An American Dream

by Norman Mailer

  “Oo la la, Mrs. Trelawne,” said Ruta.

  “Be a honey, and put a cold compress on his neck. Tell him I have to go.”

  The moment Ruta was gone, Bess turned to me and said, “Watch out, baby boy, Barney’s up to mangling you tonight.”

  “Barney Kelly don’t go in for blitzes,” said Ganucci.

  “No, Mr. Ganucci. You don’t either, I’m sure. You just make a little money on dope and prostitutes and dropping wops into boiling asphalt,” said Bess.

  “Passé,” said Ganucci, and coughed.

  “Very afraid of popping off, aren’t you?” Bess said next.

  “The dead,” said Ganucci, “are concrete. They’re part of the sidewalk. That’s the way it goes.”

  “No, tesoro, you’ll go through an accounting. They’ll bring you to your patron saint, and your saint will say, ‘Eddie Ganucci is unspeakable. Hang him on a hook.’ ”

  Ganucci sighed. His stomach made an unhappy sound, something kin to the leak and gurgle in an old washing machine when the water is being changed. “I’m a very sick man,” he said gloomily.

  It was all too unhappily true. He sat there in a funk of gloom, we sat in silence, and a pestilence came up from Ganucci, a ripple of the worm of life trapped in a cement given off by itself. Death had already invaded him. Just as one hears in the yawp of a bird seized by a larger bird one squawk of agony sucked in from the nerve of nature itself, so now Ganucci gave off an essence of disease, some moldering from the tree of death. I knew his smell up close would be an event, one of those odors to which there is no end, a gangrene in the firmament. I wanted a drink, wanted it with my tongue against my teeth; as if alcohol, and alcohol alone, could clean the particles which traveled from Ganucci’s breath to mine.

  “Let me tell a story,” said Ganucci. “I had a parrot once friends gave me. They taught the parrot how to talk. ‘Eddie Ganucci,’ that bird would say, ‘you’re full of it, you’re full of it,’ and I’d say, ‘Polly, that kind of talk is going to get you the oven some day.’ And the parrot would say, ‘Ganooch, you’re full of it. You’re full of it’ And I’d say, ‘Polly, keep talking and you’ll find the way,’ and the parrot said, ‘you’re full of it,’ and got sick and died. That’s a sad story.”

  Bess had her handkerchief out. “The room is absolutely foul,” she said. I went to the French windows, opened them, and stepped out on the terrace. It was a good respectable terrace, perhaps thirty feet long and twenty feet deep, and I walked out to the end of it and looked over the parapet, a stone railing about forty inches high, taking the gift of looking down to the street, all thirty and more stories of vertical fall, a swoop and stop, drop and ledge, fall again, down some eternity of measurement to the wet pavement below, and a desire started up in me again, faint as the first tuning of a bow in an empty hall. The moon was pushing through scud, and drifts passed over its face. I knew the longer I stayed at this parapet the more I would be tempted—fresh air lifted to my head like a lyric, I could not have enough of it. And I had a sudden thought, “If you loved Cherry, you would jump,” which was an abbreviation for the longer thought that there was a child in her, and death, my death, my violent death, would give some better heart to that embryo just created, that indeed I might even be created again, free of my past. The wish to jump was clean, keen and agreeable, nice as the nicest things I had done, and I could not quit yet—I had the feeling that to go back in the room would be equal to deserting what was best in me: I had a thought then to get up and stand on the parapet, as if to dare the desire by coming closer to it would be logical, and the dread which followed this thought had a pure thrill like the moment in adolescence when one realizes one is finally going to get it, get sex—but what a fear! I was trembling. And then as if I were entering a great calm, like that calm I found the moment I began to run up the slope of the hill in Italy, I stood on a deck chair, and took the half-step up to the parapet. It was a foot wide, room enough to stand, and I stood on it, my legs a jelly, and felt some part of the heavens, some long cool vault at the entrance, a sense of a vast calm altogether aware of me. “God exists,” I thought, and tried to steal a look down the fall, but was not ready, not so much of a saint was I, the street rose up with a crazy yaw of pavement and I looked away, looked back at the terrace just a step down on the other side, was about to get off, and had a knowledge that to quit the parapet now was too soon—the desire to jump would be only more powerful. “But you do not have to jump,” said the voice in my mind, “just take a walk around the parapet.”

