The Prince and the Pretender, page 9
“Do you think it was the farm worker she ran off with?”
“Who knows? She ran off with a hired hand, as Grandma called him, and came back with yours truly and no sign of the hired hand.”
“If you could have anyone you wanted for a father who would you choose?”
Tom thought about the faceless body and strong arms of his masturbation fantasies. Then he thought about the Lindenhursts and Halls. “I don’t know. Who would you pick?”
“Uncle Alexis.”
Tom almost choked on his beer. “You’re kidding.”
“No. Tom, he’s really a very wonderful person. So is Aunt Marie. You always make it seem as if they treated me like some unwanted stepson, but that’s not true. They’ve always been very good to me, in their own way.”
“You know who Uncle Alexis would pick for a father?” Tom thought aloud.
“Who?”
“The last czar of Russia, that’s who.”
“You’re a bastard, Tommy.”
“So what else is new?”
Nicky wanted to know all about the town Tom grew up in, his school friends, his upbringing at the knee of the God-fearing Emily Bradshaw and especially about his life at Yale and his subsequent existence as a carefree bachelor in New York. To one brought up as Nicky Three was, Tom’s rather unextraordinary life seemed more exciting than any adventure novel Nicky had ever read.
“I sure would like to meet your friends, Tommy.”
“Oh, sure. We’ll have a little cocktail party and at ten minutes to seven you’ll excuse yourself and leave. Then we might get invited to a dinner party and just about the time everyone is sitting down to dine you’ll get up and leave. Even Cinderella had till midnight.”
Nicky looked at his hands which rested placidly on his lap and the conversation was ended.
And Tom learned all about Nicky’s life with Alexis and Marie Romaine. The country house in England, for someone with Tom’s background sounded like a castle. A tennis court, and horses; a pond for skating in the winter and caviar every night. Nicky had been surrounded with everything a young man could want, except people. He had been given everything one could wish for, except his own life.
“What about sex?” Tom asked. “Did he ever mention sex to you?”
“Never.”
“How did you learn to jack off?”
“How did you?”
“Me? I’m the product of the American public school system. You won’t find masturbation on any curriculum but along about the sixth grade it’s the most discussed extracurricular activity on the agenda. I knew all about it long before I could do it and one little bugger even told me where babies came from. He said you quote stick it in her and jack off unquote and you keep doing it until you put enough in there to form a baby.”
Nicky, who was sitting on the floor, began to rock with laughter.
“Then he said the size of the baby that came out — “
“Depended on how much you put in,” Nicky finished, rolling across the room and kicking his legs with glee.
“You think I had it easy? Christ, I wonder what ever happened to that punk.”
“I don’t know, but I bet his wife had the biggest babies ever conceived.”
“Okay, you had your laugh on me, now what about you?”
“I, Mr. Bradshaw, had tutors. And very good ones. They told it like it was.”
“Doesn’t sound like much fun.”
“It wasn’t, but at least it was the truth.”
“Did any of your tutors ever try to put the make on you?”
“No. I think they were afraid of Uncle Alexis. And don’t forget, tutors need references.”
“How did you know you liked guys, Nicky?”
Nicky shrugged his shoulders. “It wasn’t a sudden revelation. Reading, going to the films, looking at magazines…I found myself hung up on the hero or the guy pushing shaving cream all the time.”
“Did you think it was strange?”
“No, did you?”
“I’m not really sure I’m gay.”
“You do one hell of an imitation, Bradshaw. And on that subject, why did you pick me?”
“I didn’t pick you, we just happened to meet.”
“You picked me.”
“I couldn’t resist your beauty and your diving skill.”
“You said I reminded you of someone you knew.”
Tom looked surprised. “You never forget anything, do you?”
“I don’t have very much to remember.”
“It was just an opening line, Nicky…just an opening line.”
