Neither Five Nor Three

by Helen Macinnes

  But what else, then?

  Ettley wished he could raise a window, let some fresh air into this room. He wished he could walk out of that door, out into the cool dark street. What was keeping him here? He had been given his instructions.

  When the door opened at last, it was Bill who entered. Decision had returned to his movements, but his eyes were still tight with worry. Perhaps it was his own fear, hidden now, that made his voice harsh, uncompromising.

  “You have a job to do,” he said.

  Ettley said, “I’ve been given my instructions.”

  “Here are additional instructions,” Bill said, and the furrow between his eyebrows deepened. “You are to ’phone Orpen. Tell him you did not come here tonight. Tell him you’ve been trying to think it out, tell him you don’t know what to do. Ask him to meet you, to talk to you.”

  “What if he won’t come?”

  “You must see that he does. If you are upset enough, he will come.” Suddenly the voice lost its sharp edge. “You are someone he is very fond of. You know that?”

  Ettley nodded. Too fond, he thought bitterly.

  Bill said, “So we depend on you. Can we?”

  Ettley stared at the grim white face. He nodded.

  “Good. Telephone Orpen tonight. At midnight. Tell him you are calling from a drugstore on Lexington near Fifty-ninth Street. Tell him you’ll wait for him at that corner, at the northwest corner.”

  “Then what?”

  “The entrance to the IRT subway will be just beside you. Take him down there to get a train to Grand Central. Tell him you are leaving New York. Tell him you need his advice.”

  “Yes?”

  “That’s all.” The voice was harsh again. “You’ve no more to do. Others will take over, then.”

  Scott Ettley moistened his lips. His eyes held more fear in them, now, than Bill’s did. And he turned to stare at the closed door.

  Bill said, looking at his watch, “It is now eight forty-seven. At twelve, you make the telephone call. I’ll be waiting near Orpen’s house. After he leaves. I’ll enter. I’ll make sure that he has no valuable information lying around.”

  “But what if Orpen won’t meet me?” There was almost hope in Ettley’s voice.

  “Make sure he does.” Bill’s hand grasped Ettley’s arm, steadying him. “What is Orpen’s next move? He will betray us all. In his bitterness, he will betray us. He knows so much that—Ettley, listen to me!” His voice was low, urgent. “Do we matter? Does any one of us matter?”

  “No,” Scott said. “No. But he won’t betray the Party. He’s still loyal. He may break with us, but he won’t betray what he knows.”

  “Loyal? After what he told you this evening? After what you told them, in there?” He jerked his head toward the other room. “We have to act at once. At once, before he can attract any publicity and safeguard himself. Any delay, and he may start giving out information. Any delay, and he may start infecting others with his doubts and heresies. If you can’t see the danger he is creating for us, then he has already infected you. Has he?”

  “No.” Scott Ettley dragged his arm away from the other man’s grip. “No,” he said roughly.

  “You and I must prove our loyalty. Don’t you see?” Then Bill turned to look at the closed door once more. He said warningly, “This is the decision of Comrade Peter, backed by the unanimous vote of the Committee. They are now waiting for me to return. A delay means an argument with you. An argument means divided loyalty and doubts.”

  Ettley picked up his hat and began to leave the room. Bill followed him, speaking hurriedly and insistently. He was talking as though persuading himself. “Others have done what he is planning to do. And they’ve driven us underground. Yet Orpen could do more damage than they did to us. He knows more than they did. We can take no chances. A traitor in thought becomes a traitor in action.”

  They entered the dimly lit hall. Bill’s hand held Scott Ettley’s arm, and they stood together motionless. From a room far upstairs, came the crying of a child. Then silence. Bill nodded, satisfied, and moved quickly toward the front door. “You know what you have to do,” Bill whispered. “A ’phone call. That’s all.”

  “Yes,” Scott Ettley said, and it seemed to be another man who was speaking. He heard the door close quietly behind him. The dark, empty street lay ahead of him. A telephone call. A meeting between two friends. That was all.

