Meanwhile, I have begun to wonder whether Diana Holland is ever coming back from Paris to begin the craze amongst New York’s well-dressed ladies for hair worn short.
— FROM THE “GAMESOME GALLANT” COLUMN IN THE NEW YORK IMPERIAL, SUNDAY, JULY 8, 1900
“HOW LUCKY I FOUND YOU JUST WHEN I DID, because I’ve been looking forward to seeing the poet’s house, but I did not, in truth, want to go alone!” Diana Holland ceased her stubborn, boyish little march and turned to face Henry, wearing an expression of happy embarrassment for having babbled so long. He’d watched from behind as she walked away from him before, in anger, at times, or in sadness, but never had she moved the way the other girls of her set did, like Penelope or her sister — practiced, proud, as though their skeletons were made of platinum, and as though their heels never quite met the ground. Of course, at this particular moment, the place they were searching for was miles from rooms that demanded to be entered in such a formal manner. The scene was devoid of elaborate drapery, or dainty statues, or the kind of people who considered a lady’s gait a worthy topic of conversation. Beyond Diana’s figure, about which floated a dress of undyed fabric, there was only dense verdure and a steel-colored heavens. “I mean,” she amended in a softer voice as she gripped the broad straw hat that covered her absent curls, “I am so glad I get to go with you particularly.”
The poet was some old Spaniard, long fled or long dead. Henry couldn’t quite grasp the name — it had a minimum of eight syllables, and in Di’s fluid pronunciation it sounded like nothing more than lovely nonsense. Who the poet was did not matter to him particularly (Henry owned many books, but few with cut pages), for it was Diana’s vitality he was pursuing, up the hill and away from the city; the literary shrine was, for him, incidental.
“I am glad, too,” he replied simply. Then she took several steps back in his direction, gazed up at him with a face relaxed and glowing, and kissed him for perhaps the twentieth time that day. These were not the kisses of lawn parties, earned after hours of persuasion and the slow erosion of a debutante’s sense of propriety. They were not stolen or hidden — they were easy, and full of joy. Diana had always possessed a kind of gorgeous, reckless innocence, which he would have liked to drink in; she was even more courageous to him now that he knew she’d traveled so far, and by herself. Earlier he had made an observation along these lines, and she’d gleefully responded: “I am seventeen now!” with such touching irreverence he could only laugh. It was as though his life had begun again late Friday evening, and every hour since then had been as wondrous and full as a day in the book of Genesis.
“There, I think I see it!” Diana withdrew her lips from his and pointed — pausing a kiss that seemed to go on endlessly from one hour to the next, with short breaks for speech or sustenance — up the hill, where Henry could just make out the jutting angles of a white walled villa. The city was below them, stretching out toward the sea, as well as the square where they had eaten croissants and drank café con leche that morning amongst languid gentlemen smoking cigars. The barracks lay between them and the crooked streets of the old town. Henry glanced back once, thinking fleetingly of his obligations there, and then hurried to catch up with Diana as she charged toward the house.
A few long strides and they had crested the hill. The ground dipped below them, and then rose again underneath the villa, a single-story structure that had once been white, ringed by an impressive terrace. Palms sheltered the area, which had fallen into disrepair, weeds colonizing the paths that connected the small buildings that dotted the property, and little turquoise birds darted in and out of the thick foliage. Henry followed Diana across the lawn and up the stairs of what must once have been the main house, where they encountered an impressive wooden door, carved and worn, and secured with a huge iron lock.
“We’re shut out,” Diana said, frowning, resting her fingers against the handle as though to confirm the fact.
“Perhaps we could break a window,” Henry ventured, gesturing toward the glass panes to either side of the main entrance.
“No! No, no.” Diana’s eyes grew round at the suggestion. She took his hand and drew him along the terrace, which was covered with tiles that had, once upon a time, been painted with geometric blue and white patterns. “We can’t touch a thing,” she admonished sweetly. “I’ve heard from all kinds of people at Señora Conrad’s that it’s just as it was when he left it, all the books are in the same place, and God must be watching out for it because it is immune to thieves. They say,” and now her voice sunk to a whisper, and she twisted her neck enough that Henry recognized a conspiratorial expression on her crescent face, “that he wrote his best verses here, that when he left it was over for him.”
Around the house they walked, peering in at beaten leather armchairs and moldering book-crammed shelves. A peachy afternoon light broke through a sky that was otherwise a study in fearsome grays, illuminating the old candelabras and paintings and masks that adorned the walls that had once housed a sedentary life. It was the ruins of an existence very different from their own, and they moved around the grounds as though through the hushed halls of a museum. Diana became absorbed with the magic of the site, and he became absorbed in her, watching an aura of fascination suffuse her fea tures. She glanced back at him, her shaded eyes wide open as though to say, Can you believe we’re here, in a place like this?
