Chapter 46 Section VIII

"...died early." Decker sat in a corner of the spacious living room, sipping margaritas, listening to a jazz trio, and listening to the words of the women behind him.A tuxedo-clad pianist is strumming a ensemble of Henri Mancini songs, most notably "Moon River." “It’s tuberculosis,” Decker heard someone say behind him. “Just turned 25. He didn’t start writing until he was 21. It’s amazing how much he’s done in such a short time.” Instead of listening to the pianist, Decker scrutinized the more than 200 guests who had come to the carnival party.These were all invited by his client, the film producer.Cocktails and tapas are served by uniformed waiters.Guests walked from room to room, admiring the luxurious residence.Prominent locals gather at random, but the only person in the house who can hold Decker's attention is Beth.

When Decker first met her, she was dressed as an East Coaster.But gradually her dress changed.Tonight, she's in a Mexican-inspired southwestern ensemble.The skirt and blouse were made of velvet, and the black-and-blue outfit complemented her blue-gray eyes and golden-brown hair.She combed her hair into a ponytail and held it with a bobby pin.The shiny silver hair clip matches the pumpkin flower-shaped silver necklace around her neck very well.She was sitting around a coffee table with several female guests.The coffee table was crafted from wrought iron taken from a 200-year-old gate.She seemed at ease, as if she had lived in Santa Fe for 20 years.

"I haven't read him since I left UCLA," said one of the women. "What got you so interested in poetry?" asked another woman, looking surprised. "And why did you choose Keats?" asked the third woman. Only then did Decker pay attention to their conversation.Before that, he hadn't figured out which writer these guys were talking about.Their mention brought back his memories.That chain of intricate associations brought him back to Rome.He recalled tracking Brian McKittrick down the Spanish Steps, past the house where Keats died, and the scene came vividly before him.He tried his best not to frown.

"I'm taking this course at St. John's just because I like it," said the fourth woman. "The title of the course is 'The Great Romantic Poets.'" "That's right," said the second woman, "I can guess which word in the name you like best." "Where are you going," said the fourth woman, "not the romances you like to read. I confess I like to read them too, but it's not like that. Keats was writing about men , women, and passion, but none of those things belonged to him." When they mentioned Keats' name again, Decker thought not only of McKittrick, but of the twenty-three Americans who had been killed.He really couldn't understand why this poet was a symbol of truth and beauty, but why he was always associated with a restaurant full of charred corpses in his heart.

"He wrote about emotion," said the fourth woman, "and about passionate beauty, and he also wrote about . . . it's hard to tell." I listen in the dark; many times I have almost fallen in love with the quiet death. Keats's elegiac lines came naturally to Decker's mind.He couldn't help but join the conversation. “He also wrote about beautiful things. Beautiful things seem even more heartbreakingly beautiful in the eyes of someone who is young and dying soon.” All looked up at him in amazement, except Beth.She had been staring at him affectionately while others were talking just now.

"Steve, I didn't expect you to know poetry," said the fourth woman. "You wouldn't be taking courses at St. John's College when you weren't helping people find houses as beautiful as this one." "No, I learned Keats poetry in college," Decker lied. "You pique my interest," said one of the women, "was it true that Keats was in his early twenties when he wrote these great poems, and would soon be dying of tuberculosis?" Decker nodded.He thought again of the gunfight that took place in that yard that dark rainy night. "He died at twenty-five," repeated the fourth woman, "and was buried in Venice."

"No, it's Rome," Decker said. "Are you sure?" "He died in a house not far from the Bernini Fountain, which is to the right of the Spanish Steps." "Sounds like you've been there." Decker shrugged. "Sometimes I think you've been everywhere," said an attractive woman. "You must have been interesting before you came to Santa Fe. Someday I'll ask you to tell me about it." "I'm running real estate elsewhere, so I'm afraid there's nothing particularly interesting about it." Beth seemed to have sensed that Decker wanted to leave, so she stood up calmly and took his arm. "If anyone wants to hear Steve tell his life story, it's me."

Thankfully, Decker was finally out of the frame of mind.He and Beth strolled out into a large brick-paved yard.Under the cool night, they looked up at the starry sky. Beth put an arm around his waist.Decker smelled her perfume and couldn't help kissing her on the cheek.His throat tightened happily. Decker led her out of the yard, away from lights and people, into the shadow of the scrub pines.He kissed her passionately.Beth stood on tiptoe, put her fingers crossed around his neck, and kissed him back.It seemed to him that the earth was heaving and fluttering.Her lips were soft, but strong and irritating.Her nipples pressed against him through the coat.He was a little out of breath.

"Come on, go on—tell me an interesting life story of yours." "Find time." Decker kissed her neck, sucking her fragrance. "Now, there are better things to do." But he couldn't help thinking of Rome, of McKittrick, of what had happened in that yard.This terrible nightmare haunted him all the time.He wished he could leave McKittrick and his side far behind.Now, as he had been two months ago, he was as anxious to know why McKittrick had come to Santa Fe to spy on him.