The Troubled Air (27 page)

“They ate grass and they drank rivers,” the boy went on, squinting and fixing the picture firmly in his mind, the jungle in the country and the two animals leading a domestic existence well supplied with the necessities of life. “They slept in the trees at night and they talked to the monkeys when they weren’t at the office. When they didn’t like anybody they stepped on him. They sang through their trunks—like this …” He made a low, wailing sound and looked anxiously at Archer to see if the music was convincing.

Archer nodded helpfully.

“Sometimes they ate celery and mashed potatoes,” the boy went on, “and when they went to a restaurant they looked at the menu. For dessert they had rhubarb and they always paid the check. They had ice cream for dessert, too, and chocolate cake. He had no brothers or sisters,” young Clement said, getting rid of that problem early in the game, “and he played in the park in the afternoon and pushed people. When the mother elephant didn’t want him to know what she was saying she spelled out the words. C-A-N-D-Y. But he knew what she was saying but he didn’t tell her.” Young Clement chuckled at this delicious turn of events. “One day he got angry with his mother and he stopped eating. Once in awhile he ate a little plate of ice cream, but that’s all. And only chocolate. Do you like this story?” he asked anxiously.

“I love it,” Archer said.

“His mother got real angry,” the boy went on, reassured. “ ‘Something bad is going to happen if you don’t eat your grass,’ the mother said. He said, ‘I don’t care,’ because he wanted to show her. He kept on not eating for three Sundays. Then something bad began to happen. He began to grow downer and downer and downer. He got to be real close to the ground. Then one day his mother came and looked at him and his mother said, ‘I told you to eat your grass. Look how little you are. Why, your trunk is so small it’s like a necktie.’ Then she took his trunk off and threw it into the closet and locked the door and he had no trunk. That’s the story,” young Clement said, in a final rush. He beamed at Archer, waiting for approval.

“That’s a fine story,” Archer said. “When I have a little boy I’m going to tell it to him.”

There was a knock at the door and Clara, the maid, came in. She was a large Negro girl and Archer could tell from the expression around her mouth that she felt she was being overworked today. “Afternoon, Mr. Archer,” she said. “I got to interrupt.”

“Hello, Clara,” said Archer.

“Clem …” Clara went over to the crib. “Don’t you want to go to the bathroom?”

Young Clement lay down and put his feet up in the air and stared at the ceiling, pondering the question. “Maybe,” he said, leaving lines of retreat open in all directions.

“It’s time you went to the bathroom,” Clara said, letting down the side of the crib. “Come on. I ain’t got all day.”

Young Clement bounded up, jumping on the mattress as Archer rose from his chair and moved off tactfully. “I have bathroom privileges, Dr. Lane said,” the boy announced as he climbed out of the crib. “Do you want to watch me?”

Archer examined the expression on Clara’s face. “Not this time,” he said. “Another day.”

“Don’t you have to go to the bathroom?” young Clement asked, playing the host, as Clara laboriously put on his slippers.

“Not at the moment, Clem,” Archer said, going to the door. “I have to make myself another drink.”

“Chizz,” the boy said, as Clara led him away.

Archer smiled, watching the small compact figure contentedly being escorted out of the room by Clara. It would be pleasant to have a son, he thought, and have him turn out as well as that. Then he went down the hall, holding his glass, to the small library off the living room where Herres kept a folding bar set up in a corner.

There was an air of luxury about the Herreses’ apartment. The rooms were spacious, with old-fashioned high ceilings, and Nancy had used daring colors, bright vermilion draperies shining against dark walls, and severe and elegant furniture. Both she and Vic spent a considerable part of their time in galleries and at auctions and they bought carefully and with taste. “Live gracefully, friends,” Herres had said, grinning, “for tomorrow the sponsor may die.” He said it as a joke, but he privately took it quite seriously and used his ample income to make certain that he had a good address, that his wife was dressed by the best couturiers in town, as he was clothed by the best tailors, that his dinners were perfect, his home impressive, his servants orderly and well-trained. Especially since he had come home from the Army he had indulged his taste for luxury. “My motto,” he had once said carelessly when Archer had warned him about his extravagance, “is—‘Nothing left each year after taxes.’ It makes the bookkeeping easier and keeps a man from being tempted by bad investments.”

