Proposition

Some years ago, she told me the story. And he told it to me the other night. I was surprised to find both virtually identical. In neither case was the account volunteered, but it came in answer to an indiscreet question.

They are both well known. She, as an actress and beauty. He, as a journalist. They were married a week after they met, and a week after that, were equally astonished to find that the other had so little money. They had made the common error of supposing that fortune automatically goes with fame. Not that it mattered. They were in love then, as they are now. They were generally considered to be an ideal couple. They are. That is why I asked them each the question -- two questions.

I asked her, "Has he ever struck you?" And when she answered, "No," I asked, "Have you ever struck him?"

After a pause, she answered, "Yes."

Pressing on, I asked for the circumstances.

The questions to him were: "Have you ever struck her?" and "Has she ever struck you?" As I have said, their memories matched.

What happened was this:

They had been married for eight months, and had not had a single meal apart. One evening, they were dressing, having accepted an invitation to dine, grandly, in honor of a famous but mysterious French industrialist.

"How'd we get curved into this society stuff, anyway?" he asked as he brought a martini to her dressing table.

"You for looks, me for brains," she replied.

"I always eat too much at these clambakes. Nervousness."

"You might find out something you can use," she said, pasting a false eyelash into place. "After all, he is one of the most important men in France."

"No, no -- just one of the richest."

"Well?"

"Even so, I don't intend to turn this into an assignment. I like an evening out to be --"

"Go put your pants on," she said. "You look so (concluded on page 156)Proposition(continued from page 85) ridiculous pompousing it up with no pants on."

They laughed. The phone rang. His office.

"You better get down here," advised his researcher.

"Why?"

"Baldy's going to kill the whole column and -- --"

"What?!" he yelled.

"What is it?" she asked, alarmed.

"-- and run one of your fillers," continued the office.

"Why?"

"Policy."

"Policy my -- --"

"What is it?" she asked again, insistently.

"Wait a second," he said to the phone. "Trouble," he said to her.

"Serious?"

"-- going to be," he said. "If that pinhead wants a showdown -- --" He spoke to the office. "I'll be right down." He hung up and strode out to the small room which he used as a combination study and dressing room. She followed him, upset.

"Does it have to be tonight?" she asked.

"He wants to kill my Supreme Court piece."

"What about getting him on the phone?"

"-- hell with that. He's always brave on the phone. I've got to get him by the scruff and check personally with The Old Man. If I lose there, OK, I lose."

"But what about -- --?"

"I'll drop you, and get back there soon's I can. You can explain to Madeline. Hell, she'll understand."

"I don't."

"Yes, you do, baby."

He was muttering to himself when she left him.

The showdown took longer than he had planned. Biddy stuck to his guns. The Old Man could not be reached by phone. Alter a while, he decided to change tactics and began wheedling. No use. Threats. No. Finally, the paper was put to bed without the piece.

He felt suicidal.

Coffee was being served when he reached the dinner party, but she did not appear to be there. He sought out the hostess.

"Just in time," said Madeline.

"Where's -- --?"

"She left about 10 minutes ago. I told her to go. She was awfully pale. Worried about you, I expect. What is it, anyway?"

"Tricks of the trade," he replied. "-- be all right. I think I'll blow."

"Don't you want to meet the great Monsieur -- --?"

"Some other time, Maddo. I'm worried about my girl."

"You kill me," said Madeline. "The two of you. Worrying about each other."

"What's wrong with that?" he said, with some heat.

He kissed Madeline's cheek, and left.

As he came into the flat, he shouted her name. No answer. He went into the bedroom and stopped, stunned, as he saw her lying face down on the bed, fully clothed except for shoes, and sobbing.

"Baby?" he cried.

She turned over, struggled to her feet, and came at him with a rush, almost knocking him off balance. She clung to him, tightly; more tightly.

Finally, he said, "Ouch."

She released the pressure, but continued to weep.

"It's all right, baby. Please. It isn't that important. I'll be all right."

She stepped away and looked at him. He would not have believed that this great beauty could ever have looked so repulsive. Her face was contorted, her lipstick smeared, her mascara a mess.

"What?" she croaked.

He moved to her.

"I shouldn't have taken it so big, darling -- or given you the impression that -- --"

"What are you talking about?" she moaned. "You don't know what you're talking about!"

The up and down of her voice revealed that she was out of control. He stood, helplessly, looking at her as she returned to the bed, and sat down on its edge.

"What is it?" he asked. "What happened?"

"Nothing much," she whispered, bitterly. "Only the worst thing that's ever happened to me in my whole life!"

"What, for God's sake?"

"You wouldn't care."

"What is it?"

"Let me go to a -- by myself -- and put me in a position where -- Oh, God!"

He went to her, lifted her face to his, and asked, sternly, "What happened? Come on, now!"

She wrenched her face away. "What's the good? Too late now. It's done."

He waited.

She leaned over, put her face in her hands, and began a blurted account.

"Everything was all right at first -- he was charming and said how well I spoke French and all that and -- well, that was at first -- but at dinner, I was next to him, on his right -- and -- well, I could hardly believe it -- when I felt my knee being pressed -- no -- my thigh, really -- I may as well tell it all, the truth -- and I looked at him -- --"

"Holy God," he said.

"Wait a minute! And he smiled -- no, leered -- so I just gave him my worst look and I turned away and started talking to Bennett, he was on my right -- but once in a while I'd feel myself being touched -- and rubbed -- I didn't know what to do -- scream or make a scene or what -- so I stood it until after dinner."

"Think of that." he said.

"Then we went upstairs -- I mean the girls -- with Madeline, and I thought of telling her -- but I didn't. When we went down -- I tried to sit apart somewhere and wait for you -- you would pick tonight to -- --"

"I didn't pick any -- --"

"And all of a sudden, there he was, sitting next to me! And very softly he said about how he was rich as they said but only in money and not in what mattered and how he would exchange -- and then he said if -- he said if -- --" She shivered and was silent.

"What, for Christ's sake?"

"-- just if I could manage one night for him -- he'd give me a hundred thousand dollars!"

"A hun -- --!"

"Or even one afternoon. I couldn't even move, I was so petrified -- and he just sat there smoking and smiling -- and then he said the whole thing over in French -- and I wanted to hit him or die or tell everyone and you weren't there and -- well, finally Madeline came over and said did I feel all right because I looked so pale and I said I had to go and he offered me his car and I said no and he tried to kiss my hand but I pulled it away and he said Waldorf Towers -- and I ran and ran and a cab and I went to your office and you'd just left and -- --" She stopped and wept.

All at once, she was aware that he had said nothing. She stopped crying and looked up. He was no longer there in front of her. She turned to find him standing at the window. He still wore his hat and overcoat and was staring out of the window, deep in contemplation.

(Here there is a single divergence: She says that she heard him mutter the words, "Tax free," but he does not remember saying anything. From here on, however, the stories agree once more.)

She picked up a silver cigarette box and threw it at him. It missed him, but shattered the window. He turned. She came to him and struck him in the mouth with her fist. His lip cracked and bled profusely, but the more serious injury was done to her hand.

Half an hour later, after she had bathed his lip, and dabbed it with mercurochrome: after he had first-aided her knuckles with penicillin ointment, and bandaged the hand -- he poured out half a tumbler of Scotch for each of them, and they used it to wash down a Nembutal apiece. Then they went to bed. They woke nine hours later, kissed, and have never mentioned the incident since. To one another, that is. They both told it to me.