So Little Time (37 page)

The clock by the corner pointed to the hour of three, and Jesse Fineman had wanted to see him any time that afternoon in his office off Broadway. First he passed the restaurants on the cross street west and the windows of secondhand shops filled with bronze statuary and Arab pistols and all sorts of other articles which he could not imagine anyone's wanting to buy. Then there were the small hotels with marble fronts and with palm trees in the lobbies. Then there were the subway entrances where the Interborough and the B.M.T. entwined beneath the street, and then Times Square. Broadway was always shabby in the afternoon. The electric signs stood nakedly against the sky like the frames of elaborate fireworks displays. Although Times Square was crowded, it all seemed half-asleep. The picture houses and the drugstores and the newsstands never seemed to try in the afternoon.

Nothing Jeffrey saw had changed much from the way he first remembered it. There was the same cynicism, the same disregard for sobriety, the same combined efforts of millions of people to escape from what troubled them. It was all pathetic like every fallacy, but at least it was not new.

“Plenty of seats in just a minute,” the men in the horizon-blue uniforms were saying. “The main picture will be over in three minutes. Seats now only in the mezzanine.”

The police whistles were blowing, crowds were streaming solidly across the street. It was all more permanent than Fifth Avenue—timeless, too complicated to understand, but then, there was no reason to understand it.

The outer room of the new Fineman office looked as it always had at that particular time of year. There was the same crowd. Jeffrey could hear them speaking of him in respectful undertones as he walked to the desk, and the smile of the girl there was just the same as always.

“Hello, Sylvia,” he said.

“Yes, Mr. Wilson,” she said, “go right in.”

It was not like the Clinton Club. Everyone knew who he was.

In the last few years, Jesse Fineman had paid attention to his office and a decorator had gone to work on it, making it into a suitable background for art and serious thought. The windows were framed with heavy velvet drapery. There was a single oil painting on the wall, a copy of a portrait of Edwin Booth with a museum light above it. There were a cellaret and a dressing room where Jesse could relax on a couch or change into evening clothes if he had to, and there were comfortable red leather chairs with chromium ash receivers beside them that seemed to sprout like mushrooms from the broadloom carpet. The desk behind which Jesse sat was also covered with red leather, and it was large enough so that one was conscious of its size when one walked around it to shake hands. It was bare except for a single manuscript, a thermos jug and a framed photograph of Jesse's wife. It was all new and in bad taste, but Jeffrey felt at home.

When Jeffrey came in, Jesse was talking to a girl with dark hair who was dressed in gray broadcloth, gray gloves, gray bag, gray stockings, gray suede shoes.

“Hello, Jeff,” Jesse said. “This is Miss Ainsley. Miss Joan Ainsley.”

Jeffrey did not know her, but then, he did not need to because the name fitted perfectly with everything else. She must have been one of those girls who had been working in some summer theater, and she would not have got in to see Jesse unless someone had given her a very special letter. She would be anxious to show that she was not just an ordinary girl like the other girls sitting outside. She would want to show that she was just like Katharine Hepburn, educated, intelligent, not like the girls outside. She would want to make it clear that she knew about golf and tennis and lived on Park Avenue, and just as soon as she spoke, Jeffrey knew that he was right. She shook hands with him nicely and smiled.

“Didn't I see you at Vassar, Mr. Wilson?” she said.

“Oh,” Jeffrey said, “are you a Vassar graduate, Miss Ainsley?”

“Dad insisted on Vassar,” she said, and she smiled affectionately at the thought of Dad.

“Well,” Jeffrey said, “that's nice.”

“Weren't you at the Experimental Theater,” she said, “when we were doing ‘The Infernal Machine'? The Cocteau thing—”

“No,” Jeffrey said, “I wish I had been. Were you in it, Miss Ainsley?”

“I understudied for the Sphinx,” she said, and she laughed to show that she knew it was silly.

“Jesse,” Jeffrey said, “have you a cigarette?”

“Oh, Mr. Wilson,” Miss Ainsley said, “here's one,” and she opened her bag and drew out a small enamel cigarette case, “that is, if you don't mind the brand. Dad gets them from the Club.”

