The Secret History - Donna Tartt [63]
His bedroom, where I was to stay, had been closed off rather pointedly during my previous visit. In it were Henry’s books—not as many as you might think—and a single bed, and very little else, except a closet with a large, conspicuous padlock. Tacked on the closet door was a black and white picture from an old magazine—Life, it said, 1945. It was of Vivien Leigh and, surprisingly, a much younger Julian. They were at a cocktail party, glasses in hand; he was whispering something in her ear, and she was laughing.
“Where was that taken?” I said.
“I don’t know. Julian says he can’t remember. Every now and then one runs across a photograph of him in an old magazine.”
“Why?”
“He used to know a lot of people.”
“Who?”
“Most of them are dead now.”
“Who?”
“I really don’t know, Richard.” Then, relenting: “I’ve seen pictures of him with the Sitwells. And T. S. Eliot. Also—there’s rather a funny one of him with that actress—I can’t remember her name. She’s dead now.” He thought for a minute. “She was blond,” he said. “I think she was married to a baseball player.”
“Marilyn Monroe?”
“Maybe. It wasn’t a very good picture. Only newsprint.”
Some time during the past three days, Henry had gone over and moved my things from Leo’s. My suitcases stood at the foot of the bed.
“I don’t want to take your bed, Henry,” I said. “Where are you going to sleep?”
“One of the back rooms has a bed that folds out from the wall,” said Henry. “I can’t think what they’re called. I’ve never slept in it before.”
“Then why don’t you let me sleep there?”
“No. I am rather curious to see what it is like. Besides, I think it’s good to change the place where one sleeps from time to time. I believe it gives one more interesting dreams.”
I was only planning on spending a few days with Henry—I was back at work for Dr. Roland the following Monday—but I ended up staying until school started again. I couldn’t understand why Bunny had said he was hard to live with. He was the best roommate I’ve ever had, quiet and neat, and usually off in his own part of the house. Much of the time he was gone when I got home from work; he never told me where he went, and I never asked. But sometimes when I got home he would have made dinner—he wasn’t a fancy cook like Francis and only made plain things, broiled chickens and baked potatoes, bachelor food—and we would sit at the card table in the kitchen and eat it and talk.
I had learned better by then than to pry into his affairs, but one night, when my curiosity had got the better of me, I asked him: “Is Bunny still in Rome?”
It was several moments before he answered. “I suppose so,” he said, putting down his fork. “He was there when I left.”
“Why didn’t he come back with you?”
“I don’t think he wanted to leave. I’d paid the rent through February.”
“He stuck you with the rent?”
Henry took another bite of his food. “Frankly,” he said, after he had chewed and swallowed, “no matter what Bunny tells you to the contrary, he hasn’t a cent and neither does his father.”
“I thought his parents were well off,” I said, jarred.
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Henry calmly. “They may have had money once, but if so they spent it long ago. That terrible house of theirs must have cost a fortune, and they make a big show of yacht clubs and country clubs and sending their sons to expensive schools, but that’s got them in debt to the eyebrows. They may look wealthy, but they haven’t a dime. I expect Mr. Corcoran is about bankrupt.”
“Bunny seems to live pretty well.”
“Bunny’s never had a cent of pocket money the entire time I’ve known him,” said Henry tartly. “And he has expensive tastes. That is unfortunate.”
We resumed eating in silence.
“If I were Mr. Corcoran,” said Henry after a long while, “I would have set Bunny up in business or had him learn a trade after high school. Bunny has no business