A Choice of Enemies (28 page)

A cunning, filthy stunt; that’s what it was. But even as she swallowed the third pill Sally knew that this melodramatic deceit, this “attempted suicide,” was in his idiom, would do better than tears and arguments, and would win her the life of her unborn child. So Sally took another pill.

It was their habit to relax with a martini together before a party, so a little later Bob Landis sat down to drink with his wife.

Dark, spare Zelda Landis looked more than her thirty-nine years. Her simple black dress, the jewelled earrings which clung like bites to her ears and even the black court pumps, all added to the severity of her manner. She sat down to rest. The canapés and the hors d’oeuvres and the chipolatas were all ready and covered with napkins on the kitchen table. She had prepared a cold dinner plate for the two of them to eat before the others arrived. Zelda was a splendid hostess, but she always gave the impression that she had been specially put together just to last out one particular evening. You felt that after the last guest had gone Zelda fell apart on the floor. Bob always knitted her together again, of course. But each time there was a spare part like a chip of china left over, and so when you next saw Zelda she seemed older and more prone than last time to disintegrate before the evening was done.

The living room was furnished in the best of taste. Two pictures hung on the wall. One was a Chinese print of a horse and the other a drawing of a Mexican peasant hanging from a tree by his thumbs. They were both obligatory, like pictures of the Queen or crucifixes were in homes with other loyalties.

Then, just as Bob set out to refill the glasses, the door bell rang. It was only six-thirty: nobody was expected until nine. “Oh, I know,” Zelda said, “it must be Mrs. Deacon. The old dear offered to come round to help with the serving tonight.”

“There’s a Mr. Price here to see you,” the maid said.

Bob had wanted to ask Norman to their party for old time’s sake, but Zelda had said no, positively no. “Shall I ask him to stay?” Bob asked, rising.

“Certainly not.”

The number of men at Zelda’s parties always equalled the number of women. Norman was extra.

“What’ll we say?”

“I don’t care what you say. As long as you get rid of him.”

Norman entered the room, smiling shyly. “I was just passing by,” he said, “and I thought I’d see if you were in.…”

Zelda recognized the lie at once.

“Sit down.” Bob smiled his most affable smile. “What’ll you have to drink?”

But Bob, too, felt that Norman had not merely been passing by, and that embarrassed him for Norman’s sake.

“Whisky,” Norman said. Then, sensing Zelda’s hostility, he added, “Look, if you’re expecting people for dinner or … I can come by another time.”

What a cheap way to wangle an invitation, Zelda thought. But Bob was touched, he was fond of Norman, and he showed it by pouring him a very stiff drink. Then, turning to Zelda, he said, “I’m glad you came by tonight. I’ve been meaning to call you for weeks and weeks.”

Zelda’s cheeks flushed. “How have you been keeping, Norman?”

“Oh, fine. Just fine.”

She noticed that Bob had poured a very stiff drink for himself too. Get drunk, she thought. You just go ahead.

Bob observed with sadness that Norman was wearing the same clothes as when he had seen him last. The cuffs of his jacket were worn. “I hear you’ve been fraternizing with the natives these days,” he said with forced gaiety.

“I’m going out with a British girl. But it’s not serious.”

Norman asked about the Winklemans.

“All About Mary
was a smash,” Bob said. “It’s doing great in the provinces. Sonny and Budd have formed an independent unit and they’re going to make two films a year now.” Bob refilled the glasses. “What are you working on these days?” he asked.

“I’ve put in for a job at one of the provincial universities,” he said. “If I don’t get it I think I’ll take a grammar school job.”

Norman exuded so distinct an odour of failure that Zelda was momentarily alarmed. I know now why he came here, she thought.

“Do you people ever hear anything from Sally?” Norman asked. “Is she in London, I mean?”

Bob glanced quickly at his wristwatch. “Last we heard she was working in Paris,” he said. “With
UNESCO
, I think.” But Bob was amazed. He had thought that Zelda was the only one who didn’t know that he was keeping Sally in a flat off Baker Street.

“Oh, I must tell you,” Zelda said with a smile. “Bob bought his parents a house in Connecticut last week. It’s lovely, you know, but it’s left us absolutely flat broke.”

“I didn’t come here to borrow money, Zelda.”

