‘But what can we do for Cath?’ Mora asked.
‘Maybe I’ll be better if I rest up a while, mother,’ Cath said. She looked pale and wan, lying on the parlour couch, yet paradoxically something of her good looks had come back to her.
‘Resting up is good enough only if you got also the good diet,’ the horse doctor said bluntly. ‘Here you don’t have that.’
Silence fell while they digested his remark. They did not look at each other. They stared at the senseless things in the room, the poor furniture, the peeling walls, the floor, at anything which could endure without sensation.
‘There is a serum …’ Clay said hoarsely. ‘925, they call it.’
‘952,’ corrected Maccara. ‘Sure. Half a dozen shots of 952 will cure Cath.’
Again silence, in which Cath whimpered once. They all knew the rest of the tale, but they had to hear it. It was like acting parts they knew by heart, but hated to perform.
‘You can get this stuff to inject into Cath?’ Mora asked reluctantly.
‘They got it in San Ampa,’ Maccara said. ‘Which ain’t the same to say I can get it.’
‘You mean it costs money,’ Clay stated.
The horse doctor slowly nodded his head.
‘How much money?’ Clay whispered.
Maccara spread his thin hands.
‘To buy enough to be enough, three hundred dollars,’ he said.
Mora was not the weeping kind. Her face just went mottled like the wall behind her. ‘We’ve not got that kind of money, Giam,’ she told the old man; ‘That’s a terrible pile of money in the Town.’ And fight against it though she did, her gaze slewed round to Clay and she looked imploringly at him. Licking his lips, Clay pretended not to notice.
‘Maybe – maybe Parson’ll allow us a few eggs off quota, or something,’ he said. ‘Help Cath get well …’
They all stood there like frozen. Blast them, thought Clay, they know about my eight hundred dollars; the whole Town’ll know …
Old Maccara finally broke the tableau by taking up his bag and moving towards the door.
‘Keep the girl in bed resting, anyway, Mora,’ he said heavily, buttoning up his jacket. ‘Tomorrow I come and see her again, maybe bring her some stew if I can get. You, Cath, girl, don’t worry and we all say a prayer for you tomorrow in church.’
He went out. Now that Clay wanted the women to look at him, they would not.
‘He could be wrong, old Giam,’ Cath said, attempting cheerfulness. ‘I’ve heard Mrs. Parson say he’s best on pigs.’
The tension within him was more than Clay could stand. With a muttered word of farewell, he ran into the street. Giam Maccara was making his way slowly along, picking the driest bits of the road; Clay soon caught him up.
‘Hey, Mr. Maccara, come on round to my place,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you that three hundred dollars to buy the injections. I’ve got it – you’ve got to make Cath right again.’
The old man peered up at him from under his brows, a searching look.
‘Is that part of the money you was hoping to get into San Ampa with it?’ he asked.
‘Never mind about that. I’ve got it, that’s what counts. I want you to take it right now, before I change my mind. Come on!’
Clay did not want to think. He knew this would finish him. He had saved only the bare eight hundred, and it had taken a crooked card game to make up that amount. With only five hundred dollars, the combine would not look at him. Still, they were apparently not interested in him with eight hundred. And since he did not doubt he had passed on his old infection to Cath, it was up to him to right the wrong if he could.
Taking the old doctor’s arm, Clay hustled him along to his father’s house. Suke met them at the door, her face flushed with excitement.
‘Did you see the motor bike, Clay?’ she asked. ‘A messenger’s just been from San Ampa. You’ve got to go and see them. They have a new government contract and will require more men shortly. If you go now and buy your entry you will be taken for basic training in four weeks’ time.’
She stopped and stared at him. Clay’s face turned yellow as mud. He looked blankly from her to Maccara. When she shook his arm, he still could not find his voice.
‘Well, now this does not change the fact about your girl being sick in any way,’ Maccara said, not without a hint of hardness in his voice.
‘Of course not,’ Clay said. ‘Wait here; I’ll get the money.’
‘What’s all this about money?’ Suke cried. But Clay pushed past her and went upstairs to fetch his savings, leaving Maccara to explain the situation.