Jesse put his elbows on the red leather desk, put the tips of his fingers together, and cleared his throat softly.

“Miss Ainsley has come with a letter for advice,” he said. “I've been trying to tell her a little—” Jesse waved his thin hands gently—“a little about the theater. But—why should I go on when we have someone with us now who really knows theater? My dear, ask Mr. Wilson.”

Jeffrey smiled. It had occurred to him that lately Jesse was always making curtain speeches.

“I'm just a play doctor,” Jeffrey said, “not a real producer,” and he looked at Jesse again. “But Mr. Fineman, although he is too modest to admit it, is what we might call ‘the grand old man of the theater.'”

Jesse put the tips of his fingers together again.

“My dear,” he said, “if you had known Mr. Wilson as long as I have, you would know that he has a puckish sort of humor. My dear, Mr. Wilson and I have stood shoulder to shoulder through good times and bad. No, Mr. Wilson is a very great artist, and I am a mere vessel.”

Jeffrey was beginning to enjoy himself.

“My dear,” Jeffrey said, “if you had known Mr. Fineman as long as I have known him, you would realize that modesty is a fault with him that is almost congenital. Mr. Fineman is such a great artist that he has become completely selfless.”

“My dear,” Mr. Fineman said, “it will be something for you to remember that you have seen Mr. Wilson at his witty best. Mr. Wilson is always full of fun. It is an inseparable part of his artistry.”

Jeffrey was going to go on with it, but when he looked at Miss Ainsley, suddenly he felt sorry for her. She did not look much older than his daughter Gwen.

“All I want is a chance,” she said. “All I want is a bit.”

He wished that they would not always talk about “bits.” It was the first word that girls like Miss Ainsley picked up. She was too thin. She did not have the manner or the charm. She made him think of Marianna Miller. Once Marianna had been like that, looking for a job, but if Marianna had heard him being silly, exchanging superlatives with Jesse Fineman, she would have fallen into the mood and she would have lived it for the moment. He saw Jesse move his hand to the button beneath his desk and a minute later his secretary opened the office door.

“It's Mr. Bush from Paramount,” the secretary said, and Mr. Fineman immediately stood up.

“Oh,” he said, “Mr. Bush from Paramount. I'll see him right away.” And he walked around the desk.

“My dear,” he said. “If there is anything I can do any time, just call on me again.”

Jeffrey felt sorry for her, but there was no use being sorry. When the door closed, Jesse passed his hand across his forehead.

“God damn it,” he said. “You don't think I'm ruthless, do you Jeff? Why don't they stay in college?”

“Mr. Bush from Paramount is new, isn't he?” Jeffrey said.

“Every week,” Jesse said. “This week it is Mr. Bush from Paramount. It hurts their feelings if you don't change them every week. Can I help it? You don't think I'm ruthless, do you, Jeff?”

“No,” Jeffrey said. “You're tender-hearted, actually.”

Jesse looked hurt.

“Cynical,” he said. “It's not kind to be cynical.”

“I'm not,” Jeffrey answered. “You've always been kind to me.”

It reminded him that Madge always referred to Jesse as “that dreadful man” when Jesse and Mrs. Fineman came to dinner once a year, and that Madge always referred to the Finemans' apartment as “that dreadful place” when they dined with the Finemans once a year.

“Yes,” Jesse Fineman said, and his face lighted up. He sighed and placed the palms of his hands carefully on the desk. “Except for you, I have no other friends.”

“That's because you're a big bastard,” Jeffrey said.

Jesse looked happy. He always did when Jeffrey called him names.

“Jeff,” he said, “all we've been through together.”

“Yes,” Jeffrey answered, “we've been through a lot.”

“Jeff,” Jesse asked, “is everything all right with you?”

“How do you mean, all right?” Jeffrey asked.

“Jeff,” Jesse Fineman said. “You know I like you better than anybody-like my own family, Jeff. You haven't been looking happy. Don't answer if you don't want to, but is there anything wrong domestically?”

“What?” Jeffrey asked.

“Domestically,” Jesse repeated. “Is there anything wrong domestically?”

