"For instance, he'd gather intelligence in Southeast Asia and pass it on in sacks of ginseng, employ American agents in his herb beds in Nicaragua or El Salvador, run interference in the heart of his gargantuan fields in the Andes. And he wasn't the only one. The world of espionage is full of shadowy deals like these: oil companies getting franchises in places where it's clearly pointless to drill, just so they can keep an eye on Cuba or Chile or Angola or Yemen; fruit growers planting trees that will never bear fruit so the internal security system of the groves can serve as a front-line base for U.S. intervention; ships loaded with garbage floating around aimlessly or catching fish no one will ever eat just so the crew can listen in on radio transmissions...”
I thought about the decorative llama skin the Indians had given you in appreciation of your work. Was it real, or had it been fished out from among the other props in some government warehouse as part of the game?
"You mean," I sneered, "that the number one man in the family, the man whose successes in life everyone envied and coveted, was a petty bureaucrat?"
"Something like that. A government contractor, to be precise...”
"And no one had a clue?"
"Mom knew. Aunt Ida did, too. She even told you as much." He picked up one of the notebooks and began flipping through it. "Here, you even recorded it yourself: `That good-for-nothing! If he weren't a spy do you think he'd have a job?'...” he looked up at me, "and you thought that the `good-for-nothing' was me...”
I averted my eyes.
"I guess I sort of neglected my own PR with you... I always figured we'd have time for that after I'd retired."
"After you retired you wanted to work for him."
"I'm a professional - which you've seen for yourself. With my operational ability and his connections...” he exhaled sadly. "And he had connections... you saw the picture he has in his study, of himself with President Truman - he really was friendly with Truman. Truman owned a men’s clothing store in Kansas City with a Jewish partner. That's how they got to know each other. Harry's personal charm did the rest - along with a little luck, which seems to have been running out on him lately."
"You mean his business headaches...”
"Oh, there were always business headaches. His serious problems were with his real client, the C.I.A., which in the meantime had become a sophisticated, technological organization run by guys who weren't impressed by a photograph with Harry S. Truman. New, younger guys, who believed that one satellite could capture more than a fleet of agents, that one technician sitting in a plane at 20,000 feet could in one day - and at a nominal cost - get more information than ten companies and trade posts had in the past. Harry had become superfluous. But the worst thing was that this happened just when he owed money on several failed investments...” he gloated. "I imagine he whined and cried on your mother's shoulder, and since - as you know - she takes pity on everyone, she must've somehow managed to look through my papers and thought: `There's so much useful material here; I bet some of it could save Harry.' That's how he began handing them their own stuff - stuff I'd procured - except that he told them he'd gotten it in Asia or South America. They started looking for the leak, which made things even tougher for me. My sources dried up, informers got nabbed, codes were changed... but, even though we didn't understand what was going on, we found a way. Harry became a hero - at least temporarily. The checks kept rolling in from Uncle Sam, enabling him to pay off his debts, aggregate new cash, try, in the meantime, to sell off the assets that were really his, tie up a few other loose ends, and plan a modest but comfortable retirement in Florida."
He took a flask out of his travel bag and poured some of its contents into the cap.
"Maybe," he continued after downing what was in the cap, "maybe he wasn't as despicable as he seemed. Maybe he thought to himself: `I'm in deep trouble, and there's all that good stuff floating around - what would be so terrible if I recycled some of it and sold it back to the guys to whom it belonged in the first place?'"
The alcohol - or perhaps it was his pride in the quality of the information he'd gathered - made him seem conciliatory, almost generous. A thousand new questions popped into my head.
"If everything was working out so fabulously well, and he was just about to retire gracefully, where do the guy from the Lincoln Tunnel, and the pills, and searching our house, and the riddle - all of that - fit in?"
He poured himself another capful. It seemed he wasn't really too enthused about continuing the inquiry, but I couldn't stop myself.
"And what about Mom?" I tried to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. "Was it because she didn't want him to leave that he tried to perpetuate the illusion that he was in serious trouble and that he could only extricate himself by leaving?"
He drained the cap at one go.
"It's even more painful than that," he said softly. "She wanted to go with him, you see? She knew exactly what she was doing, dammit; you're going into the army in another year, she's got little enough with me, and Harry - you know how he is - all chivalry and warmth and wisdom... I doubt he had any long-range plans as far as Mom was concerned. For him it was just another affair, something convenient, familial, comfortable, that he'd leave behind - of course - with his business and the apartment in Manhattan and his other connections. But your mother...” He poured himself a third capful. I couldn't help but think how stupid it would be if we were stopped by some sheriff from some jerkwater Pennsylvania town for `driving under the influence'.
"She saw everything differently. She didn't really have a choice, you see. Harry was her chance for the life...” he searched for the proper word, "that I couldn't give her."
"I'm not so sure about that," I said.
He took this to mean that I doubted whether life with him was so awful, and smiled gratefully.
"I agree with you. All in all, she lived quite comfortably and...”
"That's not what I meant," I tried to ignore the look of disappointment that crept over his face. "I'm not sure Mom thought that Harry would take off and leave her here. I'm also not sure whether she believed that the opposite would happen, that is, that he'd take her with him. It seems from her first letter that she knew the separation was inevitable. But in the second letter...”