Pulling the green canvas body-belt out from under his old flock mattress, Clay unbuttoned it and counted out three hundred dollars. Taking it downstairs made him almost physically sick. He was giving his future away; there was no sort of a living to be made in the Town; he could not face another five years on Venus – one more mouthful of neorabbit would make him vomit. At the bottom of the stairs he had an idea.
‘Mr. Maccara!’ he called, hurrying over to the old man, who was now talking voluably to Suke and Old. ‘If I join the San Ampa combine in four weeks’ time, two weeks later I could marry Cath. Then she could have treatment – proper treatment in their hospital – straight away. It would be all right, wouldn’t it, for her just to hang on for six weeks?’
‘It all depends what you want to marry, a live girl or a corpse,’ the horse doctor said. ‘I tell you, Cathy has a frail constitution. Why we all ain’t dead on the lousy food I can’t imagine! She needs the first shot of 952 right now!’
If only I was sure whether I really loved her or not, Clay thought, or whether she really loved me; she’s a stranger to me. But he had to go through with it now. He would be too ashamed not to.
‘In that case – ’ he began.
‘Don’t give him the money, Clay!’ Cath called. She came running down the street, her hair wild, Mora in pursuit, shouting to her daughter to come back. Cath had guessed what was in Clay’s mind, jumping from her bed to come to him. Now, as she flung herself into his arms, she nearly bowled him over. She clung to him, gasping and coughing.
‘Don’t give him the money, darling!’ she panted. ‘It’s not worth it. I’m not worth it. You’re throwing your life away! I’ll get better, you’ll see. And even if I don’t, I can’t let you do this! I love you so much … I’d rather die …’
At the unexpected excitement, several people had gathered, having nothing better to do than listen. A dozen people were there to hear what Cath said. For Clay, they all vanished as he looked down into her eyes – there he unmistakeably read the truth, and for a moment it left him stone cold alone in the universe.
Cath was acting!
She had come because she was not sure of him. She was afraid he would change his mind and not pay out for her. She did not want to die. By making this selfless show of heroism in public, she virtually guaranteed he would give Maccara the money.
God, but she had fixed him neatly!
Clay looked round at the waiting faces, his mother, his father, Cath’s mother, the people who lived hopelessly in the Town. Every gullible face bore the same message: ‘You can’t let her down, Clay; she’s a great little woman!’
When he thrust the money wordlessly out at Maccara, the simple ragged crowd gave him a cheer.
The next day was Sunday. Clay sat by Cath’s couch. Everyone else was down at the church. The people of the Town did a lot of praying in adversity; if times had been better, they would have been out mowing the lawn now. Before the service, Maccara had called to give the girl her first injection of 952. She was feeling better now, and talkative.
‘We can leave this dump when I’m better, Clay,’ she said. ‘After all you’ve still got five hundred dollars …’ Maybe we’d do better in L.A. or Frisco. A hobo was telling me a little while ago they’re building a new polymer combine at Frisco. They might take you on there for five hundred, as it’s new and they’d be wanting men badly. For gosh s
akes, half a grand should be enough to satisfy anyone, shouldn’t it?’
It’s all you care for about me, you little bitch, he thought. You’ve no real love for me. Aloud he said, ‘I shouldn’t mind getting away from here. Every day I look over the fields and see the towers of Ampa, and I hate it. The bigger that place grows, the worse the Town gets. This dump was prosperous before the valve combine moved in; now it is just going down and down. San Ampa is our enemy.’
‘Yet you want to get there!’ she said. ‘That’s silly talk.’
‘If you can’t lick ’em, join ’em,’ he replied bitterly.
‘The real enemy isn’t San Ampa,’ Cath said, after a pause. It was as if she had made up her mind to tell him something.
‘I know. It’s the Russians,’ he said. ‘But that doesn’t stop me disliking San Ampa.’
