The Foreigners - Maxine Swann [34]
We asked a woman at one of the tables inside for a cigarette and stepped out on the terrace to smoke.
Down below was a cluster of people posing for a photo op. “That’s the artistic literary establishment, though they’d never call themselves that,” Leonarda said. “In their minds, they’re still the avant-garde. He belongs there too.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s not there. He must be preening for his prize.”
There was an announcement at the back of the garden, a woman at a microphone.
“This is a show event, you realize. The prize is all rigged,” Leonarda said.
We were watching from above. The bald head appeared, glinting. “There he is,” Leonarda said. She seemed to rise up like some animal. The guy stepped out, receiving the prize. But it was like on a battlefield, you couldn’t see anything, a blur of movement, a body part in the way, then just in front of you a head looming, it ducked, you had a squinted view into the distance, but then there were people moving one way in a herd, stopping, turning, forced the other way.
Though we couldn’t see him, we could hear his voice now. The prize, he received it, was accepting. His voice was remarkable, as everyone knew. He’d done radio, television, politics, literature. “He’s done everything, everything,” Leonarda said. “That’s the whole point of him.”
And then it was over, dispersion, milling.
“We need to meet him.” She was thinking. I could see it, I had faith in it, entirely, the rapid firing of her brain. “He’s going to go off somewhere now with his friends. We have to find ourselves where he is.” She spotted a cluster of people down below. “We have to step into the inner circle,” she said.
“The inner circle?”
“I’m sure they’ve reserved one of those upstairs rooms.”
I felt that our lives had gotten suddenly complicated, after that glorious position of floating above.
“We do?” I asked.
“Yes, we do.” She seemed nervous, even full of trepidation, but also eager.
We were approaching the inner circle, we’d already greeted some of them in passing. Now we were getting nearer, plucking fresh glasses of champagne on the way, standing, installing ourselves.
“Are you naked under that coat?” a woman asked Leonarda.
“She’s important, the Madame of the social group,” Leonarda whispered afterward to me. “That’s her husband, a filmmaker,” she said, nodding toward the handsome, younger man standing just left of the Madame’s shadow.
Oh, but soon, he’d arrive, the monster. Soon we’d all be gathered here, the monster in our midst.
I turned to look and, lo and behold, there he was, tall, chest puffed out, the shiny head. He had some scars on his face. His language was absurdly eloquent, his eyes sad. He had just won the prize, the biggest prize for literature in the country. He was probably more puffed up than usual.
Where were we going, now that he was here?
We were with them, following them up the stairs. We made it to the upstairs room, on the corner, overlooking the garden. It was small, crowded now with all of us inside. There were red plush couches and chairs.
Yes—the inner circle all looked at each other—finally we’re alone.
Leonarda and I were being tolerated as anomalies. But, faced with the challenge, not of the group but of this man, Leonarda was in her prime.
We sat down for drinks at a table.
I was talking to the handsome husband. On her side, Leonarda was directing herself to the others, and most precisely to the prizewinner. He was sitting, his long thin legs out of sight under the table, his body puffed out. Leonarda faced him, talking.
Then she was saying it—it was her line—others listening. “The Left has behaved so cowardly. When are they going to examine their own actions? It’s disgusting, it’s degrading, the way they take on the victim role. We’re all waiting, my whole generation is waiting, for some act of recognition, that would represent true valor. We want heroes we can believe in, not these sniveling wretches. Oh—” She paused and covered her mouth with