Matters of Honor by Louis Begley Page B

intellectual and bookish than anyone Archie had ever known, should be so accommodating, so keen to be deeply involved with him. He was in awe of Henry’s brains and would have understood it if in their dealings Henry had been aloof, perhaps even patronizing. Instead, Henry proved himself an eager pupil, learning the tricks Archie had to teach, and participating, without condescension, in the pastimes that were Archie’s principal occupation—pastimes that Archie himself surely knew were silly. Such acceptance must have seemed to Archie little short of miraculous. It convinced him of Henry’s true affection, and both Archie and Henry, each in his own way, had a huge need to please and to be liked. A price had to be paid, and they both paid it. It is probable that, beyond his mistaken impression that Henry’s successes were effortless, Archie found in Henry’s friendship a validation of his conduct, proof he was all right and could safely dismiss what he perceived as my disapproval. Perhaps the disapproval and carping of others as well. Henry could not have been unconscious of the role he played. What was, in that case, the measure of his responsibility for Archie’s behavior? Did he feel relieved of any by a conclusion, similar to mine, that trying to reform Archie was a waste of time? I wondered whether Archie would eventually come to blame Henry for his complicity; perhaps on occasion he already did, during the awful hours when a hangover slowly recedes, making place for bleak lucidity. That seemed improbable, but then he was more opaque to me than was Henry, although one might have supposed that Archie and I would have understood each other better. His being particularly closemouthed about himself and his family contributed to the opacity, as did the fact that I was less intensely curious about him.
    The party at Mario’s was to take place after the Yale game, the last game of the season, at the house where we intended to live as sophomores. Archie and Henry were going to the game without dates. As I had not gotten a ticket and said I didn’t want one, Archie instructed me to meet them at the house, at the porter’s lodge, so that I could corral Henry if he tried to defect at the last minute. The afternoon had turned nasty, the wind blasting through the covered passage between the street and the courtyard where I waited. Harvard’s ignominious loss to Yale had been expected, and perhaps for that reason it had not dispirited the undergraduates and girls hurrying inside from Dunster Street. I took in the red cheeks and noses, the long crimson or blue scarves wound around girls’ necks, the occasional raccoon coat. Such a coat, dating back to my father’s college days, hung in the hall closet at home. He offered it to me, very nicely, the evening before my mother drove me down to Cambridge. My refusal was a surly reflex, and I knew that I hurt him, even though he had his martini pacifier in hand and limited his response to the habitual “Fine and dandy.”
    Finally, Archie and Henry arrived. We crossed the courtyard and climbed two flights of stairs. The living room was crowded and noisy. Several people greeted Archie, and Henry prudently remained at his side. Not seeing anyone I knew, I drifted to the window overlooking the Charles, which glistened beyond Memorial Drive like a slick vein of anthracite. There was a stack of records on the phonograph. I identified the music being played as a tango. It was followed by passionate chanting in Spanish. The woman’s deep voice would rise to a vertiginous height and then fall abruptly. It was accompanied by a guitar and rhythmic pounding of heels and clapping of hands. I was drawn to this strange music. The next record was similar and again I listened attentively. A wiry man with very black hair approached me and said, It’s flamenco, Gypsy songs from the south of Spain. I collect flamenco records. You’re welcome to come to listen whenever you like. By the way, I’m