A Fine and Private Place

Ninth Month LABOR

The redness fades from the skin. Fingernails and toenails are defined. Glandular secretions and excretions prepare the fetus for the changes soon to come.

The first rhythmic contractions signal the onset of the mother’s labor.

The baby is about to be born.

Nino was charming, almost delightful, that day. In fact, Virginia had to try a little not to like him. She did not find the exertion excessive; still, there it was.

It was the 9th of September, a day to commemorate, but not only or even principally because it was Nino’s 68th birthday. The greater happiness of the day lay in the fact that it was also their fifth wedding anniversary. And their fifth wedding anniversary had a very special significance for Virginia Whyte Importuna (and, by secret extension, Peter Ennis). For it demarcated the time zone specified in their prenuptial agreement, the date before which Virginia Whyte had waived all property and dower rights when she should become Nino Importuna’s wife, and after which-if still living with him as his wife-she became his sole heir.

The penthouse had never experienced such traffic. People dropped in throughout the day with gifts and flowers-Virginia’s father; executives of Importuna Industries’ component corporations based in New York; friends from the jet set; ambassadors and other dignitaries of foreign delegations to the United Nations who found it tactically expedient to remain in Nino Importuna’s good graces, especially those representing countries in which Importuna money was invested; colleagues in the fraternity of finance; the never-absent politicos; even the clergy. Messengers deposited overflowing cartons of congratulatory telegrams and cables from Importuna’s 10,001 industrial connections at home and overseas.

Virginia was warily impressed, especially since for the first time in their marriage Nino devoted himself wholly to her that day. Several times Peter Ennis reported to him that Mr. E was on the telephone pleading urgency and requesting leave to come to the penthouse, only to be told with a tooth-filled smile that all business “must wait until tomorrow. Lavoro sempre, ma non oggi. Today belongs to my wife.” Since Mr. E to her certain knowledge had open sesame to the penthouse day and night, Virginia could scarcely believe her ears.

The callers straggled off toward the end of the afternoon and, as the dinner hour approached, the Importunas were finally alone. This was the moment Virginia had dreaded all day, in spite of the day’s aura of felicity. The five-year history of their unattended husband-and-wife encounters had still not inured her to the prospect.

To her surprise he said, “You know, my dear, Peter is still at his desk-much as I’d like to have given him the day off, there were some matters that had to be taken care of. I feel a bit guilty about it, considering the occasion. Would you mind very much if I asked him to join us for dinner?”

“Why, Nino, how thoughtful of you.” Virginia said it at once, in her most detached tone. And how adept we’ve* become, Peter and I, she thought, in pulling the wool over Nino’s eyes. It was going to be a strain, of course; it always was when they were a trois. But on the other hand to be a deux with him was more like suffering a rupture. “Naturally I don’t mind. If it would please you.”

“Wouldn’t it please you, Virginia?”

Why had he said that? Nino had the uncanniest way of making her feel uneasy. Nothing must go wrong now, she told herself fiercely. I’ve gone through too much for too long to blow it at the moment of victory.

She shrugged. “It really doesn’t matter to me one way or the other.”

“Then I’ll ask him.”

She could tell from signs only she could read (she reassured herself) that Peter, too, regarded Nino’s sudden invitation as a not unadulterated sugarplum. Nevertheless, they made a civilized threesome at table. Cesar, the chef, a Swiss who specialized in Italian cuisine, had outdone himself making Virginia’s favorite dishes; the table wines were impeccable; the champagne flowed. Peter proposed a toast to her husband’s birthday (how she hated herself for her hypocrisy, but it was chronic, more like a cancerous agony kept to the level of tolerance by sedation than an open wound) and another to their wedding anniversary, which amused and excited her in its reminder of what loomed ahead, although she maintained her pretense of aloofness with the competence of long practice.

Peter brought forth his gifts. For Importuna’s birthday he had unearthed at some sale or other a letter from Ga-briele D’Annunzio to his inamorata, Eleonora Duse. It was housed in a large lush ormolu frame embowered in laurel leaves and peeping satyrs, and it included handsome photographs of the poet-soldier and the actress. The letter was dated 1899. Importuna read it aloud to Virginia, translating into pedantic English as he went along. It expounded D’Annunzio’s philosophy of passion-”the pleasures of the senses alone give meaning to life.” Importuna was visibly pleased with it-”How clever of you, Peter, to find such a treasure from the year of my birth! I shall have it hung in my den immediately.”