  And if he didn’t obey Peter’s order?—His connection with the Party would be severed. His future was over. And he would be exposed. His father, his friends would be allowed to find out why he had wanted to join the Clarion. There were other things, too, that they could learn about him. According to their standards, he had been a liar, a cheat, a traitor. But he didn’t belong to their standards. He didn’t belong to their world. There was no future with them.

  He pulled his hat farther down over his brow, and began walking toward Amsterdam Avenue. His decision returned, wavered, returned. He had given his answer. He had said yes obediently. Obedience was all that mattered. Obedience was everything. Obedience and discipline.

  * * *

  The man in the neat dark suit pushed his grey felt hat back off his forehead. He ran a thumbnail across his brow, and went on telephoning.

  “Sure,” he was saying, “he’s well trained. He’s worth following. Honest guys don’t go doubling on their tracks. He gave me quite a chase. From the garage, I followed him back to his own apartment—at least, he changed his clothes there. Then he ate at a drugstore on Lexington, took a bus to Grand Central, subway to Fourteenth, moved westward on foot, came back uptown by bus, Forty-second Street, subway to upper Broadway. Walked south, then east by Amsterdam. Waited in the doorway of a laundry until a minute before eight o’clock. At eight, he went into a house—no waiting, then—expected, I’d say. Here’s the address...worth watching. That was my first headache. We had travelled through the city so fast that I couldn’t ask for extra help. And when he went into that house, I was stuck. Couldn’t leave to ’phone. All I could do was wait until he came out again. At eight fifty-three, he left and walked toward Amsterdam. He wasn’t paying attention to anything then. He went into a bar near the corner of the avenue. O’Flannigan’s. He talked to no one. He lowered three Scotches. Sure, three. He sat there for about twelve minutes. He kept looking at his watch. He ordered another drink, but he didn’t touch it, just sat looking at it. I moved to the ’phone, keeping an eye on him. Then suddenly he threw some money down on the bar, and walked out of the door right into a taxi that had pulled up for a red light. There wasn’t another cab in sight. That’s how I lost him. At fourteen after nine. Well, here’s the taxi’s number, anyway... And the address of his apartment... And his description... Got that? Yes, better read it back.”

  As he listened, he pushed his hat farther back on his head and then pulled it over his brow. “Yeah, that’s it,” he said at last. “That’s it,” he said, wearily.

  21

  Ten o’clock. Rona pushed aside the books and drafting paper on her desk. Work was impossible tonight; she was restless and unsettled. She rose impatiently and then hesitated, looking round the living-room. I’ve been too happy here, she thought: that makes it all the lonelier now.

  She began clearing away the books, folding the newspapers, emptying the ashtrays. She switched on the small radio and found a Chopin programme. Then she went over to the windows, pulling the curtains aside to let the cool breeze blow into the room. She stood there and looked at the night. Across the street, the windows were lit and disarmingly open to view. The man who favoured red suspenders was working at his desk. Next door, in a blue and yellow bathroom, a thin little blonde dressed in scant pink brassiere and panties was rinsing out some stockings. In the room below, a woman slumped in a comfortable armchair and dangled a bare foot in a bright green sandal.

  All right, Rona admitted, you’re unhappy. Because you’re lonely. Because you’re afraid of all the Friday evenings stretching ahead of you with thi
s quiet ten o’clock emptiness. But there’s got to be an end to it. No one can help you out of this, except yourself. You have a life to live, and you are the only person who can live it. You are what you make yourself. Each decision, each action you choose to follow makes you or unmakes you. Each time you say “yes” or “no,” you make yourself—you, the real you that is buried deep inside.

  It is as easy as that, Rona Metford. As easy as that, and as difficult.

  She turned away from the window, and she caught a glimpse of her white face in the mirror above the fireplace. “Don’t look so damned sorry for yourself, either!” she said aloud. She stared at her reflection for a few moments, and then she had to smile. She began to laugh. People were always so ridiculous when they admired themselves as tragic characters. Sure, we’re all tragic, she told herself. And all sort of comic, too. She felt the better for her sudden laughter. The intensity of the last minutes vanished, and the sense of being alone was not so terrifying.