  “I cannot take even one step,” I answered.

  “Take one step.”

  I pushed my foot forward, scraping it forward inch by inch; my will, divided against itself, was quivering from the effort: I looked ahead and was frozen. For I was in the middle, fifteen feet from the corner of the terrace, fifteen feet of walk on a parapet one foot wide, and a fall of thirty stories on my right; then I would have to turn the corner, and walk another twenty feet back to where the terrace ended at the wall of the suite. It was beyond my strength. Yet I took another step, still another. I could do it perhaps. And then the wind came up with a sudden blast—like the impact of a trailer truck as it goes by—and I almost lost my balance: the fall to the street was sharp as a blade, Shago’s blade, and I jumped off, back to the terrace, and looked at the French windows to see Kelly standing in them. “Here,” he said, “come on in.”

  His face made visible by the light of the room, there was nothing in his expression to indicate he had seen me on the parapet, and perhaps he hadn’t, perhaps he had come out an instant after I dropped back, or had been unable to see for the first moment in the dark, but there was a grin on his face, one hard hearty grin like the look of a man who has penetrated a riddle. And as we went inside, a force came off him, clear as a command. It was telling the others to go. Free as a free flight of paranoia through the storm, the lights in the room dimmed on this thought, then came up again.

  “Yeah,” said Ganucci, “it’s late. Want a ride in the elevator?” he asked of Bess. Her face was a staging of masks, a collapsing of cakes and powders until the bone stood out. It was just a glimpse, some vision perhaps of how she saw herself, but the war looked to have been fatal. “Yes, I’ll go,” she said to Ganucci.

  Kelly stood at the door. He would walk them to the elevator.

  Ruta was nervous when we were alone. She had obviously a great deal to say and very little time to say it in. But I was breathing relief. The three steps on the parapet had left me weak, yet the weakness was agreeable, I felt as if I had come up out of a deep sleep. Of course whatever I had accomplished on the parapet, there was the muted uneasiness of knowing it had not been finished. But I was back at least in the room, Kelly was gone for a minute or two, there was respite: on this hearth, at this moment, Ruta was nearly equal to an old friend. But then a look from her sharp as a whiff of ammonia awakened me completely.

  “Ruta, your double life seems to be over.”

  “That is too bad,” she said. “I like a double life.”

  “You didn’t mind picking up after Deborah?”

  “Oh, your wife was not neat. Rich girls are pigs. But I am not just a maid, you know.”

  “No, I should be aware of that.”

  “Of course, I am nothing official. I just have concentration to do a job. Barney wanted me to do it, so I did it I kept an eye on things.”

  “Just what?”

  “Oh, some of your wife’s activities.”

  “But how long have you known Barney?”

  “Some years. I met him in West Berlin at a nice party. Never mind.”

  “And now you are …” I was about to say, “a most extraordinary little spy.”

  “Nothing at all. I help Mr. Kelly.”

  “But Deborah was dabbling with spies—was she really?”

  “An absolute amateur.”

  “You don’t expect me to believe you?”

  “She had no real standing,” Ruta repeated with p
ride.

  “Nonetheless,” I said, “Deborah must have caused some worry.”

  “Oodles of worry,” Ruta said. “Last night there must have been electricity burning in government offices all over the world.” She was talking of a fine meal—gluttony in her voice at all that electricity. “Yes, they had to let you go. Since nobody can know if you know a little or a lot, a real investigation would be ending der Teufel knows where.” She could not avoid a small smile. “But you are the Teufel,” she went on, “you take what you want.”

  “Ruta, you haven’t told me a thing.”

  “And if I told you, then would you help me on something?”