"That's how she is," Dad said harshly, "always flip-flopping between reality and fantasy. In this case fantasy won out, and when Harry began making plans for his retirement, she began her own preparations - which made it abundantly clear that she had no intention of staying here without him. She undoubtedly did it with her - how did you put it? - characteristic `style'. She didn't make demands, she didn't argue, she simply went along according to her plan of action, as if it were the most natural and reasonable thing to do. She secretly bought clothes that would suit the Florida climate, she started talking about going on a diet so she wouldn't look fat in a bathing suit - and Harry? He began to get nervous. I don't think he ever really wanted to live with her, and even if he had ever considered it, he'd almost certainly changed his mind by this point. In any case, he couldn't have supported her on retirement wages in Miami Beach with the kind of lifestyle that -" a dry cackle escaped his throat, but there was a note of sadness behind his malicious glee.
"Just picture it! After years of activity and a pretty steady cash flow, the guy was going to turn into something more boring than me...” he paused and looked at me, perhaps waiting to hear me deny it.
I said nothing. What could I say? Mom was right about one thing: what did I really know about how each of them had lived, together and apart?
"... So, like I was saying, I don't think your mother really threatened Harry, but after all, he was a smart guy and he'd had enough experience with women to know that you don't have to wait for the first raindrops to know it's going to pour. Meanwhile, time was getting short. He had to vacate his apartment, sign over all his business holdings, and move south by the end of September. He had to get her off his back. How do you shake a woman you're afraid to make angry
, a woman who knows too much?" He drummed his fingers on the night table.
"He had a very clever plan - simply brilliant - and all he needed to put it into action was someone who knew Hebrew, who had experience tailing people. That was no problem. This city is crawling with private detectives, former Israelis, who'd be more than happy to follow Mom for $25 an hour, then back her into a quiet corner and tell her, in Hebrew, that the Mossad was on her tail and was going to wipe out Harry. Do you realize how brilliant that is? Harry knew all too well that Mom was afraid of the emptiness she'd feel after he'd left and you'd been drafted. He was afraid threatening her with a death would induce Mom to sacrifice everything in one grand act of despair, so he told his detective to divide the threat in two: things would get "unpleasant" for Mom if she kept seeing Harry; and as for him - he'd be dead. He had a double hold on her: fear and emotional blackmail. If the threat to her own safety didn't scare her, he could count on the threat to his life doing the trick." He sneered bitterly.
"I bet Harry even told him when he'd find her alone - on her way to one of their `meetings'. But two things went wrong. First of all, who could have imagined that you'd do something crazy like dress up as Mom and drive off in her car? And second of all," he sighed, "Mom's character. I've been thinking about this since the minute I stopped reading. Harry was so clever, so experienced - how is it that he didn't figure she'd completely ignore reality when it didn't suit her expectations, and continue living according to her own plan of action...?"
The alarm on his wristwatch went off. He got up and went to the window, pushed the curtain aside and looked out. Then he looked at his watch and asked, "Are you ready?"
I nodded.
"If there's anything you need to do, do it now; the guys'll be here any minute and we won't be able to wait...”
At that moment he didn't seem any more realistic than Mom: Even after reading all those notebooks, he was still talking to me like I was a little kid who had to be told to take a piss before a long trip.
"What's so funny?" he asked.
"Nothing. I want to hear the rest of your explanation."
He glanced at his watch.
"We haven't much time, and you already know everything...” he cautioned, nevertheless sitting down next to me on the edge of the bed. "So, when Harry realized that his threats weren't working, he changed to a less ambitious plan and decided to neutralize Mom for a few weeks, by which time he'd be on his way to Florida, out of sight and -- who knows -- maybe out of mind... At first it didn't seem too difficult. Mom had a free subscription to all the products of that Society for Proper Nutrition etc., which he ran, and it was no trouble for him to arrange that she win a free cruise. But then you intervened and started causing trouble - showing up at their offices in Nyack, asking questions - and when Harry came to our house, you told him things that got him worried. Then things started to go wrong with Mom, too. He tried to avoid her - he didn't return her phone calls, he cancelled their meetings - but she, as we've said, refused to get the message. When she couldn't get him on the telephone she started writing letters; one night she even photographed some material he hadn't asked for and told his men to come pick it up from the usual place, the notch in the tree...” He got up and looked outside again.
"What about searching the house...?" I pulled at his shirttail.
He sat down again.
"Harry was worried. He knew all too well that there were copies and traces of the letters and slides, and he told his detective to break into the house and get rid of the camera, the film, and every letter or slide he could find. But you - as usual - interrupted. Harry decided to try again to put Mom out of commission, this time with the blue pills, which were meant to make her weak and fuzzy-headed for several weeks. Again you ruined things by finding the pills; and, indirectly, your investigating them in the bathroom when Aunt Ida wandered in caused her to swallow them instead of your mother. Suddenly, the focus shifted. The attention and seriousness with which you took the threats made you more dangerous than Mom. Keeping her quiet had a high price, but not an insufferable one. You, on the other hand, were a foreign and completely uncontrollable influence. That's why the pressure turned on you, with the guy from the Lincoln Tunnel serving as Harry's eyes and ears. He followed us when you came with me to Kennedy - on the off chance that we were plotting something together. When you were home alone with Mom he hid in the garden, and the night she arranged their last meeting he was ordered to follow her from the minute she left the house - not to harm her, as you assumed, but to make sure that it was just a romantic rendezvous, and not some trap that you had laid.
