The Other Side of Silence

“It’s like meeting a rather naive old friend. For a while during the war it was the only book that was available to me.”

“That sounds uncomfortable.”

“It was. But you were telling me about why you’re so keen to learn the game of bridge.”

“How much do you know about William Somerset Maugham? The writer.”

“Enough to know that he wouldn’t be interested in you, Mrs. French. For one thing you’re not young enough. And for another, you’re the wrong sex.”

“That’s true. Which is why I want to learn bridge. I was thinking it might provide me with the means of getting to meet him. From what I’ve heard, he plays cards almost every night.”

“Why do you want to meet him?”

“I’m a big fan of his writing. He’s perhaps the greatest novelist alive today. Certainly the most popular. Which is why he can afford to live down here in such splendor at the Villa Mauresque.”

“You’re not doing so bad yourself.”

“I’m renting this place. I don’t own it. I wish I did.”

“What’s the real reason you want to meet him?”

“I don’t know what you mean. Maybe you didn’t notice it, but I have an entire collection of his first editions and I would dearly like him to sign them all before-before he dies. He is very old. Which of course would make them worth a lot more. I suppose there’s that.”

“We’re getting warmer,” I said. “But I’ll bet that’s still not the real reason. You don’t look like a book dealer. Not in those pants.”

Anne French bridled a little.

“All right then, it’s because I have an offer from an American publisher called Victor Weybright to write his biography,” she said. “Fifty thousand dollars, to be precise.”

“That’s a much better reason. Or to be more accurate, fifty thousand of them.”

“I’d really like to meet him, but as you’ve observed I’m the wrong sex.”

“Why don’t you just write to him and tell him about the book?”

“Because that would get me nowhere. Somerset Maugham is notoriously private. He hates the idea of being written about and, so far, has resisted all biographers. Which is one reason why the money is so good. Nobody has managed to do it. I was thinking that if I learned to play bridge I might inveigle my way into his circle and pick up some conversation and some color. He’d never agree to meet me if he knew I was writing a book about him. No, the only way is to give him a reason to invite me. By all accounts he used to play with Dorothy Parker. And rather more recently with the Queen of Spain and Lady Doverdale.”

“Bridge isn’t the kind of card game you can just pick up and play, Mrs. French. It takes time to become good. From what I hear, Somerset Maugham’s been playing all his life. I’m not sure even I’d be in his league.”

“I’d still like to try. And I’d be willing to pay you to come here and teach me. How does a hundred francs a lesson sound?”

“I’ve got a better idea. What kind of cook are you, Mrs. French?”

“If it’s just me, I tend to go to the hotel. But I can cook. Why?”

“So I’ll make you a deal. My wife left me a while ago. I miss a cooked meal. Make me dinner twice a week and I’ll teach you how to play bridge. How’s that?”

She nodded. “Agreed.”

So that was my deal. And in bridge the dealer is entitled to make the first call.

FOUR