Harlot's Ghost

by Norman Mailer

  “I guess,” I said, “SM/ONION may be a way of telling us to keep peeling the layers.”

  “Fuck that noise.” He set down the knife to knock back half of a new martini. “I don’t intend to wait another two weeks to discover that this son of a bitch has still another cryptonym. Either he’s a heavyweight, or somebody’s in total panic of me. I smell VQ/WILDBOAR in the woodshed.”

  “Wolfgang?”

  “You bet. Do you think Wolfgang could be with ONION in London?” He mused on this long enough to snort. “All right. We’re going to tie you in to a couple of our effectives in London. Tomorrow morning, you start calling them. If KU/CLOAKROOM assumes that he can hide in London, he is going to learn what a ream-job is all about.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Don’t look so unhappy, Hubbard. Hard work never killed an honest intelligence operator.”

  “Check.”

  “See me here for breakfast seven o’clock.”

  With that, he put the knife back in its sheath, picked up his glass, and fell asleep. Sound asleep. I could be certain of this because the hand that held his martini did a quarter-roll of the wrist and emptied out his drink on the rug. He began to snore.

  7

  IT WAS CLOSE TO MIDNIGHT. I HAD SEVEN HOURS BEFORE THE RITES OF EXECUTION would commence. On leaving GIBLETS, I made a quick decision to find Dix Butler and drink the night through, and the first half of this proposition took considerably less time than the second. Right off, I came upon Dix in a small club we frequented off the Kurfürstendamm, a place called Die Hintertür. There was a girl in this Back Door who would dance and drink with you, and a lady bartender whom Dix liked. She had jet-black hair, not an everyday matter in Berlin, even if it was dyed hair, and offered a look of exceptional sophistication for a small bar with one waiter and not an agent in sight. I judge it was the luxury of being able to drink without an eye on business that brought Dix here, plus Maria, the bartender. He was uncharacteristically polite with her and never tried any more Herculean approach than to ask occasionally if he might see her home, to which she invariably responded with a mysterious smile as a congenial way of saying no. The other girl, Ingrid, had dyed red hair, was available for a dance, or for sitting with you and hearing your troubles, an office nicely complemented most evenings by one or another glum German businessman in from Bremen or Dortmund or Mainz. Dependably, such a fellow would buy Ingrid’s time for a couple of hours of slow dancing, perfunctory conversation, and heavy silences. She would hold his hand, she would tell stories, and occasionally make him laugh. I was invariably impressed with the balance between supply and demand. Almost never was Ingrid free, but such was the tempo of the Back Door, seldom were two businessmen seeking her company at the same hour.

  By now Ingrid was my pal. We flirted between customers, danced a little—she was encouraging to the idea I might improve—and alternately practiced German and English with each other. Occasionally she would ask, “Du liebst mich?”

  “Ja,” I would reply. In a foreign language, it was not difficult to agree that one loved somebody when one did not. In turn, her sharp mouth, primed with all the trade wisdom that love is a gritty condition, spread into a wide and slightly maniacal smile. “Ja,” she repeated, and held up her thumb and forefinger an eighth of an inch apart. “Du liebst mich ein bisschen.” She had a gutty voice which I enjoyed, for she employed it with precision, laying each German word like a template on my cloudy understanding.

  I eventually learned that Ingrid was married, lived with her husband and child plus a few cousins and brothers in her mother’s apartment, and wanted to get to the United States. Dix told me as much. “She’s looking to hook an American.” All the same, I enjoyed her occasional kiss of congratulation when I showed a little rhythm in my dance. Nor would she take remuneration from me. I was described to the German businessmen as her “Schatz.”

  Now that I had become the official sweetheart, I was entitled to hear gossip. Ingrid informed me that Maria was kept by a rich protector. When I relayed this to Dix, he promptly returned a dividend. “The gent that Maria shares her apartment with,” he said, “happens to be a rich middle-aged woman. That’s why I can’t score.”

  “Why do you try?”

  “I’m asking myself.”