"Me?"
"He was afraid of you. Not, actually, because of what you knew - after all, you'd told him part of that when you went to see him, and you'd even mentioned that you suspected me...”
"Shouldn't that have put him at ease?"
"Maybe, if it hadn't been for his fear that, in a moment of despair or weakness, Mom would tell you some part of the truth - a part that might do him harm. That's why when you and Mom went your separate ways he ordered his detective to follow you and keep him apprised of your every move, over the car phone. After all, he knew she was on her way to see him."
He smiled at me kindly. "It was touching when you asked to sleep at his place, not knowing that she was there and that they were working out their separation...”
I didn't want to think about that. "How do you know they agreed on the separation?"
"The envelope that you saw at Temple... don't forget, I've known her for 20 years - and we've come close to separating more than once. Each time she made the same demand: that all the letters she'd written be returned to her. A few times I refused because I felt they belonged to me - one of the few things I'd have to prove she'd loved me. But she never gave in. Something in the thought that her declarations of love might find their way into the hands of someone else bothered her. That was one of her idiosyncrasies. Harry undoubtedly found this a small price to pay for his freedom, and promised to bring them to Temple the following day. Mom may have hoped he would give them to her himself; that's probably why she asked you not to come. But Harry had more important things to do - or else he was afraid something would go wrong - so he asked his detective to do it as a final service. Of course he didn't have the faintest idea that you'd show up again and complicate matters...” he shifted restlessly, "and now he's probably eating himself alive for not letting them arrest you."
"Why did he arrange house arrest for me?"
"Who knows?" he shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe because he loves you and really wanted to help; maybe because he wanted to be the first to know what you had to say that, for whatever reason, you hadn't said when you'd gone to see him...”
"And that's why he asked that I write down everything I knew...”
Dad nodded.
A lot of things were much clearer now.
"That is, if I hadn't have shown up at Temple uninvited and caused all that fuss, everything would have ended quietly and uneventfully exactly on the 7th of September, as promised...”
Again Dad went to the window and peered out. There was still one more thing left unsaid between us. I tried to read it in his face, in his gestures, in the way he pressed himself against the glass. Finally, I couldn't hold back any longer. I went up to him and grabbed his arm. "Are you sorry about what happened?"
He didn't answer.
"Maybe you would have preferred it if I hadn't complicated things, if I hadn't stuck my nose in. Harry would've gone off to Florida, I would've started my last year at school, Mom would've gotten over it...”
"She wouldn't have gotten over it. This was her last chance."
"What would you have preferred?"
He took a deep breath.
"Me? What would I have preferred?" He turned his head and looked outside at a commercial van that had just entered the parking lot, driven up to the door of our room, and stopped. Suddenly, the usual expression returned to his face.
"Tha
t's it," he said. “Let's move."
It's been a while since then, a while since we talked about those things - since we've talked at all. The whole matter's been forgotten; only a few people know about it. Dad's friends were a bit pissed off, but they decided among themselves that Mom was to blame for everything; they even helped Dad get a job at the Israeli branch of a large international art auction house. I think he's happy.
I'm ok, too, more or less, despite the fact that there's not even one baseball team here and that everything looks like a copy of something grander and more impressive that I've seen somewhere else. Mom lives about an hour's drive away from us, in an apartment that belonged to her parents. She also got off scot free. Maybe because no one wanted to open the case; and maybe because those responsible for bringing people to justice realized that to be a tired and disappointed woman at 40+, living alone and getting by with temporary work and government benefits, is punishment enough for someone who spent her life acting as if she was wonderful.
I go to see her once a week, always with the same mixed feelings: I despise her so, yet I fear losing her. When I return from these visits I'm always filled with pain, aggravation, and, mostly, longing. But longing for what? I can't define it. For Mom? But I just came back from there; and besides, she'll never say anything but what she wants to hear. The house in East Neck? I was never really attached to it. Debbie? She wasn't important. Miss Doherty? How can I possibly miss someone I hardly knew? K.? He's long since dead.
So that leaves you. I suppose I ought to hate you, or at least be angry with you - but I'm not. Maybe because, unlike Mom, you never put yourself in an ideal light and you never pretended the world was wonderful. Maybe because the part you played in all of it only proves what you always said: that things are never what they seem. And maybe it's because I understand so, so well that need you spoke of, to love, that only you could define so precisely. I feel it more and more all the time, that need; lately I've been trying to fill it through a million different failed attempts with girls, with women (even with a guy I met - believe it or not - at the draft board). I expected too much, too fast, from all of them - and got nothing.
The Last of the Wise Lovers Page 22