THE COMPLETE WORKS OF F. SCOTT FITZGERALD. Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд

I see. (Kindly) They’ve been having a spree, I see.

      TANA: I no un’stan’.

      PARAMORE: They’ve been having a fling.

      TANA: Yes, they have drink. Oh, many, many, many drink.

      PARAMORE: (Receding delicately from the subject) “Didn’t I hear the sounds of music as I approached the house”?

      TANA:(With a spasmodic giggle)Yes, I play.

      PARAMORE: One of the Japanese instruments.

      (He is quite obviously a subscriber to the “National Geographic Magazine.”)

      TANA: I play flu-u-ute, Japanese flu-u-ute.

      PARAMORE: What song were you playing? One of your Japanese melodies?

      TANA:(His brow undergoing preposterous contraction) I play train song. How you call? — railroad song. So call in my countree. Like train. It go so-o-o; that mean whistle; train start. Then go so-o-o; that mean train go. Go like that. Vera nice song in my countree. Children song.

      PARAMORE: It sounded very nice. (It is apparent at this point that only a gigantic effort at control restrains Tana from rushing upstairs for his post cards, including the six made in America.)

      TANA: I fix highball for gentleman?

      PARAMORE: “No, thanks. I don’t use it”. (He smiles.)

      (TANA withdraws into the kitchen, leaving the intervening door slightly ajar. From the crevice there suddenly issues again the melody of the Japanese train song — this time not a practice, surely, but a performance, a lusty, spirited performance.

      The phone rings. TANA, absorbed in his harmonics, gives no heed, so PARAMORE takes up the receiver.)

      PARAMORE: Hello…. Yes…. No, he’s not here now, but he’ll be back any moment…. Butterworth? Hello, I didn’t quite catch the name…. Hello, hello, hello. Hello! … Huh!

      (The phone obstinately refuses to yield up any more sound. Paramore replaces the receiver.

      At this point the taxi motif reenters, wafting with it a second young man; he carries a suitcase and opens the front door without ringing the bell.)

      MAURY: (In the hall) “Oh, Anthony! Yoho”! (He comes into the large room and sees PARAMORE) How do?

      PARAMORE: (Gazing at him with gathering intensity) Is this — is this

       Maury Noble?

      MAURY: “That’s it”. (He advances, smiling, and holding out his hand)

       How are you, old boy? Haven’t seen you for years.

      (He has vaguely associated the face with Harvard, but is not even positive about that. The name, if he ever knew it, he has long since forgotten. However, with a fine sensitiveness and an equally commendable charity PARAMORE recognizes the fact and tactfully relieves the situation.)

      PARAMORE: You’ve forgotten Fred Paramore? We were both in old Unc

       Robert’s history class.

      MAURY: No, I haven’t, Unc — I mean Fred. Fred was — I mean Unc was a great old fellow, wasn’t he?

      PARAMORE: (Nodding his head humorously several times) Great old character. Great old character.

      MAURY: (After a short pause) Yes — he was. Where’s Anthony?

      PARAMORE: The Japanese servant told me he was at some inn. Having dinner, I suppose.

      MAURY: (Looking at his watch) Gone long?

      PARAMORE: I guess so. The Japanese told me they’d be back shortly.

      MAURY: Suppose we have a drink.

      PARAMORE: No, thanks. I don’t use it. (He smiles.)

      MAURY: Mind if I do? (Yawning as he helps himself from a bottle) What have you been doing since you left college?

      PARAMORE: Oh, many things. I’ve led a very active life. Knocked about here and there. (His tone implies anything front lion-stalking to organized crime.)

      MAURY: Oh, been over to Europe?

      PARAMORE: No, I haven’t — unfortunately.

      MAURY: I guess we’ll all go over before long.

      PARAMORE: Do you really think so?

      MAURY: Sure! Country’s been fed on sensationalism for more than two years. Everybody getting restless. Want to have some fun.

      PARAMORE: Then you don’t believe any ideals are at stake?

      MAURY: Nothing of much importance. People want excitement every so often.

      PARAMORE: (Intently) It’s very interesting to hear you say that. Now I was talking to a man who’d been over there ——

      (During the ensuing testament, left to be filled in by the reader with such phrases as “Saw with his own eyes,” “Splendid spirit of France,” and “Salvation of civilization,” MAURY sits with lowered eyelids, dispassionately bored.)

      MAURY: (At the first available opportunity) By the way, do you happen to know that there’s a German agent in this very house?

      PARAMORE: (Smiling cautiously) Are you serious?

      MAURY: Absolutely. Feel it my duty to warn you.

      PARAMORE: (Convinced) A governess?

      MAURY: (In a whisper, indicating the kitchen with his thumb) Tana! That’s not his real name. I understand he constantly gets mail addressed to Lieutenant Emile Tannenbaum.

      PARAMORE: (Laughing with hearty tolerance) You were kidding me.

      MAURY: I may be accusing him falsely. But, you haven’t told me what you’ve been doing.

      PARAMORE: For one thing — writing.

      MAURY: Fiction?

      PARAMORE: No. Non-fiction.

      MAURY: What’s that? A sort of literature that’s half fiction and half fact?

      PARAMORE: Oh, I’ve confined myself to fact. I’ve been doing a good deal of social-service work.

      MAURY: Oh!

      (An immediate glow of suspicion leaps into his eyes. It is as though PARAMORE had announced himself as an amateur pickpocket.)

      PARAMORE: At present I’m doing service work in Stamford. Only last week some one told me that Anthony Patch lived so near.

      (They are interrupted by a clamor outside, unmistakable as that of two sexes in conversation and laughter. Then there enter the room in a body ANTHONY, GLORIA, RICHARD CARAMEL, MURIEL KANE, RACHAEL BARNES and RODMAN BARNES, her husband. They surge about MAURY, illogically replying “Fine!” to his general “Hello.” … ANTHONY, meanwhile, approaches his other guest.)

      ANTHONY: Well, I’ll be darned. How are you? Mighty glad to see you.

      PARAMORE: It’s good to see you, Anthony. I’m stationed in Stamford, so I thought I’d run over. (Roguishly) We have to work to beat the devil most of the time, so we’re entitled to a few hours’ vacation.

      (In an agony of concentration ANTHONY tries to recall the name. After a struggle of parturition his memory gives up the fragment “Fred,” around which he hastily builds the sentence “Glad you did, Fred!” Meanwhile the slight hush prefatory to an introduction has fallen upon the company. MAURY, who could help, prefers to look on in malicious enjoyment.)

      ANTHONY: (In desperation) Ladies and gentlemen, this is — this is Fred.

      MURIEL: (With obliging levity) Hello, Fred!

      (RICHARD CARAMEL and PARAMORE greet each other intimately by their first names, the latter recollecting that DICK was one of the men in his class who had never before troubled to speak to him. DICK fatuously imagines that