Archer mixed his drink, enjoying the sound of the ice and the oily way the liquid looked in the lamplight. He poured it into his glass, sipped a little off the top, and looked around him at his friend’s room. There were high bookshelves built in against the walls and a large desk near the window, with a leather letterpress and pictures of young Clement, Johnny and Nancy on it. Archer turned and looked idly at the bookshelves.
The Complete Greek Drama,
in two volumes.
The Plays of Ibsen. Plays Pleasant and Unpleasant,
by George Bernard Shaw. Archer moved away from the dramatic section. Beard’s
The Rise of American Civilization,
Trotsky’s
The Russian Revolution,
Reed’s
Ten Days That Shook the World, Das Kapital, Mein Kampf,
by Adolf Hitler. Archer stared at the shelf. Was a man the sum of the books he read? Could it be said that
Mein Kampf
canceled out
Das Kapital?
And how did
The Complete Greek Drama
calibrate with Trotsky? Archer had heard that investigators for the Government asked people what books their friends read, stitching disloyalty out of the threads of titles. What verdict would a bright young man from the FBI find on Herres’ shelves? Perhaps, as a friend, he, Archer, should warn Herres to be more discreet in the reading matter he displayed. You never knew who came into your house these days. A vindictive servant, a rejected girl, an over-excitable patriot might make up a damaging list for the dossier of Victor Herres. Leaving out
The Complete Greek Drama
and
The Plays of Ibsen,
of course.

Archer looked at the desk. The top of the letterpress was awry and he saw a pile of mail haphazardly thrown into the box. He stared at the handsome leather box. The answer might be right there, exposed, final. You can judge a man almost as well by the letters he receives as those he sends. There might be a communication from some committee, a receipt for hidden dues, a threat, a warning, a message of congratulations from some clearly identifiable figure.

Archer took a step nearer to the desk, then stopped, ashamed. I’m getting as bad as everybody else, he thought, angrily, and left the library and went into the living room and turned on the radio. He sat there, listening to two people singing, “Oh, Baby, it’s cold outside,” finishing his drink and trying to forget that he had nearly gone through his friend’s papers. How easy it is to be a spy, he thought, how quickly the technique comes to us! In a man’s house, drinking his liquor, using the excuse that we have brought a gift to his sick child. And that’s without practice or experience—imagine how expert you could get with two or three missions behind you.

“Oh, Baby, it’s cold outside,” the male voice sang, pleading.

“Hey, Clement …” It was Herres who had come in without being noticed by Archer, “I got a great idea.” He turned the radio off and sprawled out on the couch. “Listen carefully and don’t fall over backwards when you hear. Ready?”

“Ready,” said Archer.

“You haven’t made any plans for the summer yet, have you?”

“No.”

“The Mediterranean,” Herres announced. “The blue Mediterranean. Do your eyes light up?”

“Partially,” Archer said.

“Take another sip of your Martini,” said Herres. “That reminds me.” He jumped up and strode off toward the bar in the next room. “My hand is naked.”

Archer followed him into the library. Herres poured the gin without measuring and added a few drops of vermouth. He mixed vigorously, looking at the shaker critically, as though he expected it to betray him. “America is beginning to pall on me,” Herres said. Helplessly, Archer registered this and wondered if he ought to warn Herres not to say things like that in public.

“I long for foreign shores.” Herres pushed the mixing spoon violently up and down, rattling the ice. “I would like to talk for a couple of months to people whose language I can’t understand. That’s the intolerable thing about America these days. I can understand every word everybody says.” He poured his drink and held it up to the light to make sure it was properly pale. He glanced at Archer. “You don’t look ecstatic,” he said. “Have you got other plans?”

“No,” Archer said. Now, he thought. Unconsciously he took a deep breath. “Vic,” he said, “let’s wait about the summer. Maybe after you hear what I have to say, you won’t want to go any place.”

Herres sat down. He sipped at his drink, looking gravely at Archer.

“I hope,” Archer said, “you won’t be offended at anything I say.”

“Have I ever been offended before this?”

“No.”

“OK,” Vic said.

“Vic,” Archer said, “I’m going to ask you a question. Don’t feel you have to answer it. I don’t really think I have the right to ask it. And no matter what you answer, yes, no, or it’s none of your business—it won’t make any difference between you and me …” He hesitated. “Vic,” he said slowly, “are you a Communist?”