Over the weeks that followed, with no conscious effort, the apartment became as much Nicky’s as it was Tom’s. A toothbrush for Nicky appeared, a robe for Nicky to relax in, underpants and t-shirts that Nicky could change into if the need arose and jars of peanuts which he never tired of munching on all became a part of the walk-up off Central Park West. Tom even had a duplicate key made for Nicky and very often when arriving home from work he would find traces that Nicky had been there in his absence. A bottle of champagne chilling in the refrigerator or some item of food that Tom especially liked and occasionally a small gift like a tie or shirt that never failed to be just what Tom would have bought for himself.
Nicky had gone from one gilded cage to another, but the new one contained Tom and that made it as big as the world. The rest, Nicky was sure, would come as soon as he was able to break away from Uncle Alexis and Aunt Marie. But it would be nice to meet some of Tommy’s friends, even if he could only be with them for just a few hours.
Tom wondered why he had been given Eric, but an Eric bereft of family, friends, wealth. He had “Eric” and old Mrs. Lindenhurst had all that money and no grandson and heir. “Why the fuck can’t I have them both?” Those words he had uttered weeks and weeks ago which had acted like an electric shock to his brain had never completely left his fertile mind.
If the gods work in strange ways they had picked the right mortal to entice.
London — 1955
Erica Lindenhurst was not a classical beauty. She could possibly be called pretty but striking would be a more fit adjective for the only child of the American ambassador to the Court of St. James. Erica had red hair, blue eyes, a complexion dotted with freckles when not carefully covered with make-up and a smile an unkind columnist had once labeled predatory. But men seldom noticed the young lady’s flaws when presented to the sole heiress of one of the greatest fortunes in America.
Her father, Eric Lindenhurst, was the scion of an old and well-known Boston clan and the name Lindenhurst had long been synonymous with great wealth in America. He had devoted all of his adult life to the service of his country and he considered his appointment to the Court of St. James the crowning glory to a life filled with unselfish achievements.
The tea dance, sponsored by the British Foreign Office, was everything Erica expected it to be and less. But the girl, substituting for her mother who was ill with a cold, did not show the boredom she felt in any way. She drank the offered punch with relish, smiled when a smile was called for, shook many hands and danced with whoever asked her to dance. She was the center of attention and appeared to be loving every minute of it.
Her father was the most important person in the room and Erica adored standing next to him and basking in his reflected glory. Like most young ladies, and especially only daughters, Erica delighted in taking her mother’s place beside her father. She felt like a little girl at her first grown-up affair except, in this particular instance, there were no “little boys” present for her to charm and no hearts to conquer. Just as Erica was beginning to wonder when she could make a polite exit a soft, male voice whispered in her ear: “There is a small bar at the far end of the room where one can get a proper drink.”
Startled, Erica turned and faced a man with dark hair and deep blue eyes which stared, unblinkingly, directly at her. He was smiling but in spite of that, or maybe because of it, he did not look happy. In fact his manner, immediately noticeable, was that of one in perpetual mourning.
“But I like the punch,” Erica answered in a conspiratorial tone.
“Spoken like a true diplomat which means I don’t believe you.”
Erica laughed. “How right you are.”
The man, who was exactly Erica’s height, offered her his arm and she took it, allowing him to lead her across the crowded room.
She noticed that he walked with a slight limp.
“Is it your job to ply young ladies with booze and extract military secrets from them?”
“Perhaps. Would that make you flee?”
“If I run it will be after I have my drink,” Erica answered.
The man smiled. “I thought so. My name is Alexis Romaine.”
“Alexis. I like that. How do you do, Mr. Romaine. I am Erica Lindenhurst.”
“If I did not know that, Miss Lindenhurst, I would be either a fool or illiterate and I am neither.”
“I’m sure of that, Mr. Romaine.”
“Please call me Alexis.”
“And never Alex.”
“No, never that.”
The bar was as small and as inconspicuous as a bar could possibly be. The fact that it was intended to serve over a hundred people almost made it a joke. “You said scotch?” Alexis asked.