Virginia thought it rather too dangerously clever of Peter, considering its subject matter.

For their anniversary he presented them with a mid-19th century vase of reticello glass decorated with swans in lattimo. Both Virginia and Nino were fond of Venetian glass, and the penthouse was filled with specimens of the vetro di trina or lace glass of which Peter’s vase was a relatively recent example; Importuna’s collection included rare reticello dating back to the 15th century. The industrialist was nevertheless generous in his thanks, and Virginia echoed him what she silently hoped was just the right degree of disengaged warmth.

Then it was her turn. She had given a great deal of thought to her gift; she had commissioned it through an agent in Italy months before. Virginia clapped her hands, and Crump came into the dining room pushing a serving cart with all the aplomb of a five-star general. He brought it to rest at Importuna’s chair and sedately retreated. On the cart stood 9 large sealed flagons of exquisite crystal, each monogrammed NI in platinum, and each filled with what appeared to be the same colorless liquid.

“As I’ve had to keep telling you, Nino, you’re very hard to buy gifts for,” Virginia said with a smile. “So these are for the man who has everything. Happy birthday, dear, and anniversary.” She managed the endearment without corrupting the smile.

Importuna was examining the flagons with quizzical interest. Suddenly his face cleared.

“Grazie, sposa,” he murmured. “I see you remembered. I’m touched. Grazie di nuovo.”

“But what is it?” Peter asked. “It looks like water.”

He knew very well what it was; she had discussed her choice with him.

“It is water,” Virginia said. “During our honeymoon in Rome five years ago, Nino took me to the Piazza di Spagna and showed me the Barcaccia fountain, designed by Pietro Bernini in 16-something-that’s Bernini the elder, not the famous one. The water of the Barcaccia fountain, Nino told me, is supposed to have unusual qualities and a superior taste. And in fact, while we were standing there, a steady stream of people came from the nearby artists’ quarter-Via Margutta and Via del Babuino-don’t you love that name? Street of the Baboon?-carrying jugs and buckets and filling them from the fountain the way people had been doing, Nino said, for 350 yeax-s.”

“It is superior, in spite of the Roman scoffers,” Importuna said. “Cesar will kiss me. I’ll let him have some to cook with. Artichokes and zucchini cooked in this water have special brio, as they say. It’s true. What an imaginative present, Virginia. So full of sentiment. I thank you again. Especially for humoring what I know you consider my imbecile superstition-not only bottles of water from the Barcaccia, but 9 of them! It is too much.

“And now, my dear,” he said, “I have my anniversary present to you.”

And plumbed his breast pocket for something.

So finally… finally. The climax of her day. The climax of her five years of days. And their hideous nights. Under cover of the Assisi-work tablecloth Virginia pressed her nails into her palms. Her face remained pleasantly expectant.

“I don’t suppose, Virginia,” her husband said as he brought out of his dinner jacket a blue-backed paper, “you’ve forgotten the rather special meaning of this anniversary.”

“No, Nino, I haven’t,” she said steadily enough, although her heart was bonging against her chest.

“Five years ago you signed this paper. Under its terms you gave up any and all claims on me and my estate, even a dower right, for the full five-year period. Well, the period has passed, and you’re still my wife and living with me.” Importuna’s glance took her in at the opposite end of the table with unconcealed pride of ownership-the exquisite northern features, the fine coloring, the gossamer quality, the depth of the womanliness half bared by her decolletage-and with a tremor, suppressed at once, she saw the dreaded fire kindle in his eyes. “A deal is a deal, Virginia. The test is passed, the trial’s over, the agreement is null and void, as the lawyers say. So tear it up, my dear, burn it, keep it-it doesn’t matter now. It’s meaningless. Peter, will you hand this to Mrs. Importuna for her disposal?”

And he gave the blue-backed paper to Ennis, who passed it along in silence to Virginia.

“You’ll understand, Nino, if I look this over?”