  “I would try to answer your questions as well as you answer mine.”

  “Yes, that may be good.”

  “What was Deborah up to?”

  “Nobody knows.”

  “Now, what do you mean?”

  “Nobody knows for certain. It’s always like that. Believe me, Mr. Rojack, the more you learn the more you know there are never any answers, just more questions.”

  “I’m curious to hear a fact or two.”

  “Facts.” She shrugged. “You may know them already.”

  “She had three lovers—that I know.”

  “You don’t know who they were?”

  “No.”

  “Well, good. Let me tell you. One of them is an American who’s more or less special.”

  “In the government?”

  “Pretend I didn’t hear the question, Mr. Rojack.”

  “And another?”

  “Another is a Russian who’s attached to the embassy at Park Avenue. The third is an Englishman who is a liquor representative for some Scotch firm and used to be in British intelligence during the war.”

  “Still is, you may be certain,” I said.

  “Of course,” said Ruta.

  “That’s the lot?”

  “She may have had something to do with a fellow named Tony who was up to see her once or twice.”

  “Did she like Tony?”

  “Not too much, I would say.”

  “What was Deborah actually up to?” I asked.

  “If you want my real opinion,” said Ruta.

  “I do.”

  “She was out to embarrass her father profoundly. She wanted him to come to her, to beg her to stop all her amateur espionage before all the important people in the world decided Barney Kelly was up to something bad, or could not control his daughter.”

  “But what was Deborah interested in?”

  “Lots. Too much. Believe me, everything and nothing. She was a gossip center and she pretended to be important. If you really desire my personal opinion, I think it gave her tremendous sexual excitement. Some women like horseback riders, some go for ski jumpers, there are women who are interested in nothing but Polish brutes, and Deborah had a petite faiblesse for the best agents. Whatever it was, it was very bad for her father. He suffered very much over this.”

  “All right, Ruta, thank you,” I said. Despite three separate spasms of jealousy for three lovers, there had been a small intoxication in the center of the pain to be learning something at last.

  “Still,” said Ruta, “I have not asked you what I wanted to ask.”

  “Please do.”

  “Mr. Rojack, why do you think I work for Mr. Kelly? What do you think I look for?”

  “Marrying him.”

  “Is it so obvious?”

  “No. But I trust Mrs. Trelawne.”

  “It stands out then—my ambition?”

  “A little, perhaps. Of course you’re very smart.”

  “I am obviously not smart enough to hide it. That is, I am smart enough, but I have not had sufficient advantages. So I would like assistance.”

  “An assistant?”

  “A partner. To advise me.”

  “Bess is right, my dear. He’s not going to marry you.”

  “You’re talking like a fool, Mr. Rojack, and you are not a fool. I’m not such an egomaniac that I don’t think Mr. Kelly can’t buy and sell a girl like me ten thousand times. But I know something.” Her eyes now protruded slightly—Germanically—as if the pressure of her idea was back of them.

  “Do you really know something?” I asked.

  “A great deal. I have a chance he will marry me. If I can play the cards.”

  “What do you propose to pay your consultant?”

  “You told me you were hard as nails. I believe you. I would not try to trick a man like you. Besides,” she said, “you can trust me.”

  I was enjoying this. “The trick,” I said, “is to keep a sense of proportion. Why should I ever trust you? I certainly couldn’t trust you with the bulls.”

  Bulls? Bulls? Her lack of this word irritated her like the search for a missing tool.

  “The police.”

  “Oh,” she said, “last night! You half-promised to make me a baby. I didn’t necessarily want a baby, but you promised, and then you didn’t. That is a very little thing, but it does not create undying loyalty in a woman.”

  It did, however, create a recollection of our evening together. “There was a second time,” I said.

  A sneer went to Ruta’s mouth. “Yes, the second time,” she said. “It burned.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Usually it burns.”

  “Perhaps you have an infection,” I said.

  “Ha, ha,” said Ruta, “that is just what I need.”

  “Isn’t Kelly taking his time?” I said suddenly. But suddenly I had felt his absence.