  His restlessness ratcheted up another notch. I was deciding that Die Hintertür was too quiet for him tonight, when the door opened and Freddie and Bunny McCann came in. Freddie (middle name Phipps, Princeton, ’54) was my replacement Downtown, precisely the fellow who had learned my job so quickly, and all because—I sometimes thought—he was nice. He had put himself in my hands. He had trusted me. It is not difficult to instruct when there is no unhappy question about your motives. So I liked him and his manners. He was even taller than me, but weighed somewhat less, and if he had a shortcoming for certain kinds of Agency work, it was that he was too obviously an American official.

  His wife, however, would be even more visible. She had a mane of beautiful dark hair and the loveliest face. Her eyes were blue. I confess, she reminded me of Kittredge.

  In any event, they were much too well-suited a couple to impinge on Dix Butler at this hour. I could see by the tentative look on their marital face as they came over to sit with us that they were disappointed by the lackluster air of the joint, the empty tables, the absence of vice. It was my fault. Freddie had called during the working day to ask if I could recommend a boîte for quiet drinking, “a place with a little authentic Berlin mood.” Assuring him that no such entity existed—“they’re all circuses or morgues”—I came around to suggesting the Back Door, “where you can, at least, breathe and speak. The lady bartender might be a novelty, and the girl who’s available for dances,” I was low enough to brag, “pretends to have a crush on me.”

  “Well, it certainly sounds authentic. We’ve been cooped up. Bunny’s cousin, Bailey Lawton, is in the Consulate here, and he’s just about trapped us on the banquet list. Solemn stuff. When it comes to vulcanizing a chicken, the Germans are quite our equal.”

  “The Back Door might amuse you,” I said.

  “I thought you said it was Die Hintertür.”

  “It is,” I told him, “but they also repeat the name in English. Right on the sign.”

  I wish that had warned him off. Never did my favorite, if dim, watering hole look so third rate.

  “What did you say your name was?” Dix asked as soon as Freddie’s wife sat down, and repeated, “Bunny Bailey McCann.” It was not unlike the way he would say Herrick.

  “What does Bunny stand for?” he asked.

  “Actually, it’s Martita.”

  “Martita Bailey McCann. A nice name,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Good to-and-fro in the consonants.”

  “Are you a writer?”

  “Actually, I’m a poet,” Dix said.

  “Do you publish?”

  “Only in magazines that look for doggerel.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh.”

  Freddie laughed. I did a bit to join him.

  “What are you drinking?” asked Dix.

  “Scotch,” said Freddie. “Water, side.”

  “Two Scotches,” Dix called out to Maria. “Make it the Scotch from Scotland.”

  “Thank you,” said Freddie. “I suppose they put flavoring in grain alcohol and serve it up if you let them.”

  “I don’t know,” said Dix. “I can’t drink the stuff. I don’t understand Scotch.”

  “That’s an odd remark,” said Freddie.

  “The liquor we put into ourselves is called spirits. I like to know which spirits I’m putting into myself.”

  “Terrific,” said Fred McCann. “I’ve used the word all my life, and never thought about it once. Spirits.”

  “I think about it a lot,” said Dix.

  “Good for you,” said Bunny.

  He looked at her. “Actually, I learned about Scotch the other day. In this place. From the bartender over t
here. Maria. I asked her, ‘What is it about guys who drink Scotch?’ and she said, ‘You do not know?’ I said, ‘I do not know.’ ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘that is not so hard. Guys who drink Scotch have given up.’”

  There was a pause.

  “I suppose the shoe fits,” said Freddie McCann.

  “Nonsense, darling,” said Bunny, “you never give up. Not if it’s something worthwhile.” She looked at me. Her eyes were clear. They were lovely eyes and they were asking, “Is this your good friend?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” said Freddie, “that I throw a large amount of weight.”

  “You’re beautiful, Mrs. McCann,” said Dix. “Your husband must be lucky.”

  “Would you believe it if I told you I’m just as lucky?”

  “I wouldn’t,” said Dix, “believe it for a minute.”

  Freddie laughed. “Hear, hear.”

  “Here’s the Scotch,” said Bunny, and drank half of her glass at a gulp. “I think you may as well bring another,” she said to the waiter.

  “Yes,” said Freddie, “another round.”

  “In fact, I would go so far,” said Dix, “as to say that your husband is bloody fortunate.”

  “I would suggest,” said Bunny, “that you shut your trap.”