‘I didn’t mean the Russians, Clay,’ she said, a little breathlessly. ‘Just think what the world’s like now. The Russians have done nothing against us. Yet Nevada’s a strontium desert – because one of our experiments went wrong. There isn’t a fish alive in the Pacific, thanks to the British tests of cobalt missiles. Amsterdam, one of Europe’s great capitals, is a ruin after their remote-controlled nuclear submarine castrophe. Think of the thousands of lives lost in the eighties when the freak meteor showers penetrated the domes of Luna City. Look at the awful business you’ve told me about on Venus! Isn’t that symbolic of the hopeless muddle going on everywhere? Soon we’ll have the whole solar system in ruins.’
Clay was staring at her pale face almost in excitement now. Outside, he could hear, the people were returning from church, but he took no notice.
‘You may be right in a way, Cath,’ he said. ‘But we’ve got to keep up with the Russians.’
‘Everyone says that!’ she exclaimed disgustedly. ‘Why have we got to keep up with them? Why can’t they bust their economy wide open on their own? Wouldn’t it be a better way of “keeping up with them”, as you call it, to concentrate on agriculture instead of space ships, to feed the people?’
She broke off, lapsing into a fit of coughing, almost as if to emphasise the point.
Clay stood up, knotting his hands behind his back. He loathed and feared all her cleverness – yet his pity for her suddenly rose in a tide, almost drowning him.
‘You shouldn’t be talking this way, Cath,’ he managed to say. ‘I warned you before. It’s treason these days to speak out against the government, which I presume you’re doing.’
She glanced at him contemptuously.
‘You presume!’ she exclaimed. ‘Of course I’m speaking against the government – someone’s got to, and everybody seems so stupid. America’s being turned into one vast Skid Row, a Tobacco Road. Even in the combines, it’s far from a paradise – it only seems to be so from this mudflat. Surely to God you can see it’s crazy? Where’s it going to end? I’d shoot every single congressman in the country, if I had my – ’
The door burst open, and Cath fell abruptly silent. Judging by the unease on her face, she thought she had gone too far.
But the people who came surging into the room had nothing but love on their countenances. There were ten of them; eagerly, they flocked round the couch on which Cath lay and Clay now sat, clumsy excitement in their movements. All of them were familiar: all had been present at Cath’s little performance the day before, Suke, Old, Giam, Maccara, Mora, and the others.
Suke, as the most forceful character present, pressed herself to the front and began to speak.
‘We’ve come here with a little surprise for you two young folk,’ she said. ‘It’s kind of difficult to put this to you – I’m more of a cooking woman than a speaking one – but we were all powerful moved by the uh, demonstration of love you couple gave off yesterday. We can’t think to see you two hanging round the Town like the rest of us, doing no good. We’d like to see you lovebirds up in San Ampa like you intended. Accordingly, us ten have been round to the Local Office.’
She paused, perhaps for dramatic effect, perhaps to draw breath.
‘We’d like to know,’ she continued, ‘that though it goes against our religion, us ten have taken advantage of the government offer, and sworn our bodies to the State after death, to be pounded up to make phosphates and chemicals and suchlike. In consideration of which, each of us was paid thirty dollars in advance of demise. Lumped together, that makes three hundred dollars, which we now give you with our love, so’s you can still get into the combine, and live your days with full bellies.’
Cath gave a small shriek, putting her hand over her mouth. Clay just sat there. At last he stood up, legs wobbling.
‘It’s wonderful, mother and neighbours all,’ he said, his voice little more than a whisper, ‘wonderful of you, everyone, but the sacrifice won’t be necessary. I can’t marry a girl like Cath – she’s a traitor to the country. She talks sedition. There’s been a member of the People’s Police here listening to what she was just saying …’
He pointed. They turned to see the man in the black uniform step from the adjoining room. By the strangled gasp which went up, he might have been a ghost.
‘The girl Cath is charged with treason,’ he said, producing handcuffs, ‘in that she spread revolutionary ideas and tried to talk her fiance into shooting members of the government.’
They watched dumbly, jostling like sheep, as he thrust his way through them. He pushed Clay, the man who had fetched him secretly from San Ampa, to one side, and hauled Cath off the couch. He led her to the door, out of it, away, out of sight. Nobody said a word. Cath’s screams and protests still rang in their ears.
At last Old Marshall moved like a lead man. Padding in his socks over to his son, he patted him on the back.