Embarrassed, anxious to create a diversion, Bob swiftly took a letter from Charlie out of his inside pocket and pulled out a snapshot and handed it to Norman. The snapshot showed Charlie holding a baby in the air. Joey sat in the background on a garden chair. Norman returned the snapshot to Bob. “A very nice kid,” he said. “Whose is it?”

“I keep forgetting you’ve been out of circulation for so long,” Bob said. “They adopted him last year. That’s why they went back to Toronto.”

Zelda rose.

“I’d better be going,” Norman said, getting up. “I mean, if you’re expecting guests I think.…”

“As a matter of fact,” Zelda said, “we were just going out for dinner. Please call us soon. We must get together some time.”

“Well,” Norman said. “God bless.”

“Wait. Have one for the road.”

“I don’t think we have time,” Zelda said.

“She’s right. Another time maybe.”

Bob eyed Norman drunkenly. Norman, he thought, had used to be so proper. Glancing apprehensively at Zelda, he wondered how long Norman must have wandered up and down the street – hoping to run into him accidentally perhaps – before he had dared to come without an invitation. Bob glanced at his watch. She isn’t expecting me for three-quarters of an hour, he thought. So I’ll be a little late. Just this once. “I’ll tell you what,” he said gaily, “why don’t you come out and eat with us. We’re just going to the Chinese restaurant at Swiss Cottage, aren’t we, dear?”

Zelda turned very pale.

“Well, I’m expected somewhere a little later this evening, but –”

Bob clapped Norman on the back. “Come on.” He turned triumphantly to Zelda. “Would you like me to get your coat, dear?”

“No thanks.”

They got into the car and drove to the restaurant on Finchley Road. Bob told a lot of jokes on the way over. As Norman got out of the car first Zelda pressed Bob’s arm angrily. “If I live to be a hundred,” she said, “I’ll never forgive you for this stupid prank.”

Bob laughed; he slapped his knees. “You should have asked him to stay,” he said.

“Oh, you rotten bastard.”

“Come on,” he said, “let’s eat.”

Inside, Bob ordered two double whiskies. “Excuse me a minute,” he said. “I’ve got to make a phone call.”

Norman smiled uneasily at Zelda. “Shall we pretend we like each other,” he asked, “and talk?”

But Bob was back before she could reply. “Line’s busy,” he said. They ordered an assortment of dishes to be shared. “The trouble with Norman,” Bob said, “is that he was a premature anti-Stalinist.”

Zelda didn’t laugh.

“How is everyone taking it?” Norman asked.

“You may not believe this,” Bob said, “I wouldn’t have myself, but when Winkleman heard what had happened to the Yiddish writers he broke down and wept. It was anti-semitism, you know, that first drew him to the Party. It was supposed to have been, quote, outlawed, unquote, in Russia, or hadn’t you heard?”

“And what about you,” Norman asked, “what do you think?”

“If it’s true,” Bob said, “then that crime and any other must certainly be exposed. But look here, Norman, I joined the Party twenty years ago because I thought that human life was sacred and that the capitalist system was brutal. I still think so. If Stalin made errors, if he was a tyrant, then I think it’s a bloody shame, but I also think that it may have been a necessary stage for socialism to go through.” Bob got up. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”

Norman watched as Bob weaved his way unsurely between the maze of tables to the phone. “You’re not eating,” he said to Zelda.

“I’m not hungry.”

They sat in silence until Bob returned. “Goddamed line’s still busy.” Actually, nobody had answered the phone. He wondered where Sally was. “The hell with it,” he said. Bob ordered more whisky. “Where was I?” he asked.

“Stalin,” Norman said, “that’s where.”

Bob studied Norman with glazed eyes. He’s a bachelor, he thought. He might know of a safe abortionist. I must ask him. “Look
at it this way,” Bob said, “if one generation was sacrificed then at least
this time
they died for a purpose. They died so their children could look forward to a better life.”

“You look at it
this way,”
Norman said. “It seems to me, that aside from our political virtues, people like us never had anything else. That’s a very hard fact to face at forty.”

“I didn’t think you cared about these things any more,” Zelda said.

“Shettup!” Bob said.

“He showed his true political colours long ago, Bob. He –”

“Quiet! You don’t know what you’re talking about. Look,” Bob said thickly, “I’m a humanist, Norman. I believe that human life is sacred. That was and still is my position.” Bob staggered to his feet. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”

Zelda squashed her cigarette in a plate of fried rice. “We’re having a party tonight,” she said. “Would you like to come?”