  Dix knocked off the rest of his bourbon. We sat in silence.

  “Yes, ma’am, you bet,” he said into the silence. When no one replied, his unanswered presence began to use up more of our oxygen.

  “You bet what?” she said.

  He was not about to give up. “I bet you and me,” he said, “could drink those two under the table.”

  “I would bet the heaviest drinkers in the world come out of Dartmouth,” Freddie said. I had to honor him for trying. “I met one fellow in Hanover at the Princeton-Dartmouth game my sophomore year who used to drink so much that I don’t believe he had any mental faculties left, except, that is, for the more basic motor functions. His fraternity brothers used to take exams for him so he could remain in school and win bets when they got into drinking contests with the other fraternities. I saw him again last year, and he was gone.”

  “Pal,” said Dix, “you’ve written your letter. Mail it.”

  Freddie McCann did his best to laugh. I could see he still had some outside hope that Dix might be part of the authentic ambiance in this bar.

  “Would you mind if I danced with your wife?” Dix asked.

  “I believe it’s up to her.”

  “She’ll say no,” said Dix.

  “You’re absolutely right,” said Bunny.

  “No, fellow, your wife doesn’t want to dance with me. It could become a habit.”

  “Now, what are you trying to tell me?” said Freddie at last.

  “That you’re fucking fortunate.”

  “Enough,” I said.

  “No, Harry,” said Fred, “I can speak for myself.”

  “I don’t hear you very well,” said Dix.

  “This is becoming a little implausible,” said Fred McCann. “I ask you to remember. There are Germans here. We are supposed to set an example.”

  “I think your wife has the most gorgeous hair,” said Dix, and he ran his hand, not quickly, but not so slowly that she could react in time, from her brow to the nape of her neck.

  I stood up. “All right,” I said, “you can apologize. To my friends.” It is odd, but at that moment, there seemed no physical punishment I might have to suffer which could prove equal to watching Dix Butler beat Fred McCann half to death.

  Dix stared at me. He stood up and a body-wave of heat came off him. It altered the light in the room. At that moment, I would have testified to the existence of the human aura. His was three separate hues of red. With all I had been taught about hand combat in the last year, there was, right now, so little I knew in comparison to him. If he decided to hit me, he would. The only question was whether he would. If we die in violence, does a demon come to greet us in the same red light?

  Now—and I may as well testify to this as well—the light ebbed to green, a dull and burned-out green. The air felt scorched. I heard a voice stirring in Butler’s throat before speech came forth. “Are you telling me that I have been out of line?”

  “Yes.”

  “And owe your friends an apology?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell it to me again,” he said.

  I hardly knew if this was a challenge or a request to save him some fraction of face. “Dix, I think you owe my friends an apology,” I said.

  He turned to them. “I’m sorry,” he stated. “I beg the pardon of Mr. and Mrs. McCann. I was out of line.”

  “It’s all right,” said Fred.

  “Grievously out of line,” he said.

  “It’s accepted,” said Bunny Bailey McCann.

  He nodded. I thought he was going to salute. Then he grabbed me by the arm. “Let’s get out of here.” He called to Maria, “Put their drinks on my tab,” and propelled me toward the door. I had a last clipped vision of Ingrid looking at me with wise and tender concern.

  8

  I CANNOT COUNT HOW MANY ALLEYS WE TRAVERSED. THE GHOSTS OF LONG-GONE buildings rose out of every bombed-out plot. Here and there was a light in a window. In some schoolboy year, I might have brooded with adolescent melancholy on the life to be revealed in each such room. A couple fighting, a child ill, a man and a woman making love, but now in this hooded city of sewers and empty spaces, where intelligence was forever for sale, I saw instead behind each illumined window shade an agent in transaction with another agent, BND with SSD, SSD with KGB; and there, in the far building to the left with its one light, was that a safe house that belonged to us? Had I helped to stock it on the day I made the rounds with C. G. Harvey? I do not know if the emanations of the dead had altogether ceased to stir beneath the Berlin rubble, but I had never been more aware of the bones compacted in this city.