‘You could never have married a woman like that, Clay,’ he said. ‘I’ll say you’ve done a very brave and patriotic act!’
And at that, Clay broke down and cried.
Three’s a Cloud
Just by accident, Clemperer had shaved when he got up at noon. Consequently, he was looking not too much the tramp when he drifted into his destiny at Karpenkario’s, the Greek place on the waterfront, at nine in the evening.
Clemperer knew nobody at Karpenkario’s place. That was its attraction for him. He was alone in the world and he knew it. He hated the bars full of false friendship, where acquaintances who had seen him only half a dozen times before in their lives, slapped his back and cried, ‘Come on, old pal, haven’t seen you in a long time; how about a drink?’ Equally, Clemperer hated loneliness. But at least loneliness was clean and honourable.
He bought a double whisky at the bar. He had already downed four elsewhere. Instead of drinking where the other people were drinking, he carried the glass with him, pushing through the crowd, which consisted mainly of sailors, and made for the quiet restaurant behind. The air was clearer here, reminding Clemperer of his stale old wisecrack about his not being able to see unless the atmosphere was full of cigarette smoke.
Only one of the restaurant tables was occupied. A man and woman, strangers to Clemperer, sat at it.
That was the beginning of everything. Clemperer did what he never did: he went and sat down with the man and the woman, instead of choosing an empty table.
‘You might like a look at the menu,’ the man said, handing him over a typed sheet smilingly. ‘Fortunately the food here is better than the typing.’
It did not hit Clemperer all at once, because he was partially drunk, but the sensation he felt was as if he had arrived home. That was odd: Clemperer had no home. Four years earlier, on his fortieth birthday, he had flung up the bachelor flat he had hitherto called home, and the Motivation Research job which paid for it, and had gone out into the world, wandering from town to town in search of what he privately called his destiny.
He raised the whisky, paused, lowered it again, setting the glass with ponderous care on to the table.
‘Your coffee sounds good,’ he told the girl. ‘I must have a cup. It’ll help t
o clear my head.’
He had meant to say ‘smells good’, not ‘sounds good’. It was the sort of slight verbal slip he often caught himself making, much to his annoyance. In this case, it rudely implied that the girl was drinking noisily; yet by her smile she appeared to have grasped his real meaning. How seldom you found anyone like that, Clemperer reflected.
He ordered a big jug of coffee, offering the others a cup, which they both accepted.
Meanwhile, he looked them over carefully. There was nothing extraordinary about them. They looked faintly unhappy. One sat one side of the table, one the other, and their hands met on the polished oak. The man was about Clemperer’s age, but better preserved, obviously more prosperous. He looked as if he might still have a hope. Behind his spectacles, his grey eyes held a wealth of friendliness.
The girl was more striking. She was not pretty, but neat enough to be very attractive. At a guess she was twenty-one. Her dark hair was short, without curl, while in her long, squaw face was set a pair of the darkest, saddest eyes Clemperer had ever encountered. In her was some unguessable grief, as thick as fog – yet now she was happy.
At some time, then or later, he found their names were Spring and Alice.
It occurred to him that he might offer some sort of apology for sitting down at their table without invitation, little as that apology seemed needed. When he spoke, his diffident tongue again betrayed him.
‘I didn’t mean to intrude,’ he said, ‘I know very well that three’s a cloud.’
They took it as a trouvaille.
‘There you have it,’ Alice said, peering at him through the wigwam of her vision. ‘What’s more homogeneous than a cloud?’
‘C.f. a cloud of unknowing,’ Spring said, ‘floating along in a mystery.’
‘I really meant to say “cloud”,’ Clemperer admitted, making his slip again. Then he gave up. Perhaps the dark side of his mind knew best; perhaps he really had intended to say ‘cloud’.
From the Greek waiter, he ordered a dish of Arab Kuftides, with spaghetti and chili sauce. It was not the kind of thing Clemperer usually did; he rarely ate after midday – it was just throwing good food away on a bad ulcer. His current theory was to try and drown the damned thing in alcohol.
The Complete Short Stories- The 1950s - Volume One Page 98