So Little Time (63 page)

“Hello, Walter,” Jeffrey said.

Then he saw Walter's foot encased in a self-ventilating white buckskin shoe and a purple sock, as Walter pushed the door open.

“Who the hell is that?” he heard Mrs. Newcombe say.

“It's all right, sweet,” Walter answered. “It's Jeffrey Wilson.”

Walter stood there, blinking through his glasses at the morning glare of sunlight reflected from the whitewashed walls of the cloisters. Walter was in his shirt sleeves and in light tropical trousers supported by pink suspenders. The sunlight glittered from his glasses and from the shiny ridge of his nose. His forehead was peeling with sunburn.

“Well, well,” Walter said, “hello, Jeff.”

“Well, well,” Jeffrey said, “hello, Walter.”

“Well,” Walter said. “It's a lovely morning, isn't it? Just wait till I set down these bottles. It's a little stirred-up inside. We're just getting ready to check.”

“Well, I'm glad I caught you,” Jeffrey told him. “Why not sit outside in the sun?”

Then he heard Mrs. Newcombe's voice.

“The hell we'll sit outside,” Mrs. Newcombe called. “Get out of that damn sun before it fries your brains out. Whistle for some more White Rock, honey, and come in and close the door.”

“Sweet,” Walter Newcombe said, “we don't want any more White Rock if I'm going to hop the plane.”

“Don't get your pronouns twisted,” Mrs. Newcombe said, “
I
want more White Rock. Get inside here and close the door.”

“All right,” Walter said gently. “Excuse me, sweet,” and then he lowered his voice and looked meaningly at Jeffrey. “Mildred's a little upset this morning. You know, ideas about the Clipper—ideas.”

As Walter said, the room was a little stirred up as rooms were with morning rising combined with packing. The heavy casement windows were set in artificially thick whitewashed walls. It was one of those airy, simple, tasteful rooms with a bit of Spanish brass on a table and a piece of old fabric on the wall, a room made for light and air and sunshine. There were wicker chairs, and you could cover up the twin beds in the daytime and use them for couches, heaping them, presumably, with the multicolored sofa pillows which were now strewn about the matting-covered floor, mingled with pages of the
Los Angeles Times
, towels, and an occasional White Rock bottle. On one of the beds he saw a typewriter case and a brief case and a small, battered, cheap suitcase covered with old customs labels. Mrs. Newcombe was seated on the other bed and on the floor beside her was a tray on which was some cracked ice and a bottle of Scotch and Mrs. Newcombe's handbag. Mrs. Newcombe was carefully dressed in a white tailored suit and was holding her long cigarette holder.

“Well, well,” she said to Jeffrey. “Whoops to you, big boy. Sit down and have a little drink.”

The last thing Jeffrey wanted was to have a little drink.

“It's a little soon after breakfast,” Jeffrey said.

“Walter,” Mrs. Newcombe said, “give him a little drink. It isn't a little soon after breakfast today—yesterday, perhaps, and perhaps tomorrow, and excuse Walter if he doesn't join us. Liquids make him upchuck in the plane.”

“Now, sweet,” Walter said. “Jeffrey doesn't have to take anything in the morning if he doesn't want to. Don't be upset, sweet. The Clipper's just as safe as a church.”

“And why is a church safe?” Mrs. Newcombe asked. “Pour him out a drink. Sit down, big boy. He's not leaving for an hour.”

“The boy just told me,” Jeffrey said, “that Walter was leaving for China. I didn't know.”

“Well, you know now,” Mrs. Newcombe said. “The wonder boy, the news ace. Look at him, he's off to China.”

But Walter looked like a salesman about to take a Pullman. He was sitting on the other bed in his shirt sleeves, rustling through the papers in his brief case.

“It's just a swing around,” Walter said. “I thought you'd seen it in the papers, Jeff. It's getting a little hot out there. The Japs—but don't get me started on that. I won't be more than two weeks, all told. It's just a matter of dropping in and seeing the 'Lissimo and Mei.”

“Who?” Jeffrey asked.

Walter looked up from his brief case, but Mrs. Newcombe spoke first.

“Smarty pants, isn't he?” Mrs. Newcombe said. “It's Chiang Kai-shek and his Madam to you, dearie, but they're just palsy-walsies to Walt. Everybody with a name's a palsy-walsy.”