  Butler did not say a word. Walking along at his quick pace, I felt him coming to some decision, but what it was I had no idea until I recognized that our route was coming about and we were returning in a long circle to the Kurfürstendamm. I now felt tied to him in all the protocols of violence. He would not injure me provided I accompanied him, but I must convoy him through the night.

  Six or eight blocks from the lights of the Ku-damm, he turned into another alley. “Let’s look up one of my sources,” he said. He spoke beneath a streetlamp, and there was a smile on his face I did not like, as if the first of my payments had commenced. It was the most peculiar smile, evil, I thought, yet he had never looked so young. “Get set,” he muttered, and banged on a heavy wrought-iron gate in the wall of a small building. A doorman in a black leather overcoat and a black leather cap came out of a room on one side of a short arched tunnel behind the gate, took a look at Butler, slid the latch, and opened the door to a passageway on the other side of the arched tunnel. The doorman did not look happy to see Butler. We walked down some stairs to an empty cellar room, crossed it, opened another door, and were in a bar. It was the way I had envisioned it would be if I ever got into night combat. You might be running across a dark field and then all the world would come to light at once. Men in every kind of costume were walking around. Some were flushed, some were pale, and many were sweating profusely. More than half were stripped to the waist, and a few were walking around in a jockstrap and boots. The odor of ammonia was everywhere, harsh, sour, and fierce as disinfectant. I thought a bottle of Lysol had broken, but the smell had too many properties of the flesh. The odor, I realized, was urine. The presence of urine prevailed. It stood in puddles on the floor and in a gutter at the end of the bar. Beyond was a wooden rack, and two naked men, about five feet apart, were pinioned there. A fat German in an undershirt, his pants hanging low by his suspenders, his fly open, was urinating over one of the men. It was a long urination. The man in the undershirt had a cigar in his mouth and a half-gallon of beer in one hand, his penis in the other. The flush of a heavenly sunset was on his face. He urinated
upon the body and face of the fellow at one end of the rack as if he were watering every flower in the garden. Then he stepped back to give a little bow to the sounds of approval from those who watched. Two other men came forward, each to urinate in concert on the other naked man. I could not cease looking at the two humans harnessed to that frame. The first was a wretch, ugly, scrawny, and craven. He winced as the fat man pissed on him, he shivered, he trembled, he closed his mouth and ground his teeth as his lips were deluged, but then, doomed to betray himself, he suddenly gaped his mouth wide, drank, sputtered, choked, began to sob, began to snicker, and to my horror aroused a stirring of cruelty in myself as if he were supposed to be there for urinating upon.

  His partner, equally in bonds, did not look like a wretch, but a creature. Caught in the crossed streams of two dark, intent young Germans who appeared to be sharing one black leather costume (since the first wore nothing but the jacket, and the second, the pants), this other naked figure was blond and blue-eyed, with a Cupid’s mouth and a deep cleft in his chin. His skin was so white that his ankles and wrists chafed in his bonds. He gazed at the ceiling. He seemed delivered from all the people who pissed on him. I felt as if he lived in that place where humiliation has ceased to exist. Something of the tender concern Ingrid had bestowed in her last look on me now came forward into my drunken stirrings. I wished to wipe this young man off and set him free, or at least I had such thoughts until I came back to myself long enough to recognize that this cellar existed—it actually did exist! I was not alone in some theater of my mind. In the next moment, I was full of the panic to flee. I felt as if I must, absolutely must, decamp from here, and immediately, but even as I looked for Dix, he came into view beside the male couple who formed the complementary halves of the one black leather outfit, moved them two feet to the side by the fact of his presence, unzipped his fly, and urinated on the blond boy’s thighs and calves without spleen or lust, perfunctorily, like a bored priest whose fingers have ceased to feel the immanence of the holy water; then, Dix’s presence intimidating the German couple to put up their waters altogether, he now bent forward, watchful that neither his body nor his clothing touch the blond boy, and whispered in his ear, inclined his own ear to listen, and when there was no reply, the creature off in some rapture of the pits, Dix slapped him professionally, once, then twice, repeated his question, and when there was still no answer, said, “Next time I’ll fry your ass, Wolfgang,” and stepped away, walking like a show horse between the puddles, hitched a thumb at me, and we departed. “Damned drug-assed bastard,” he said as we hit the air. “Totally senseless tonight.”