Free Marjorie Morningstar by Herman Wouk Page B

playlet, based on the story of Jael and Sisera transposed to Nazi Germany,
     which earned an enthusiastic scrawl in red ink from the instructor. Her pleasure in
     this endorsement—which she happily brandished under her mother’s nose—was somewhat
     lessened by the fact that the seven other student playwrights in the course seemed
     to be half-witted eccentrics; especially one bright-eyed old maid, who brought two
     cats meowing in a suitcase to every class session. Her dramatic instructor, an old
     actor with a shock of perfectly groomed white hair, a hearing aid, and a British accent,
     said she showed much promise, and gave her the best ingenue parts to act out in class,
     staring hungrily at her legs while she emoted.
    It was a pleasant and diverting summer, but the shadow of Sandy Goldstone’s neglect
     of her lay over it. Mrs. Morgenstern must have suggested twenty ways of getting Sandy
     to see her again, all of which Marjorie vetoed with growing irritation. She saw Sandy
     often at parties and night clubs, always with the blonde, who managed more than one
     poisoned simper at her. He even danced with Marjorie a few times. He seemed as fond
     of her as ever, behind his smoke screen of ambiguous joking. But he never called her.
    Mrs. Morgenstern was not one to float becalmed on an unfavoring drift of events. One
     steamy morning in mid-August she said to Marjorie at breakfast, “This weather is getting
     impossible. How would you like to go to the Prado for a week or so?”
    “Mom, the
Prado
?”
    “If you can spare the time from your dramatic studies, that is—”
    “Of course I can, but—why, the Prado’s for millionaires—”
    “It’s not that bad. A lot of my friends are there. They say it’s a very nice place.
     They’re not millionaires.”
    “I’d be mad about it, Mom, but—the Prado—”
    “Well, we’ll see. I’ll talk to Papa.”
    Next morning they were on a grimy Long Island train, with Marjorie’s fancy wardrobe
     in three trunks in the baggage car. Mr. Morgenstern was remaining in the city; the
     summer was his busiest season. They had stopped briefly in his office in the garment
     district to pick up some cash, and Marjorie had all but fainted in the windowless
     little office smelling so strongly of ink, stale coffee, and the peculiar dust of
     the feathers and straws lying baled in the shop. Mr. Morgenstern, in a gray tie and
     coat despite the killing heat, with a face almost as gray as his coat and almost as
     wet as the dripping water cooler behind his chair, had limply counted out some bills
     and wished them a pleasant time.
    The Prado did not look at all like what it was, a kosher hotel. It had smooth green
     lawns, a white crushed-stone driveway, broad terraces, red clay tennis courts crisscrossed
     with new whitewash, and a huge blue swimming pool full of bronzed young people diving,
     splashing, and laughing. Beyond the hotel and its immense formal gardens lay a white
     curved beach and the hissing sea. Not long ago it had been a fashionable hotel barred
     to Jews. But the fashion had changed, the smart set having gone farther out on the
     Island. A few Christians, mostly politicians and theatre people, still came to the
     Prado, but it was now a known Jewish resort, and all anybody needed to stay there
     was enough money to pay the bill. That was sufficient restriction to keep it luxurious
     and elegant, despite its social decline.
    Staring around at the marble pillars, Persian carpets, and fine statuary and paintings
     of the lobby, Marjorie did not see Sandy Goldstone at the hotel desk until he called,
     “Hi, Marge!” A white canvas bag of golf clubs was slung over his shoulder, and he
     was brown as a Mexican. The woman with her arm through his, small and plump, in a
     smart white sports dress, with streaks of gray in her dark hair, picked up silver-rimmed
     glasses on a delicate chain around her neck, and peered at Mrs. Morgenstern. “Why,
     hello, Rose. You