“Jung Kuh-juh,” Walter said. “That's the way you pronounce it, sweet. As a matter of fact, I feel very close to the 'Lissimo. The last time I saw him, he received me very informally.”

“Well, put it in your God-damn' book,” Mrs. Newcombe said. “Don't talk about it now. What are you looking for now?”

Walter was searching through the suitcase.

“Those nylon stockings,” Walter said. “I just wanted to be sure I had them in for Mei.”

“My God,” Mrs. Newcombe said, “since when did you start in giving her stockings?”

“It's just a thought, sweet,” Walter said.

“Perhaps if Walter's just leaving,” Jeffrey began, “I'd better—”

“No,” Mrs. Newcombe said, “sit down. You hadn't better.”

It was one of those times when two people needed someone else. Walter was whistling gently as he arranged the clothing in his suitcase. Mrs. Newcombe was lighting another cigarette. Jeffrey had not thought of her as being in love with Walter before, but now he could see she loved him. He was glad to stay, for they seemed suddenly like old friends. They reminded him of home, of the voices of his boyhood. He was thinking of Walter Newcombe in his shirt sleeves in the library at Bragg carrying books. It was preposterous to think of him on his way to China.

“Well, well,” Walter said, “it agrees with you here, doesn't it? Jeff, you're looking fine.”

It made him self-conscious, because everyone had been saying lately that he was looking fine.

“Yes,” he said, “I'm feeling fine. It must be the climate. I don't know.”

“It's odd here, isn't it?” Walter said. “I'm glad to have seen it, and of course I've been on the inside, but I wouldn't like to live here.”

“Yes,” Jeffrey said, “it's an odd little world, Hollywood.”

“Don't be so hotsy-totsy, big boy,” Mrs. Newcombe said. “Don't you know Walt's having a big thought? Give him a chance to get it out before he hops the Clipper.”

“Now, sweet,” Walter said. “I know Jeff knows it here. They've been very sweet to Mildred and me in the studios. They make me feel important.”

“Well, get it out of your head,” Mrs. Newcombe said. “None of you little news bastards are important.”

Walter looked up from his brief case. He was obviously checking up his passport and his tickets and his various cards of identity.

“Now, sweet,” he said, “I didn't say I was important.”

“All right,” Mrs. Newcombe said. “Just be damn' sure you're not like the other little news bastards, and don't start thinking you're important. You know what you do for your living.”

“Tell me,” Jeffrey said. “I've always wondered what world correspondents do.”

“Dearie,” Mrs. Newcombe said, “pull yourself up out of the suitcase and give Jeffrey another drink. I'll tell you what they do, when they're sleeping alone.”

“Now, sweet,” Walter said, “don't be so upset about it, sweet.”

“When they're sleeping alone they hop on Clippers,” Mrs. Newcombe said, “and they get impressions. Poops! It seems to them … They sense the atmosphere, the romance, the glamour, the sheer stark horror, the sweet simplicity … Poops!… By great good fortune, through no fault of their own, they are your first correspondent who has arrived on the scene to give you a word picture of the ruins of Cracow … Poops.”

“Crackov,” Walter said, “you pronounce it Crackov, sweet.”

“You shut up,” Mrs. Newcombe said. “And when they're not doing that, they're giving hosiery to Chink ladies and telling Archie Wavell how to win the war, and Winnie Churchill how to win the war, and saying it's later than you think. Oh, God almighty, it's later than you think. There is only one road to freedom.… Norway, Sweden, Czechoslovakia, Turkey, Greece, China, Afghanistan, and where those guys heat their houses with camel dung. Wake up, America! It's later than you think. And what does it all add up to?”

“Now sweet,” Walter said, “don't you think …?”

“You tell us,” Jeffrey said. “What does it all add up to?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Newcombe said. “Yes, I'll tell you. It adds up to some little poop from the Podunk High School getting on a Clipper when he ought to be jerking sodas, and saying ‘The time is now.'”

Walter pushed his glasses more firmly on his nose, looked up at the ceiling and snapped his fingers.

“He's got another thought,” Mrs. Newcombe said. “Let him get it off. Don't choke him.”

“Now, sweet,” Walter said, “don't go on about it. I know I'm not important, and Jeff knows I'm not important. I'm just going out to China on the Clipper to buy shoes for Edwina and you, sweet, but don't get me started on that.”