“I’d love to,” Norman said, “but I’m busy.”

“Will you please tell Bob that I asked you to come tonight and that you’re busy?”

“No. I won’t.”

Bob returned. “Where was I?” he asked.

“Human life is sacred,” Norman said.

“I’m going,” Zelda said.

“See you in church,” Bob said.

“I said I was going.”

“And I said I’ll see you in church.”

Zelda poked Norman. “Tell him,” she said.

“Uh?”

“Tell me a story.” Bob half-rose, pretending to conduct an orchestra. “Tell me a story, tell me a story.”

“Tell him.”

“You tell him.”

“Is she still here?” Bob asked.

Norman nodded.

“I asked Norman to come to the party. He’s busy.”

“Party,” Bob said. “Where’s the party?”

“It’s true. She asked me to come.”

“Be a smarty. Join the party.”

“He said he was busy,” Zelda said. “Now, will you please come with me?”

“I’m busy too,” Bob said. “These are busy times.”

“Your
guests will soon be arriving.”

Bob glanced at his watch, 7.40. “I have to make a phone call,” he said. “Look, Zelda, I’ll be there in an hour. I have to see somebody first.”

Zelda hesitated.

“I’ll get him back to your place by eight-thirty,” Norman said. “That’s a promise.”

As Zelda left Bob rose shakily again. “Be right back,” he said. But he was gone five minutes. “Can’t understand it,” he said when he got back. “No answer.…” He grinned broadly. “Where was I?”

Norman told him where.

“Yeah,” Bob said, “have you any idea what the infant mortality rate was in Russia
before
the revolution? Has there been a pogrom in Poland,” he asked with feeling, “since the communists came to power?”

They talked and drank for another half hour and then Norman helped Bob out of the restaurant. “Here,” Bob said, handing him his car keys. “Will you be a good chap and drive?” They stumbled into the car together. “Take me to –” he gave him Sally’s address “– first, wilyu?”

“I promised Zelda to deliver you at eight-thirty,” Norman said. “It’s now a quarter to nine.”

“Oh,” Bob said, “is it?”

Norman assured him it was.

“A quarter to nine, huh?” Bob tried hard to think. Why doesn’t she answer the phone? She’s angry, he thought. She’s gone out. I’ll call her in the morning. “All right,” he said. “Home, Trotsky.”

Norman drove Bob home. The party didn’t break up until four and Bob slept in the next morning. So Sally died.

“What time are they expected?”

“Not for another hour,” Miss Greenberg said.

Except for the rasping of the old man in the room opposite his and the occasional tap of a nurse’s heels as she hastened down the corridor, this ward of the Montreal Jewish General Hospital was quiet. His leg, which had been broken in three places, was suspended by an elaborate system of pulleys. “There will be no photographers,” he said. “You promised.”

“No,” she said. “There will be no photographers. Would you like me to turn on the
T.V.?”

“
O.K.
”

But Mr. Gordon got there first. Fat, shaggy-haired Hyman Gordon came every afternoon to sit with him. Miss Greenberg wished that he would go. His inscrutable smile vexed her.

“A moment,” he said. “Would you brush my hair a little?”

“Certainly.”

She went to it gently, with pleasure. “You need a haircut. Don’t you, Joseph?”

“Yes,” Ernst said. “I suppose so.”

“Are you excited?”

“No.”

“This is a great honour, you know. We’re all proud of you here.”

“Thank you, Miss Greenberg.”

“Trudy,” she said.

“Trudy.”

The television set went briefly wavy, then it cleared. A short squat bearded man with a worm-like bit of moustache filled the screen and smiled at Ernst, Trudy, and Hyman Gordon.

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen. My name is Thomas Hale. Every Friday we have the pleasure of bringing you
Controversy
, a three-way discussion of a topical subject. Tonight’s guests are –” the camera drew back “– to my left, Miss Lucy Morgan, critic, poet, and travel writer.” Hale paused; he smiled. “I understand, Miss Morgan, that you have a new collection of poems coming out later this autumn in Boyd & McEwen’s Folio Series. Is that right?”

Miss Morgan smiled, a thin alarmed smile. A frail, bony creature with fierce black eyes, a remarkably wide mouth, and a huge quantity of black fuzzy hair, she gave the impression that she was propped up on pillows or a couple of telephone directories. Her deep gravel voice came as a shock.