  Next week, she thought, I’ll start seeing people again. I’ll be able to face them better if I just give myself a few more days. But now, there was an hour to put in before she’d even feel like drifting to bed. She’d read a chapter of Flaubert. He always made a good escort.

  She switched on the reading-lamp beside the couch, opened a fresh pack of cigarettes, picked up Salammbo and settled a cushion comfortably behind her shoulders. For a long moment, the book lay unopened on her knees. She was looking at the night sky again. From here, it was framed neatly by the rectangle of the window opposite her. All she could see now was the black flat roof of the house across the street, its private lives hidden under the sharp shadow of its water tower. Behind the bold silhouette, were the solid and slender and further masses of high buildings, climbing into the darkness. Their lighted windows, small at this distance, seemed to hang in the sky in orderly rows as bright as the stars and as steadfast. They were real, yet they had all the unreality of beauty like a carefully decorated Christmas tree. They were part of the city, these lights, and they were aloof from the city. At their feet, the steady surge of sound ebbed and flowed; but they reached into the quietness of the cool sky and became as remote, untouchable.

  * * *

  She had only begun to read when the doorbell rang. Rona ignored it at first. Someone’s made a mistake, she thought irritably, turning another page and concentrating determinedly on the vivid detail of Flaubert’s story.

  But the bell rang again. And again.

  She laid the book aside, and switched off the radio. There was an urgency in the bell that quickened her movements. She went swiftly into the hall and released the lock of the street door. Then she half-opened her apartment door, and waited. She felt an unexpected nervousness. The footsteps on the stairs, mounting toward her, were hurried and heavy. A man’s footsteps. She pushed the door until it was only a few inches open, and she hooked the chain that was attached to the wall on to its latch above the handle. Then she stood, hesitating, wondering, puzzled. She was half-ashamed of her admission of fear, half-annoyed at her stupidity in opening the street door at all.

  The footsteps reached her landing. The door was thrust open, but it held on the chain. Scott’s voice said, “Rona!—Rona!”

  She stared at the straining chain. Then slowly, telling herself it was folly to start what had ended, slowly she said, “Just a moment.”

  “Rona! Please!”

  She opened the door, and he pushed his way inside the hall, turning to face her, his hand on the wall to steady himself. His face was white and haggard, his eyes deep in their sockets and larger. He had loosened his tie. He dropped his hat on the telephone table, and he didn’t even notice it when it slipped to the floor. Then he closed his eyes, the wildly staring eyes, perhaps to shut out the look of amazement on Rona’s face. He rubbed his forehead for a moment, and when his hand dropped to his side he had regained his control. He lifted his hand again, this time to smooth his hair. Then he gave a smile as he tightened the knot of his tie back into position. “I was afraid you weren’t going to let me in,” he said.

  His voice was almost normal. Almost. He frowned, controlling his face. Then he looked around him with something of bewilderment, as if he were asking himself why he had come here.

  But his words were a lie, Rona knew. His fear, whatever caused it, was a real fear. It was with him now. His words were only an excuse for his appearance, a cover to hide his embarrassment. Why had he come here? The hope which had risen in her heart as she had heard his urgent voice turned to cold disappointment. Her cheeks flushed, her step forward was halted, her impulsive embrace died before it could live, her words were stifled.

  Instead, she heard her voice—troubled and practical—saying, “What’s wrong, Scott?”

  What’s wrong? That was the question he had asked of Orpen. Only five hours ago he had asked that question, and now its echo came to mock him.

  “Nothing is wrong,” he said angrily. He pushed himself away from the wall and stood more erect. He looked at the door. “Oh, God!” His voice broke down. He turned away abruptly and walked into the living-room.

  Rona’s amazement gave way to alarm. She followed him slowly, giving him time to regain himself.

  He had sat down on the couch. He had picked up Salammbo and was idly turning over its pages. He seemed normal once more.