There was silence.

“What was that?” Vic said at last. “What did you say?”

“Are you a Communist?”

Again there was the long moment of silence. “Can I ask,” Vic said, “why you want to know?”

“Of course,” said Archer. “A week ago O’Neill told me that Hutt had ordered him to have me fire you from the program because you were a Communist or a fellow-traveler. You and four others.”

“Who are the others?”

“Motherwell, Atlas, Weller and Pokorny.”

Vic chuckled. “What company I’m in!” he said. “What sinister figures!”

“We have another week,” Archer said, “to do something about it. I got that much from Hutt.”

“Have you spoken to the others?”

“Yes,” Archer said.

“You must have had a great week,” Vic said, chuckling again. “No wonder you looked puce-green Thursday night. What did they say?”

“Motherwell admitted she was one.”

“Joan of Arc,” Vic said. “Mounted on a red mink.” His voice sounded sharp and almost angry. “How about the others?”

“Pokorny says he was a Communist for two weeks,” Archer said. “In Vienna. In 1922.”

“Oh, God,” Vic said.

“They’re going to deport him, I think. He lied on his application for entrance into the country.”

“My country ’tis of thee,” Vic said. “Sweet land of the deportee.”

“Atlas wouldn’t tell me anything. And the only thing that Alice Weller could think of was a peace meeting she was supposed to make a speech at.”

“You must have had a rugged half-hour with her,” Vic said quietly. He lit a cigarette.

“It wasn’t pleasant.”

“If I told you I was a Communist, Clement,” Vic said softly, “what would you do?”

“I don’t know,” Archer said. “I keep changing my mind every day. One day I tell myself I’d fight for your jobs, although I don’t know just what I, could do. The next day, I tell myself I’ll quit. …”

Vic grunted. The smoke from his cigarette floated past Archer’s head, drawn to the window. It smelled thin and bitter. “Clement,” Vic said, “you’ve known me a long time. What do you think?”

“I don’t think you’re a Communist.”

“Why not?”

“Well …” Archer smiled a little, “for one thing you don’t have the vocabulary. You don’t call Republican senators bestial, Fascist war-mongers and I never heard you suggest that Joe Stalin ought to be fitted out with a halo. And you’re not neurotic or persecuted or sick or poor and I never saw any signs that you thought you were any of those things. And the FBI must have checked on you a little bit before they commissioned you in the Army. And during the last election campaign you told me you couldn’t make up your mind whom you were going to vote for, and I never met a Communist yet who said anything like that. And, finally, especially since you came back from the war, you seem—” Archer searched for the word “—frivolous.”

Herres grinned. “I must ask you for a reference,” he said, “next time I look for a job.” Then he grew serious. He doused his cigarette and stood up. He went to the window and stared out at the street. “Clement,” he said softly, “you don’t have to quit your job on my account. For whatever it’s worth—I’m not a Communist.”

Archer felt his hands begin to shake. He put them in his pockets. “Thanks,” he said.

Herres turned and faced him. “Any other questions, Professor?”

“No.”

“Clement, can an ex-student give some advice to an ex-professor?”

“Listening,” Archer said.

“In football,” Vic said, “there’s a play known as a fair catch. Ever hear of it?”

“Yes,” Archer said, puzzled.

“When the safety man is catching a punt and he sees the ends coming down on him ready to knock him down as soon as he gets his hands on the ball, he puts up his hand to announce to them that he won’t try to run with the ball after he gets it. Then they’re not allowed to tackle him and the ball is grounded where it was caught.”

“Yes,” Archer said, wondering what Vic was driving at.

“It’s a kind of surrender,” Vic said slowly, “brought on by the realization that for the moment you are in an impossible position. I think you ought to signal for a fair catch.”

“What do you mean?” Archer asked, although he was beginning to understand.

“Don’t try to run with this particular ball, Clement,” Vic said. “They’re too God-damn close to you. You’ll get hurt. And I wouldn’t want to see that. Maintain a delicate neutrality.” Vic smiled. “Pretend it all happened a hundred years ago and develop a cool detachment on the subject. Sympathize gently with all sides and cultivate your garden with discretion. If you hear shots being fired in the street, tell yourself it must be a truck tire blowing out. And if you hear burglar alarms going off at night, tell yourself somebody must have left his alarm clock on. …”