He waved his four-fingered hand and displayed his teeth in appreciation. “It would be very foolish, cara, not to. And you are not, thank the Blessed Mother, a fool. Why should you trust a man who forced a deal like this on you? Verify it, by all means.”

The irony, if that was what it was, did not deter her. “Excuse me, Peter. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not, Mrs. Importuna.”

She deliberately examined the agreement, down to the date, the signatures, and the notary’s imprint. Then she nodded, refolded the paper, and tucked it into her bosom.

“I’ve decided to hang on to it, Nino. As a memento. Now how about the second part of our bargain?”

Importuna chuckled. “Tell her, Peter.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The will I had you witness the other day. The new one I asked you to read.”

“Oh! Mr. Importuna had a new will drawn the other day, Mrs. Importuna, by one of his personal attorneys. I was called in to witness the signature, along with two others, and Mr. Importuna asked me afterward to read it. Do you want me to tell Mrs. Importuna the substance of it, Mr. Importuna?”

“Please.”

“It’s a basically simple document, although for estate tax purposes and so on a rather complicated trust structure has been set up by the lawyer. In effect, though, it leaves Mr. Importuna’s entire estate to you.” Peter uttered a mendacious what-a-good-little-confidential-secretary-am-I cough. “Congratulations, Mrs. Importuna.”

“Thank you.” Virginia rose and went round to her husband and to his evident astonishment and pleasure kissed him on the forehead. “And thank you again, Nino.”

“I’ve made you happy,” Importuna murmured. “You don’t know how I wish-I wish-”

He stopped with a gasp, and Virginia said sharply, “What’s the matter?”

His face had gone yellow, a muddy yellow. He was doubled over in what seemed to be an attack of some sort.

Ennis jumped up. “What’s wrong, Mr. Importuna?”

He waved them off. “Nothing, nothing. Indigestion-cramps. And I’m dizzy-I’ve had too much to drink tonight-not used to it… “ His face had broken out in perspiration. But he tried a joke. “How often does a man celebrate a fifth wedding anniversary with a wife like mine?”

“Stop talking,” Virginia said, holding a glass of water to his lips. “Here, take a swallow. Peter, you’d better ring up Dr. Mazzarini-”

“No, no, he’ll complicate my life with a thousand unnecessary tests. I’ll take some aspirin and a dose of milk of magnesia and go to bed, and I’ll be all right in the morning… The pain’s already letting up.” Importuna got to his feet with the aid of the back of his chair. “My dear, will you forgive me? Spoiling your anniversary this way… “

“Here, let me help you to your room,” Ennis said, taking his arm.

“I’ll manage by myself, Peter, thanks. You keep Mrs. Importuna company-Cesar will be crushed if his dessert is ignored. Cara, I’ll see you at breakfast.” He waved again and quickly, if unsteadily, left.

They remained where they were, almost touching. But when Peter reached for her and opened his mouth to say something, Virginia stepped back, shook her head, and put a finger to her lips.

“Well, Peter,” she said in a clear voice, “shall we sit down and finish dinner? Please ring for Crump. Or isn’t that he now?”

Only later, when they were safely alone, beyond the possibility of eavesdropping, did they communicate.

“Did you get the feeling that he knows?” Peter muttered. “Though if he does, why isn’t he acting the outraged husband bit? What do you think, Virgin?”

“You have a positive gift for inventing nicknames,” Virginia murmured from the depths of his arms.

“No, seriously.”

“I don’t know what Nino knows or what he doesn’t. He’s the original sphinx.”

“Why did he have me read his new will the other day? Why did he ask me to dinner tonight?”

“Worrywart.” Virginia laughed. “That will is all right, isn’t it, Peter? No gimmicks or weenies?”

“No conditions at all. At his death you’ll come into ownership and control of half a billion dollars. Some people have all the luck.”

“Don’t we?” Virginia drew a long, long breath. “Woo-eee! But Peter.”

“Yes, baby.”

“We’ll have to be extra careful from now on.”

“Why extra?”

“Wills can be changed.”

“Oh,” said Peter Ennis. “Well, don’t worry about it, little chicken. I think we’re over the hump.”