  “He went to look in on Deirdre, I would suppose.”

  I was tempted to ask if there was any way he could be listening. The room did not have that stricken air which recording devices brought to a mood, but then … “Is there any equipment?” I asked.

  “He had it taken out.”

  “He did? Why?”

  “Because one day I had the rare good fortune to find his private cabinet in the bathroom unlocked and so was able to listen to him while he was having a conversation in the library. And I was enough impressed to turn on the tape recorder in the private cabinet.”

  “That was the day when you learned what you learned?”

  “Yes, that was the day.”

  “It’s good enough to get you to marry him?”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no.”

  “It’s probably good enough to get you hurt.”

  “Oh,” she said, “I have copies of the tape well secured.”

  “One wants to treat you well,” I said.

  “Thank you,” she said. “But that does not produce my assistant.”

  “Tell me your information. Who knows what that will produce?”

  She laughed. “Who knows? It is so good you must trust me.”

  I laughed. “Perhaps I don’t have to trust you. Perhaps I have an idea of your information.”

  “Perhaps you do.”

  A bolt. I did not know what she was talking about; yet I had an intimation that I did, as if once again, somewhere deep within, a messenger was setting out. But now I did not want to talk. Which is to say there was some injunction in my brain not to proceed. It was as if I had spent my life living in a cellar, and now lights were being installed. But I had lived too long without them. The desire to go outside and walk on the parapet came again.

  “Let’s put brandy on the curse,” I said. Something had certainly happened. Quietly, mildly, without a backward look at Deirdre, I had decided to drink.

  We were drinking thus quietly—each waiting for the other to speak first—when Kelly came back.

  “Is Deirdre still restless?” asked Ruta.

  “Very much so.”

  “I will see if I can get her to sleep,” Ruta offered.

  Now Kelly and I were alone. He reared back his head as if to search my face. “Have a talk?”

  “All right.”

  “You can’t imagine this day.” He rubbed his eyes. “I suppose you’ve had your moments, too.�
� I did not answer.

  Kelly nodded once. “Carloads of people here. Friends, enemies, the lot. I’ve just left word downstairs—no one is to be let up. But then it’s probably too late anyway. What time do you have?”

  “After two.”

  “Thought it was close to dawn. Are you all right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t really either. I’ve hardly felt a thing all day. Bust into tears once. What with all the people here, I was somehow expecting Deborah to pop up for a drink, when wham!” he said softly, “it hit me—no more Deborah.” He nodded. “You’re still numb, aren’t you, Rojack?”

  “There was bad blood between Deborah and me, I can’t pretend.”

  “To your credit to admit it, I suppose. I always thought you were mad about her.”

  “I was for a long while.”

  “Hard not to.”

  “Yes.”

  “All the world’s certain you did her in. I spent the day telling people you didn’t.”

  “Well, I didn’t.”

  “I wasn’t sure myself.”

  “No, I didn’t kill her.”

  “That’s good. That’s just as well.”

  “Yes, it is, considering the favor you did me.”

  “Let’s enjoy our drink,” Kelly said. “I’m numb, too.”

  In the silence, I helped myself to another brandy. I had been dragging sobriety after me; with the first taste of the new drink, I topped a hill: all the weight of my psyche was pulling me down the slope. I was suddenly drunk again, drunk clear through my mind—I wanted to tell him the truth.

  “In fact,” he said, “it wouldn’t matter so much if you had killed her. I’m just as guilty, after all.” He rubbed his nose vigorously. “I was a brute to her. She visited that brutishness back on you. So it comes to the same thing in the end, doesn’t it?”

  I could not think of an answer to this. Indeed, I had no idea what Kelly was up to.

  “You haven’t said a word about the funeral,” he said.

  “No.”

  “Well, let me tell you. It’s going to be a small funeral, and we’ll bury Deborah in a nice place I’ve picked—you were nowhere around this morning so I had to decide on it. It won’t be hallowed ground of course, but it will be peaceable.”