under years ago! And if you continue to support them at the present rate, so could you. Do you have any idea how much money it costs you to float them? For that kind of money you could even resurrect Beethoven!”

  “I don’t have to—if I keep Etude alive.”

  “Oh, I know, I know,” said Blaystone, and Osten could hear the warmth in his voice. “But I have to laugh every time I think of that poor old snob who heads Etude—and of how grand he is about letting us sell his select list of classics! If he only knew! He should see the mountain of returns we get!”

  “What did you do with the latest returns?”

  “We followed your instructions and gave all the unsold Etude LPs—thousands of them, I might add—to schools and hospitals and music libraries all over the world. Don’t worry; we keep a complete accounting of all such gifts and—”

  “Good,” said Osten. “What else?”

  “You might want to check your royalty statements, and as I said, there are tax returns for you to sign. We need you to approve some press releases, and then there’s all the fan mail. Hey, in the latest batch there’s even a letter from the White House. An official envelope marked ‘personal.’” He chuckled. “Not bad! Not bad at all! How does it feel to have a fan way at the top?”

  “How soon can I get all that stuff?” asked Osten, anxious to have the call over with.

  “Anytime.”

  “Who will make the delivery?”

  “I’m going to lunch right now; I can drop it myself. Tell me where.”

  “Stop your taxi on the southwest corner of Broadway and Forty-seventh Street. A guy in a Mexican sombrero and mirror glasses will be standing there waiting. Hand it out the window to him. In a plain manila envelope.”

  ‘Does it have to be a taxi? Can’t I take the company car?”

  “A taxi,” said Osten firmly. “It’ll do you good to be in the real world for a change.”

  “Speaking of the real world,” said Blaystone, “when can it expect another record from you?”

  “The real world? Or Nokturn? You’re getting greedy,” said Osten.

  “Maybe,” said Blaystone, “but so are the fens. Can you give me some idea?”

  “I’m working on something,” said Osten, “and I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

  “I should hope so,” said Blaystone. “After all, we are your record company.”

  “For the record, you are,” agreed Osten. “Now hurry up and catch a taxi to meet my Zapata!”

  “Yes, sir!” snapped Blaystone playfully. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. Follow my usual rules. Don’t tell anyone where you take all these papers. Remember: one break of our nice little pact—and no more music!”

  “Have I ever failed you?” asked Blaystone solemnly. “Believe me, I know Nokturn’s got a good thing going with you. Why would I want to spoil it? We certainly wouldn’t want the competition to know who you are and come skulking after you with offers!” he laughed. “Now, tell your man Zappa to expect a mail drop in twenty minutes!”

  “Not Zappa—Zapata,” Osten repeated. “Is that it for now?”

  “I guess,” said Blaystone. “No, wait! When you call next time, what name will you use?”

  “How about Zapata?” said Osten and hung up.

  On the way out of the hotel, Osten stopped at the desk. The porter was napping again.

  Osten woke him up and said, “Can I borrow your hat and glasses say, for an hour?” He passed some bills over the counter without waiting for an answer.

  “What for, man?” mumbled the porter, still half asleep. Then he eyed the money and quickly handed over his hat and glasses.

  “For a quickie,” said Osten. “This chick—her name’s Tequila Sunshine—gets excited only if I’m wearing a big hat, dark glasses, and nothing else.”

  “No kidding,” said the porter, intrigued, but Osten was already out the door.

  The yellow cab had barely stopped at the curb when Osten approached it from behind and tapped on the window. Blaystone rolled the window down, and Osten, keeping his face concealed under the brim of the sombrero, wordlessly took a large manila envelope out of Blaystone’s hand. Then he knocked twice on the roof of the cab, Blaystone rolled the window up, and the taxi drove off.

  Osten dropped the hat and glasses in the lap of the serenely napping porter and went up to his room. He opened the big envelope and spread its contents out on the bed. He glanced through the royalty statements, signed the IRS documents and the transfer authorization, and carefully examined the terms of the contract between Nokturn Records and Etude Classics in which, for the next two years, Nokturn agreed to distribute Etude’s records for a specified sum of money and guaranteed a minimum sale of each of Etude’s labels. He then slowly scrutinized the letter of agreement between Goddard and Nokturn, signed it, and placed it and the other do
cuments in several prestamped envelopes; these he would mail directly to Blaystone in care of a special post office box maintained by Nokturn solely to receive communications from Goddard.

  Finished with business, he stretched out on the bed, propped himself on one elbow, and riffled quickly through the assorted fan letters selected by Nokturn for him to look over. There was a consistency about fan mail. It always seemed to comprise regular categories: technical questions from scholars and music critics—to which, out of fear they might trace him, he never replied; appeals to settle disputes over his music that had arisen out of conflicting reviews—to which he never replied either; and a few serious letters of appreciation from some of his better-educated fans—which, even though he read them thoroughly, held no interest for him, for he had learned long ago that there were few things in the world less imaginative than the painstaking attempts of music fans to communicate soulfully.

  There was one envelope Nokturn had not presumed to open. It had “The White House, Washington” embossed on it in blue, and “Personal—please forward by insured mail only” typed next to the address: Mr. Goddard, c/o Nokturn Records, Hemisphere Center, New York City. He tore off the side of the envelope and pulled out several densely typed sheets of official White House stationery, the crest watermarks clearly visible when he held the paper to the light. Before he started to read the letter, he turned to the end to see the signature, but it was unsigned.

  Disappointed, he turned back to the beginning, and he was instantly absorbed by the first sentence: “You are, dear Goddard, probably reading this in the seclusion of a shabby hotel somewhere.” He smiled, swallowed, and read on. “You are also probably apprehensive that I am one more of those conniving females who envy you the peace of your self-imposed exile and who would do anything to hunt you down and share it with you for whatever length of time you would allow. Do not worry. I have no such plans. I love you for the richness of your music, not for the poverty of your existence. I am not, and never will be, some girl you once picked up simply because she liked your music and could never guess who you were. I am like no other woman you have ever had or ever will have. And if you are patient enough to read this letter with the same care that I give to listening to your music, you will know why.” A weird, tingling sensation of panic—that these words had come from someone who knew him, or was about to know him—swept over him.