Perhaps because she was so occupied in imagining the recitation of verses that had occurred there on long-ago evenings, while Henry remained distracted by the loveliness of her unselfconscious heart-shaped face — shadowed by palms, touched by breezes — neither at first noticed the drop in temperature or the moisture accumulating in the atmosphere. They had nearly traveled around to the front again, their hands still clasped as she led him from one window to the next, when raindrops as big as grapes began to hit the terrace.
“Oh!” she gasped in surprise, looking up at the sudden precipitation. Then they both broke into a run, hurrying across the wraparound terrace, which was quickly becoming slick, and down the stairs. But their instinct to run from the rain, Henry soon saw, had been a foolish one. By the time they had dashed across the field, the large drops were fast becoming an onslaught. Henry’s shirt would have been soaked through, had they not so quickly reached the shelter of a garden shed with a thankfully broad metal awning. He tried the door, and found it secured from within, although by then all the fear and surprise had left Diana’s face, and she was gazing out at the sheets of falling water, which were forming rivulets down the hill, in delight.
“We’ll drown if we try to make it back to the city now….” Henry dried his face with his hand. From where they stood, he could see all the way down to the bay, where children were no doubt running for the shelter of arcades and the sewers would soon flood.
“Yes,” Diana agreed. “But how grand!”
“How grand,” he repeated, realizing she was right. He had a sudden sense of the lushness around him, of the colors being unusually vivid, of each inhaled breath being impossibly full. Everything petty and extraneous in the world was about to be washed away. “And look — how lucky!”
A few feet to his left was a little round white iron table, and two chairs covered with the same chipped paint. Diana’s pearl-like teeth emerged between her small, full lips as they stretched upward in pleasure. She undid her hat, and then they both moved to the chairs. Henry opened the covered wicker basket he had been carrying. Neither was hungry, so he pried open the two bottles of cola that Diana had packed for them that morning, when it had still been dry and sunny, and lit them each a cigarette.
“Isn’t it amazing how the sun gets through, even in all this?”
Diana had settled into her chair. Her pink skin glistened with the moisture, and her hair clung, damp and dark, around her soft ears. Though he didn’t want to take his eyes off her, he did, eventually, turn to catch the golden rays that were indeed visible despite heavy rainfall, despite the blacks and grays trying to outdo each other in the sky. The smell of earth rose up, mingling with drops fresh from heaven; water against the metal awning up above made for cacophonous music. He took a sip of the sweet soda, and a drag from his cigarette. His breath had slowed already, and after the long walk and the quick dash, his body was beginning to feel calm. Even though he was a volunteer soldier in the United States Army, he had perhaps never been so far from the comforts that had characterized every day of his twenty-one years. They were a good way from town, and yet he felt he had everything he needed. He turned his dark eyes on the girl whom he had dreamed of so often over the previous months. Beside him, at that very moment of existence, at the heart of a torrential downpour, she was exquisitely real, and she, too, seemed content to go on sitting there forever. She exhaled cigarette smoke into the humidity and reached out for his hand.
Consciousness came pleasantly over Henry. Faintly, beyond the door, he could hear boots, the distant voices of men, reveille. He was back in the barracks — it had been the nearest place for them to run to, the night before, when the rain let up. Though some part of him had longed, irrationally, to sit on that spot forever, drinking cola and smoking cigarettes and watching all the different ways that rain could sweep across a green acre, they had agreed they should try to get back to the city before darkness fell. But he liked being with Diana this way, too: sleepy and pliant, her face partially obscured by ill-behaved curls, the peachy arc of her shoulder just emerging from beneath a blanket. She murmured and stirred a little in her sleep, pushing against him in a way that brought to mind a newborn kitten.
When he’d first arrived in Havana, Henry had been at pains to prove that he was just like all the other troops stationed there, and he had risen early and run hard with the rest of them. But inevitably, as the colonel’s leniency had grown more persistent, he had begun to slip. He kept trying to be up early, but it was never as easy after a night of rum drinking. Now that he had Diana again, he had given up the notion entirely; that morning, listening to his fellow soldiers exerting themselves out there in the wet morning, he felt not even a twinge of guilt.
“Schoonmaker!”
The gruff voice was followed by a shaft of stark morning light falling across the floor of his barracks room, and then the face of Colonel Copper, smiling idiotically as it jutted into the doorframe. At the sight of his mustache, Henry grabbed at the blanket and pulled it protectively over Diana, waking her in the process. He could feel her fingers seize up against his chest, and tried silently to communicate that he wanted her to stay very still, very silent.
No matter how little he had liked Colonel Copper up until that moment, it was nothing compared to the hatred he now felt as he watched the contortions of the man’s face. His confusion over the second form under the blanket, and his subsequent surprise at finding Henry not alone, gave way — too slowly, and accompanied by a series of facial ticks — to lurid realization.
For the subsequent wink alone Henry could have killed him.
“Is something the matter?” he asked, after several moments in which the colonel stood mute, but apparently quite at ease, his eyes big as saucers.
