Prater Violet Read Online Free

“Obstinate as a mule. He’d rewrite Shakespeare, if he didn’t like the script.”
    Ashmeade smiled his smooth, pussycat smile. “Hullo, Isherwood,” he said softly, in an amused voice.
    Our eyes met. “What the hell are you doing here?” I wanted to ask him. I was really quite shocked. Ashmeade, the poet. Ashmeade, the star of the Marlowe Society. Obviously, he was aware of what I was thinking. His light golden eyes smilingly refused to admit anything, to exchange any conspiratorial signal.
    â€œYou two know each other?” Chatsworth asked.
    â€œWe were at Cambridge together,” I said briefly, not taking my eyes from Ashmeade’s, challenging him.
    â€œCambridge, eh?” Chatsworth was obviously impressed. I could feel that my stock had risen several points. “Well, you two will have a lot to talk about.”
    I looked squarely at Ashmeade, daring him to contradict this. Ashmeade simply smiled, from behind his decorative mask.
    â€œTime to be getting back to the studio,” Chatsworth announced, rising and stretching himself. “Dr. Bergmann’s coming along with us, Sandy. Have that Rosemary Lee picture run for him, will you? What the hell’s it called?”
    â€œMoon over Monaco,” said Ashmeade, as one says Hamlet, casually, without quotation marks.
    Bergmann stood up with a deep, tragic grunt.
    â€œIt’s a nasty bit of work,” Chatsworth told him cheerfully, “but you’ll get an idea what she’s like.”
    We all moved toward the door. Bergmann looked very short and massive, marching between Chatsworth’s comfortable bulk and Ashmeade’s willowy tallness. I followed, feeling excluded and slightly sulky.
    Chatsworth waved the attendant aside with a lordly gesture and himself helped Bergmann into his overcoat. It was like dressing up a Roman statue. Bergmann’s hat was a joke in the worst taste. Much too small, it perched absurdly on his bushy gray curls, and Bergmann’s face looked grimly out from under it, with the expression of an emperor taken captive and guyed by the rebellious mob. Ashmeade, of course, wore neither hat nor coat. He carried a slim umbrella, perfectly rolled. Outside, Chatsworth’s Rolls Royce, complete with chauffeur, was waiting—all light gray, to match his own loose-fitting, well-cut clothes.
    â€œBetter get plenty of sleep tonight, Isherwood,” he advised me graciously. “We’re going to work you hard.”
    Ashmeade said nothing. He smiled, and followed Chatsworth into the car.
    Bergmann paused, took my hand. A smile of extraordinary charm, of intimacy, came over his face. He was standing very close to me.
    â€œGood-bye, Mr. Isherwood,” he said, in German. “I shall call you tomorrow morning.” His voice dropped; he looked deeply, affectionately, into my eyes. “I am sure we shall be very happy together. You know, already, I feel absolutely no shame before you. We are like two married men who meet in a whorehouse.”
    *   *   *
    WHEN I got home, my mother and Richard were in the drawing room waiting for me.
    â€œWell!”
    â€œAny success?”
    â€œWhat was it like?”
    â€œDid you meet him?”
    I dropped into a chair. “Yes,” I said, “I met him.”
    â€œAnd—is everything all right?”
    â€œHow do you mean, all right?”
    â€œAre you going to take the job?”
    â€œI don’t know.… Well, yes … Yes, I suppose I am.”
    *   *   *
    ONE OF Chatsworth’s underlings had installed Bergmann in a service flat in Knightsbridge, not far from Hyde Park Corner. I found him there next morning, at the top of several steep flights of stairs. Even before we could see each other, he began to hail me from above. “Come up! Higher! Higher! Courage! Not yet! Where are you? Don’t weaken! Aha! At last! Servus, my