But Jeffrey knew that by some piece of luck which was not his fault at all Walter Newcombe was there to sing the dirge of destiny.

“But don't get me started on that,” Walter said again. “We've had a lovely two weeks, and we've contacted some lovely people. I just took sweet here to relax before I hopped the Clipper. I mean, without fanfare, just to relax. Well, there hasn't been much fanfare, has there, sweet?”

“Oh, God!” Mrs. Newcombe said. “Get me the bottle-opener, Walt.”

“Yes,” Walter said, “coming up, sweet. We've been looking for you, Jeffrey. I've been calling again and again at the Bronxville, but you're never in.”

“Why should he be in, if it's like this dump?” Mrs. Newcombe said. “Does he want to get the heebie jeebies? That tree's a monkey puzzle tree.”

“Now, sweet,” Walter said, “what tree?”

“Any God-damn' tree out here,” Mrs. Newcombe said, “is a monkey puzzle tree, because it would puzzle a monkey to climb up it. Poops.”

Walter looked at Jeffrey.

“Mildred's a little upset,” he said. “I'm sorry we didn't contact you sooner so we could have gone on a party together. Sinny Merriwell said you were here. I've been talking book with Sinny. Twenty thousand dollars cash advance. I shook it out of him.”

“Oh,” Jeffrey said. “What's the book going to be about?”

“
Free China Snapshot
,” Walter said, “and a brush-up on Nehru and Gandhi. I kept looking for you at the Bronxville. My God, you were never there.”

Again it seemed necessary to explain in detail why he was so seldom at the Bronxville.

“You see,” Jeffrey said, “I have a good many friends in Hollywood, and you know how hospitable people out here are. Then, I'm doing a little work for myself—the first I have done for a long while. I've been working on a play.”

Walter Newcombe's head turned quickly. There was a high light on his nose.

“That's funny,” he said, “I've been working on a play myself—not physically, just turning it over in my mind.”

“Well, don't tell us,” Mrs. Newcombe said, “just don't tell us. You news boys think you can write anything—plays, sonnets, novels, anything. And why do you think you can write them?—Merely because you can go on Clippers.”

But Walter was not listening.

“I'll make a note of it,” he said. “Maybe we could collaborate on it, Jeff. I've been trying to say it in lectures, but it would go better in a play. If they could see it right there it might wake them up.”

“That's it,” Mrs. Newcombe said. “You tell us, honey. All you news boys want to wake up America.”

“Sweet,” Walter said, “something's got to wake up America.”

“There he goes,” Mrs. Newcombe said. “It's later than you think.”

Walter was smoothing the collar of his purple silk shirt. His forehead was puckered, and he was looking at the floor.

“Sweet,” he said. “It really
is
later than you think, you or anybody. You'll find it out someday. You'd know now if you'd been there. It isn't funny.”

All the slapstick had left the room. Walter's shirt and Walter's ventilated buckskin shoes were lost in the utter conviction of someone who had seen something that Jeffrey had not.

“They're fighting our fight, really,” Walter said. “If they lose it, we'll be fighting alone, really, and they will lose if we don't wake up.”

It may have been Walter's nasal, unpractised voice that gave those phrases their vitality, and Walter's sudden earnestness which seemed to have arisen from nowhere. Walter did not go on. There was nothing but the silence of that disordered bedroom and the twitterings of the lovebirds outside in the cloisters.

“Walter,” Jeffrey said. Walter turned toward him slowly without speaking. “Do you remember a year ago? You said you thought we were out of it.”

Walter raised his hand from his brief case and then put it back again gently.

“A year ago?” he said. “Well, that was a year ago.”

“All right,” Jeffrey said, “what do you think we ought to do?”

He waited anxiously for Walter to answer, though the answer depended entirely on how an individual might feel.

“We'll be in this,” Walter said. “We'll be in this before next year. We're in it now and we don't know it.”

Jeffrey moved slowly as though a weight were on his shoulders.

“Yes,” he said, “I know,” and then the spell was broken and the room was just the way it had been at first. Walter blinked his eyes and closed his brief case.

“I'm sorry,” he said, and he pushed back his cuff to look at his wrist watch. “I'm sorry you got me started on that. I'm sorry, sweet.”