“I didn’t, but I will if you ask.”
“And plenty of ice for Miss Lindenhurst,” Alexis ordered the bartender.
“Thank you,” Erica said when Alexis handed her the ice-filled drink. “You must be a diplomat. Plenty of ice for the American.” Erica tried unsuccessfully to imitate Alexis’s soft but demanding voice.
“Not really,” he answered.
“But you are with the Foreign Office.”
Alexis nodded. “In a minor capacity. I translate Russian and French and spot trends in those two countries, whatever that may mean.”
Erica took a long sip from her drink, “Russian and French, what a strange combination.” She accepted a cigarette from the pack Alexis offered her and appraised the man as he lit it for her. “You look and act very English,” she flirted, “but there is a hint of something foreign and mysterious in your manner.”
“And you are an over-imaginative child. But there is some truth in what you say. I was born and lived for a while in Russia.”
“How did you get out?”
Alexis looked startled for a moment and then, realizing what Erica meant, smiled and said, “I left before the big, bad revolution.”
“But you’re not that old,” Erica blurted in most undiplomatic fashion and then quickly recanted with, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
Alexis shook his head. “I am not offended, Erica, if I may call you that. I am fifty-one years old and why do the young think anything that occurred over thirty years ago is ancient history?”
“Because we believe now is the day we turned eighteen and everything that happened before then is long, long ago.”
“You are as bright as you are pretty. So many young ladies today are good to look at and dismal to listen to.”
“So are a lot of young men.”
The evening was no longer a chore for Erica. She had made a conquest and under no circumstances did she function better or enjoy herself more. And the man who called himself Alexis Romaine was different than any Erica had ever flirted with. It wasn’t only his age — over fifty put him in her father’s generation — that made Alexis Romaine different. It was his calm self-assurance and his masculinity which, paradoxically, was made more pronounced by his slightly effeminate manner. Romaine exuded a confidence in his role as a male which did not need the overt physical characterizations of the gender to make itself known. He was at once as physical and as ethereal as the smoke which rose from the cigarette poised constantly between his fingers.
The young men Erica knew had been greatly influenced by the recent war. Their idea of romantic love was a grim cross between saccharine Hollywood films and latrine conversation. Her current beau, the Honorable Anthony Hall, was a tall, lanky, handsome and somewhat impoverished member of the English gentry.
The young man had managed to take Erica’s heart and virginity six months after her arrival in England. The fact that Hall was well connected but poor greatly excited the ever romantic Erica. They were Cinderella and Prince Charming in reverse.
When Alexis suggested they skip the tea dance buffet supper, “Unless you are mad about Spam,” and suggested a restaurant he particularly liked, Erica happily accepted the offer.
“But I must clear it with my father first,” she told him.
“Has your father ever refused you anything?” Alexis asked.
“No.”
“Then why ask?”
“Because it would be rude not to.”
Alexis nodded his approval. “That is what I was hoping you would say.”
8
Once the embryo of the idea of having Nicky Three become Eric Hall planted itself in Tom’s mind, nothing short of a lobotomy could keep him from nurturing it to maturity.
The idea itself was simple. Nicky was Eric’s double. Nicky would become Eric. But to pull it off was going to take careful planning and a hell of a lot of luck. Tom was capable of the former and ready to take his chances with the latter. After all, what did he have to lose? Visions of posh townhouses, chauffeured limousines and spitting on the collective eyeglasses of Dicky and Amy Culver filled his mind and dulled his intelligence. What he had to lose, of course, was Nicky, but this thought never entered his mind.
Tom was a dreamer, and a dreamer who truly believed that dreams did come true. This characteristic was the mainstay of his existence; it made his life bearable because he knew that his dream of security, of belonging, would one day come true. When he had met Eric Hall he thought that his time had come, and not until Eric’s death did he abandon that dream. But now he had been given another Eric, another chance, and that proved beyond any doubt what his destiny would be. The good Lord giveth and the good Lord taketh away…and when He giveth a second time, well, that had to mean something.
