East is East

He looked away then, patted her hand and set it free. He lifted the snifter to his nose, took a deep breath and then set the glass down. “Ruthie”—and he hesitated, went for her hand again—“Ruthie, I’ve been meaning to ask you … you know I’ll be leaving in two weeks?”

Ruth nodded. Her heart began to accelerate. She was acutely conscious of the pressure of Irving’s hand on her own.

“I’ve got this place I’m renting in Key West—greatest weather on earth—it’s about three blocks from the beach. Big open room, windows all over the place. Hemingway lived there one winter.”

She nodded again.

“Look,” he said, watching her from deep within the folds of his hooded eyes, “what I’m saying is this: I want you to come with me. Live there—rent free, no obligations.” He paused. “With me.”

She couldn’t help herself, the names just leaped into her head: Ruth Thalamus, Mrs. Irving Thalamus, Ruth Dershowitz-Thalamus. She saw herself at his side in New York, cruising the literary salons, sashaying into Bread Loaf on his arm, saw herself in bed with him, all that hair, those strong white New York teeth. Her pulse was racing, her eyes were bright. And then she thought of Saxby, sweet Sax, with his fish and his shoulders and the way he smiled out of the corner of his mouth, thought of Thanatopsis House and Septima, of Laura and Sandy and all the rest. She was queen of the hive: this was her home. “You’re sweet, Irving,” she said finally, “and I’ll always love you. You’ll always be my best friend, my mentor, my advisor—”

Irving had retreated behind his eyes, the meager bunch of his lips. “But—?”

“But”—she sighed, and she could look down now, and up, she could scan the room before she came back to him, all the time in the world—“but I can’t leave Sax.”

The first call the following morning was from Marker McGill. He had a deal for her and he wanted to know what she thought of it. He’d gotten an offer from a major publisher—he named the house—for a $500,000 advance against a fifteen percent royalty, first serial rights going to one of the leading women’s magazines—he named it—for $75,000, to run in three installments. How did that sound?

And so, here she was, a guest of the Fortunoffs, contracts in the mail, new clothes spread out on the bed, a journalist on her way to the hospital to interview Hiro Tanaka and take some notes. It was warm, but she would wear the coat anyway—the fall season had begun, after all—and yes, she thought she would highlight her hair just a bit, to bring out some of the reds and golds. Then she would slip into her stockings and heels, don the new suit, collect her tape recorder, notepad and pens, and call a cab. There would be photographers outside the hospital and she would look smart for them—seductive, yes, attractive, yes, but in a mature way, a chic and businesslike way. She was a journalist now, after all—like Joan Didion, like Frances FitzGerald—and she had an image to maintain. Journalism—and she said it aloud to herself as she stepped into the shower—it was a noble profession.

At the hospital, ruth reconfirmed that the saga of hiro Tanaka was still very much in the public eye. There were reporters everywhere, pumping hospital staff, lawmen, doctors, nurses, even the janitors, for word as to Hiro’s condition. He’d refused steadfastly to speak to anyone—not even his court-appointed attorney and translator. He was suffering from septicemia (which had elevated his temperature to 104 degrees), shigellosis and hookworm, and he was facing twenty-two criminal charges brought by the State of Georgia and twelve others at the hands of the INS.

Ruth posed for photos on the hospital steps—not to be mercenary about it, but they were money in the bank—but she brushed off the reporters. Why give them anything? This was her story now. She was aware of the trouble Hiro was in and she felt bad about it, and she knew that some people—the Jane Shines of the world—would say that she was being mercenary, capitalizing on his misery, sailing out the courtroom door while he was left holding the bag. Especially since the charges against Saxby had been dropped and she’d been given immunity, as per her arrangement with Abercorn and the district attorney. But that wasn’t it at all. That was just a malicious distortion of the facts. Of course she felt bad for Hiro, but as she rode up in the elevator she tried to harden herself just a little. No one had asked him to jump ship or take up residence on her front porch, after all—they had to understand that. He had to understand it. And if she’d agreed to testify in exchange for immunity, she was going to go up there and do everything in her power to convince them how innocent Hiro was, how the whole thing was just an escalating series of misunderstandings, how he was nothing more than an overgrown boy, an innocent, a naif, how all he really wanted was to live in a walk-up in Little Tokyo and blend in with the crowd. It wasn’t criminal, it was pathetic, that’s what it was.