Jeffrey wondered exactly what it was that Jesse had noticed. It was like one of those advertisements discussing a personal malady of which even your best friends hesitate to warn you, for two of his best friends, completely removed from each other, within a few hours had both seen something in him of which Jeffrey was not aware. It was a little like standing on a carpet on a polished floor, and having it slip from under him while he made an undignified effort to keep his balance.

“If anything were wrong, I'd have told you,” Jeffrey said. “I don't know what you're thinking about. Everything is fine at home.”

There was a silence, and he heard Jesse sigh. He heard the traffic from Seventh Avenue and the murmur of voices from the outer office, while he sat with his hands clasped over his knee, looking at the brown carpet.

“Jeff,” he heard Jesse say, “is it money?”

If it was not marriage, of course Jesse would think it was money, because marriage and money had always worried Jesse, and all at once Jeffrey knew that he would not mind talking to Jesse, because although he knew Jesse well, Jesse's life only touched a part of his life.

“It isn't money, Jesse,” he said, “it's this damn war.”

Then Jeffrey felt completely relaxed and anxious to go on with it, anxious to sort out all sorts of half-formed thoughts.

“Perhaps it bothers everyone,” he said. “It's like a thunderstorm coming up when you're outdoors and you know you're going to get wet. You have that still sense all around you of something that's bound to happen. You drink it every morning with your coffee. Do you know what I mean?”

He did not look at Jesse. He did not know whether Jesse knew what he meant or not, but he was very glad that he had tried to put it into words.

“When you're young,” Jeffrey said, “lots of other things are more serious, but when you're older, you wonder—whether anything you've done has ever been worth while. You can see it all about to go sour and you haven't any way to help it. It's not a pleasant feeling.”

He stopped again. He was not thinking of Jesse as much as he was wishing that he could put it all more clearly.

“I keep wondering what's been the use,” he said, “and exactly what I've been trying to do. I suppose I've been like everyone else, trying to build some sort of an umbrella, because I thought it would rain, and now I know that none of it's going to work.”

He stopped again, still disturbed by his own vagueness. The whole thing sounded grossly material, and yet somehow it should not have been.

“You don't know what's going to happen,” he said. “You buy the papers and you read the gossip columns. You ask people who ought to know. You listen to the ‘Fireside Chats'—and that's a damn funny thing to call them—and you try and find out by his voice what he implies without saying it, and then you talk about it and hear what someone says who knows someone.
He
doesn't know what's going to happen, and you wish to God that something would happen and at the same time you hope it won't, but you know that something will, because it can't go on this way.”

It sounded like an inartistic whine when it all came out in words.

“I don't like to be afraid,” Jeffrey said. “I don't think I am afraid for myself. You see, I've been to one war, Jesse, but now there's Jim—and he's about military age.”

Jesse Fineman's mouth looked thin, and the corners of his lips twitched. He pulled back his left sleeve and consulted a square gold wrist watch. The gesture made Jeffrey look at his own watch, and he found it was nearly five o'clock. Jesse poured himself a glass of water from the thermos and took a box of capsules from a drawer.

“Now Jeff,” he said, “when you talk like that it goes straight to my stomach. Neither you nor I should be worried. That's what the doctor continually says to me. Why worry? He says I should think of some outside hobby, perhaps painting a picture or buying glass. Perhaps you and I should both learn how to play.”

“Play what?” Jeffrey asked. “A musical instrument?”

“We both worry,” Jesse said, “but as long as it is worry about a war, what can you do about it? Nothing. You have a fine wife and fine children, and as long as everything is all right domestically, there is always work. We have great responsibilities in these days, and we open in Boston on Monday, please don't forget.”

“All right,” Jeffrey said. “I'll go up with you on Monday, but there's no use rewriting it any more.”

“I think what worries me,” Jesse said, “is the complication of my own ideas. Sam says they're running through it again at seven o'clock. Suppose we go somewhere first for supper.” Jesse filled his glass of water again and swallowed another capsule. “We could go to the Rockwell for just a bite to eat, and just talk pleasantly and forget about it before we see them run it off again.”