“Ah — Schoonmaker!” The colonel boomed. The soft body beside him went tense at the sound. “I was worried because you’ve been absent since Friday, but now I see you were busy taking my advice!”
“Can I do something for you?” Henry prodded.
“You missed reveille,” the colonel replied, mock-sternly.
“I thought—”
“Ha! Don’t worry yourself, my boy….” The colonel leaned against the doorframe. The daylight behind him illu minated Henry’s twill jacket, which hung from a hook on the wall, as well as his second pair of trousers and shirt. Diana’s clothes, muddy and wet after their hurried trek away from the poet’s house, were in a heap on the wooden chair. “It has been lonely without you, though, with nobody but the uneducated classes to talk to. Of course, there will be no race this afternoon, owing to the storm, but I thought perhaps we could discuss…”
Henry watched him warily, and tried to make the face that would encourage the colonel to go away with maximum expediency. He seemed to have succeeded, for the colonel winked, muttered good-bye, and dragged his boot against the floor. If Henry had hoped that the man would disappear before really glimpsing Diana, however, he was soon disappointed, because she emerged slightly from his embrace then — showing, in the process, more of her naked back than he really felt comfortable with.
“Hola,” said the colonel, his pronunciation stilted.
“Hello,” went Diana’s dry reply.
“You’re…an American girl.” The obnoxious cheer had disappeared suddenly, and whatever replaced it sent Henry spiraling to new depths of dislike.
“And if I were?” Diana ducked under the covers and pressed herself into Henry’s chest again. Both of his arms covered her instinctively, but this gesture did nothing to head off Colonel Copper, whose brown leather boots — adorned with utterly superfluous silver spurs — were now striding noisily across the floor. He carried himself more sharply now, more like a military man than ever before, and when he reached the narrow, metal-frame bed in the far corner of the room, he stuck out his chest as though he had just taken part in a twenty-one-gun salute.
“And not just any American girl.”
Henry watched immobilized as Diana slowly pushed back the covers and hazy layers of sleep, and turned to look at the colonel. If she appeared a little shocked it was no wonder, for no matter how many countless rules of decorum she had broken to be in that bed at that hour, so far from home, it was doubtful she had ever seen a man be so forward and boorish at her bedside. As far as Henry knew, he was the only man who had ever been in Diana’s bedroom at all, and the widening milky whites of her eyes conveyed that the part of her that was raised by a mother always mindful of propriety was still alive inside.
“What does it matter?” she asked, trying to sound a little ribald.
“Oh, God—” The colonel took a step back. He met Henry’s eyes. “I know her.”
“No.” Henry was relieved that the colonel had ceased his leering, but he distrusted whatever it was that had caused the change. “No, you don’t.”
“Yes. Yes, I remember her quite distinctly.” The colonel was wagging his finger now. His voice had grown stuttering and obsessive, as though he were repeating information he had recorded in rote fashion in his daily journal. “She was at the party given for Admiral Dewey at the Waldorf-Astoria back in September. She was wearing lavender and she danced with Mr. Edward Cutting. I am sure, because I suppose I jotted it down. And I am doubly sure of it, because this morning when I was reading the social notes — it is the only way to know where in the world one’s friends are — I saw a little section about how she was wearing her hair in a most peculiar short style, and you, miss, are the first girl I have ever seen with hair like that! The only trouble is,” he went on, working his hands together, “you’re said to be in Paris….”
“You must have me confused,” she returned with a brave giggle, but her heart wasn’t in the lie, and Henry knew there was going to be trouble. The hours spent sitting a few feet from a torrent, smoking and waiting and telling each other stories of where they had been, were still with him, but he sensed there would be no more like them.
“Schoonmaker, what kind of an operation do you believe I’m running here? Do you find it farcical what I do? You can’t bring a girl like her into a barracks, not a girl who is supposed to be attending balls in Paris or New York, a girl people are going to come looking for!”
Even now, Henry did not experience his superior pulling rank with him. Colonel Copper only paced the room, straightening his jacket nervously. He wasn’t angry — he was afraid of losing some imaginary stature, and that boded worse.
“They’ll come looking for her,” he went on, more to himself now, “but it’s my neck they’ll want. They’ll say I was running a high-class brothel down here and I’ll be ruined. She’ll ruin me. It won’t stand, no, no, no, it won’t stand.”
Diana’s expression had grown quizzical. She was asking Henry, silently, what he made of it. He wished he had reassurances for her, but all he could think to do was to reach for the blanket, pull it over her and hold her as tight as possible. It was plain to see that Colonel Copper’s reaction was bad. What he’d seen frightened him, and he wasn’t going to be able to sit still until he had done something about the debutante who’d snuck into the barracks like a camp follower. Her smile fell a little, and then they both turned their faces back in the direction of the colonel.
“No,” he concluded, more decisively this time as he turned his gaze on the lovebirds. Morning light washed away the details of the simple room, as well as the older man’s face, and there was almost a tinge of elegy in his words. “It will not stand.”