When did the idea first occur to Tom? Now that he was actively considering going through with it he realized that it first occurred when he spoke to the “apparition” and was satisfied that it was a breathing, living human being and not a figment of his imagination. When did the idea go from wishful thinking to the possibility of becoming a reality? When he learned from Dicky Culver that old Mrs. Lindenhurst was practically senile and “sometimes refers to her daughter and Eric in the present tense.”
When did it go from the drawing board to operative? Each time he saw Nicky, each time he marveled at the resemblance between Nicky and Eric, and each time he waited for that remarkable resemblance to fade with familiarity and each time it never did.
At first Tom’s scheme took the form of a daydream, with no basis in reality. He would knock on Mrs. Lindenhurst’s door, present Nicky, she would throw her arms about her lost grandson and the three of them would live happily ever after. Sadly, Tom’s and Nicky’s ever after would be considerably longer than Mrs. Lindenhurst’s.
Or, he would tell Dicky Culver he had found Eric. Dicky would take one look at Nicky Three, throw his arms around him, take him to Mrs. Lindenhurst and the scenario would end much like dream number one. It was all pure nonsense and Tom knew it.
But gradually the daydream, as daydreams will, began to expand and adapt itself to reality. What could not work was ousted, what could was retained and refined. The daydream became a viable plan…
Nicky Three had no past…no friends, no relatives, no former schoolmates or co-workers. Tom had questioned him repeatedly on this point and, impossible as it sounded, Nicky, age twenty-eight, truly had no past. There were the Romaines, but at this stage Tom shoved them under a column in his mind labeled “to be dealt with.”
There was no one who would come forth and say, “He’s Nicky Three.” But there were literally hundreds who would say, “He’s Eric Hall.”
Eric Hall’s body had never been recovered. A man with a very public past who was presumed dead, who had never been viewed as a corpse and had never been buried; and his double who, as it were, had never been seen alive. One would become the other. But first, Eric would have to be resurrected. But unlike Lazarus, Eric would be resurrected logically, not miraculously. Not only would Eric’s return to the land of the living have to be explained, but a gap of some two years would have to be filled, also logically.
Nicky looked so much like Eric that Tom was certain even a thread of credibility would suffice because at the end of the story a living Eric Hall would appear. The details of how Eric had been saved and had managed to survive for two years without being detected would dim under the awesome light of the fact that Eric was standing there for all the world to see. The story had to be believable, airtight, and within the realm of possibility but nothing more.
In this case the end result would prove the means.
Tom would have to school Nicky, naturally, but Tom knew everything about the Halls and Lindenhursts. What he didn’t know he would learn from Dicky, Jim Carr, Ken Brandt — anyone he could pump for a missing fact that he thought relevant. But Tom was sure he knew enough to pass on to Nicky, especially if Nicky…no, Eric…was the victim of amnesia and wasn’t supposed to remember very much. Amnesia was an old ruse and Tom didn’t much like it but the old which survives is usually the best, he decided — if it weren’t it would have been replaced.
Tom was bursting with ideas and energy…grasping, discarding, refining and growing more confident each day. He took out his Eric Hall memorabilia nightly to refresh his memory. The picture of Eric that he had pilfered from Dicky’s album he kept close at hand as a reminder that the plan would work and to encourage him to iron out any stumbling blocks that seemed impossible to surmount.
Naturally, he made a point of keeping it out of Nicky’s sight and well hidden when he was not home. He went to the library and made notes on dates, places and events regarding the Halls and Lindenhursts. He was once again obsessed with Eric Hall and his fervor was intoxicating. It would work…it wouldn’t work…he just needed time…all the time in the world wouldn’t be enough time. He thought about it constantly. He thought about everything connected with the plan…except Nicky Three.
