The Last Gentleman

of his plays with Midge Auchincloss. It was about an artist who has gone stale, lost his creative powers, until he musters the courage to face the truth within himself, which is his love for his wife’s younger brother. He puts a merciful end to the joyless uncreative marriage in favor of a more meaningful relationship with his friend. The last scene shows the lovers standing in a window of the artist’s Left Bank apartment looking up at the gleaming towers of Sacre-Coeur. “There has been a loss of the holy in the world,” said the youth. “Yes, we must recover it,” replies the artist. “It has fallen to us to recover the holy.” “It has been a long time since I was at Mass,” says the youth, looking at the church. “Let’s have our own Mass,” replies the artist as softly as Pelleas and, stretching forth a shy hand, touches the youth’s golden hair.
    Sweet Evening Breeze, the engineer noticed, was growing more nervous by the minute. His skin turned grayer and more sharklike and he had fallen into a complicated way of snapping his fingers. Once, after peering through the cracked door, he called the pseudo-Negro aside.
    â€œBreeze says the fuzz is on its way over here,” the pseudo-Negro told them gravely.
    â€œHow do you know?” the playwright asked Breeze.
    â€œI know.”
    â€œHow do they know we’re here?”
    â€œAsk Merle,” said the actor.
    â€œDon’t be ridiculous,” said the pseudo-Negro, frowning. “I pulled him in here, remember. Barrett’s all right.”
    â€œThe man done pass by here twice,” said Breeze, rattling off a drumroll of fingersnaps. “The next time he’s coming in.”
    â€œHow do you know?” asked the pseudo-Negro with his lively reporter’s eye.
    â€œI knows, that’s all.”
    â€œWonderful,” said the playwright. The playwright’s joy, the engineer perceived, came from seeing life unfold in the same absurd dramatic way as a Broadway play—it was incredible that the one should be like the other after all.
    â€œBill,” said the pseudo-Negro earnestly. “We’ve got to get Mona out of here. You know what will happen to her?”
    The engineer reflected a moment. “Do you all want to leave town?”
    â€œYes. Our business here is finished except for Bugs.”
    â€œWhat about your Chevrolet?”
    â€œThey picked it up an hour ago.”
    â€œWhy not get on a bus?”
    â€œThat’s where they got Bugs, at the bus station.”
    â€œHere they come,” said Breeze.
    Sure enough, there was a hammering at the door. “Here’s what you do,” said the engineer suddenly. Upside down as always, he could think only when thinking was impossible. It was when thinking was expected of one that he couldn’t think. “Take my camper. Here.” He quickly drew a sketch of the highway and the old river road. “It’s over the levee here. I’ll talk to the police. Go out the back door. You drive,” he said to Mona, handing her the key. The actor was watching him with a fine gray eye. “The others can ride in the back.” The hammering became deafening. “Now if I don’t meet you at the levee,” shouted the engineer, “go to my uncle’s in Louisiana. Cross the bridge at Vicksburg. Mr. Fannin Barrett of Shut Off. I’ll meet you there.” From his breast pocket he took out a sheaf of road maps, selected a Conoco state map, made an X, and wrote a name and gave it to Mona. “Who are they?” he asked Breeze, who stood rooted at the heaving door.
    â€œThat’s Mist’ Ross and Mist’ Gover,” said Breeze eagerly, as if he were already smoothing things over with the police.
    â€œDo you know them, Merle?” asked the actor, with a new appraising glint in his eye.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHow are they?”
    â€œGover’s all right.”
    â€œOpen the door, Breeze.” The voice came through the door.
    â€œYes suh.”
    â€œNo, hold it—” began the engineer.
    â€œThe man said unlock it.” It was too late. The doorway was first flooded by sunlight, then darkened by uniforms.
    â€œWhat do you say, Beans. Ellis,” said the engineer, coming toward them.
    â€œWhere’s the poontang?” asked Beans Ross, a strong, tall, fat man with a handsome tanned face and green-tinted sunglasses such as