  He looked up to see her standing hesitating in the doorway. “Haven’t read this since I was a kid,” he said. “Do you still like this kind of stuff?”

  Rona took her cue from him. I always seem to take my cue from Scott, she thought wryly. That’s the only way to deal with Scott—on his own terms. She came into the room, picked up the pack of cigarettes, offered him one and handed him a matchbox. She said, “Yes, I enjoy it. It’s good escape.”

  “Escape?” His voice was bitter, amused. Escape in reading about Carthage described by a French realist in a romantic mood?

  “Well, let’s say it’s my way of keeping a balance,” Rona said quietly.

  “Have you a drink?” he asked suddenly. “It’s hot tonight. And I’ve been walking. I took a taxi first, and then I walked. God knows where. Round and round this block, I guess. I saw your lighted window. You were standing there. I went away. Then I found myself back at your door. And I rang the bell.”

  She looked at him worriedly.

  “I know,” he said angrily, “I know. I’ve had a couple of drinks. Another won’t do any harm.”

  She left the room, then, to get the ice and soda water. “I’ve only got some blended whisky,” she said when she returned, keeping her voice calm and detached, her face smiling. The polite hostess. Ridiculous, she thought... She felt sudden tears in her eyes, stinging them hotly. She was watching Scott, and she was watching a stranger. A stranger she knew so well that she could read each gesture, each expression, each tone of voice. She could read them all, and she could understand none of them.

  “Thanks,” he said taking the glass, drinking quickly. “I needed that. My nerves are all shot to hell.” Then he looked up at her. “Rona,” he said gently. It was the first time he had used her name since he had entered the apartment. He said it almost pityingly. “We’ve made a mess of things, haven’t we?”

  She nodded.

  His face tightened. He looked away from her, down at the book which he had dropped on the coffee table. He placed his empty glass beside it. “Escape...” he said. “So that’s how you keep your balance, Rona.” A smile flickered over his face. He looked around the room. “Neat, peaceful, orderly. A well-arranged life. Everything that doesn’t fit is discarded. Everything that spoils it is thrown out. Like cigarette stubs. Torn-up letters. Old magazines. Is that all I am, Rona?—Something that doesn’t fit any more, something to be thrown out of your life?”

  She didn’t answer at first. At last she said, “Did you come here to—to make me still more unhappy?”

  “Why do you keep looking at me like that?” he countered.

  “I’m trying to find out wh
y you came to see me.”

  He stared back at her. “God knows,” he said wearily. “Isn’t it enough if I’m still in love with you?”

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “That would have been enough.”

  “You don’t believe I am?”

  “I don’t know, any more. I don’t know.”

  I don’t know... Words repeated less than two hours ago, repeated honestly, repeated damningly. But how could I guess, Ettley was thinking, how could I guess they were so damning? People said, “I don’t know,” and that was the end of questioning. But no one could say, “I don’t know,” to Comrade Peter. Only the positive could live. The negative mind was the enemy, the potential traitor.

  “You don’t know,” he repeated softly. “But you go on living.”

  She turned her head and looked out of the window, if only to avoid watching his face. He needs me, she was thinking, or he wouldn’t have come here.

  “Still admiring the view?” he asked. He went forward to the window. He stood for a moment looking out on the city. “Every time I’ve come here, you’ve looked at that pyramid of cement as if it were made of diamonds. That’s what it is, a pyramid of diamonds, a cenotaph built on men’s blood and men’s hopes.” He turned away and came back to the couch. “Yes,” he was saying, “it is easy to be well balanced if you look at the pretty things and ignore the cruelty beside them. All you allow yourself to see is the stars in the sky, Rona. That’s the way. Keep your eyes fixed on the stars and you can escape.” He pointed suddenly to the lighted windows outside. “But do you think of what they hide? Beyond those lights are filthy slums, ugliness, and squalor. Below them, are garbage cans and sewers. Do you remember that, too?” He shook his head, “You don’t, Rona. You don’t.”