Collected Fiction

by Irwin Shaw

  Archer mixed his drink, enjoying the sound of the ice and the oily way the liquid looked in the lamplight. He poured it into his glass, sipped a little off the top, and looked around him at his friend’s room. There were high bookshelves built in against the walls and a large desk near the window, with a leather letterpress and pictures of young Clement, Johnny and Nancy on it. Archer turned and looked idly at the bookshelves. The Complete Greek Drama, in two volumes. The Plays of Ibsen. Plays Pleasant and Unpleasant, by George Bernard Shaw. Archer moved away from the dramatic section. Beard’s The Rise of American Civilization, Trotsky’s The Russian Revolution, Reed’s Ten Days That Shook the World, Das Kapital, Mein Kampf, by Adolf Hitler. Archer stared at the shelf. Was a man the sum of the books he read? Could it be said that Mein Kampf canceled out Das Kapital? And how did The Complete Greek Drama calibrate with Trotsky? Archer had heard that investigators for the Government asked people what books their friends read, stitching disloyalty out of the threads of titles. What verdict would a bright young man from the FBI find on Herres’ shelves? Perhaps, as a friend, he, Archer, should warn Herres to be more discreet in the reading matter he displayed. You never knew who came into your house these days. A vindictive servant, a rejected girl, an over-excitable patriot might make up a damaging list for the dossier of Victor Herres. Leaving out The Complete Greek Drama and The Plays of Ibsen, of course.

  Archer looked at the desk. The top of the letterpress was awry and he saw a pile of mail haphazardly thrown into the box. He stared at the handsome leather box. The answer might be right there, exposed, final. You can judge a man almost as well by the letters he receives as those he sends. There might be a communication from some committee, a receipt for hidden dues, a threat, a warning, a message of congratulations from some clearly identifiable figure.

  Archer took a step nearer to the desk, then stopped, ashamed. I’m getting as bad as everybody else, he thought, angrily, and left the library and went into the living room and turned on the radio. He sat there, listening to two people singing, “Oh, Baby, it’s cold outside,” finishing his drink and trying to forget that he had nearly gone through his friend’s papers. How easy it is to be a spy, he thought, how quickly the technique comes to us! In a man’s house, drinking his liquor, using the excuse that we have brought a gift to his sick child. And that’s without practice or experience—imagine how expert you could get with two or three missions behind you.

  “Oh, Baby, it’s cold outside,” the male voice sang, pleading.

  “Hey, Clement …” It was Herres who had come in without being noticed by Archer, “I got a great idea.” He turned the radio off and sprawled out on the couch. “Listen carefully and don’t fall over backwards when you hear. Ready?”

  “Ready,” said Archer.

  “You haven’t made any plans for the summer yet, have you?”

  “No.”

  “The Mediterranean,” Herres announced. “The blue Mediterranean. Do your eyes light up?”

  “Partially,” Archer said.

  “Take another sip of your Martini,” said Herres. “That reminds me.” He jumped up and strode off toward the bar in the next room. “My hand is naked.”

  Archer followed him into the library. Herres poured the gin without measuring and added a few drops of vermouth. He mixed vigorously, looking at the shaker critically, as though he expected it to betray him. “America is beginning to pall on me,” Herres said. Helplessly, Archer registered this and wondered if he ought to warn Herres not to say things like that in public.

  “I long for foreign shores.” Herres pushed the mixing spoon violently up and down, rattling the ice. “I would like to talk for a couple of months to people whose language I can’t understand. That’s the intolerable thing about America these days. I can understand every word everybody says.” He poured his drink and held it up to the light to make sure it was properly pale. He glanced at Archer. “You don’t look ecstatic,” he said. “Have you got other plans?”

  “No,” Archer said. Now, he thought. Unconsciously he took a deep breath. “Vic,” he said, “let’s wait about the summer. Maybe after you hear what I have to say, you won’t want to go any place.”

  Herres sat down. He sipped at his drink, looking gravely at Archer.

  “I hope,” Archer said, “you won’t be offended at anything I say.”

  “Have I ever been offended before this?”

  “No.”

  “OK,” Vic said.

  “Vic,” Archer said, “I’m going to ask you a question. Don’t feel you have to answer it. I don’t really think I have the right to ask it. And no matter what you answer, yes, no, or it’s none of your business—it won’t make any difference between you and me …” He hesitated. “Vic,” he said slowly, “are you a Communist?”

  There was silence.

  “What was that?” Vic said at last. “What did you say?”

  “Are you a Communist?”

  Again there was the long moment of silence. “Can I ask,” Vic said, “why you want to know?”

  “Of course,” said Archer. “A week ago O’Neill told me that Hutt had ordered him to have me fire you from the program because you were a Communist or a fellow-traveler. You and four others.”

  “Who are the others?”

  “Motherwell, Atlas, Weller and Pokorny.”

  Vic chuckled. “What company I’m in!” he said. “What sinister figures!”

  “We have another week,” Archer said, “to do something about it. I got that much from Hutt.”

  “Have you spoken to the others?”

  “Yes,” Archer said.

  “You must have had a great week,” Vic said, chuckling again. “No wonder you looked puce-green Thursday night. What did they say?”

  “Motherwell admitted she was one.”

  “Joan of Arc,” Vic said. “Mounted on a red mink.” His voice sounded sharp and almost angry. “How about the others?”

  “Pokorny says he was a Communist for two weeks,” Archer said. “In Vienna. In 1922.”

  “Oh, God,” Vic said.

  “They’re going to deport him, I think. He lied on his application for entrance into the country.”

  “My country ’tis of thee,” Vic said. “Sweet land of the deportee.”

  “Atlas wouldn’t tell me anything. And the only thing that Alice Weller could think of was a peace meeting she was supposed to make a speech at.”

  “You must have had a rugged half-hour with her,” Vic said quietly. He lit a cigarette.

  “It wasn’t pleasant.”

  “If I told you I was a Communist, Clement,” Vic said softly, “what would you do?”

  “I don’t know,” Archer said. “I keep changing my mind every day. One day I tell myself I’d fight for your jobs, although I don’t know just what I, could do. The next day, I tell myself I’ll quit. …”

  Vic grunted. The smoke from his cigarette floated past Archer’s head, drawn to the window. It smelled thin and bitter. “Clement,” Vic said, “you’ve known me a long time. What do you think?”

  “I don’t think you’re a Communist.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well …” Archer smiled a little, “for one thing you don’t have the vocabulary. You don’t call Republican senators bestial, Fascist war-mongers and I never heard you suggest that Joe Stalin ought to be fitted out with a halo. And you’re not neurotic or persecuted or sick or poor and I never saw any signs that you thought you were any of those things. And the FBI must have checked on you a little bit before they commissioned you in the Army. And during the last election campaign you told me you couldn’t make up your mind whom you were going to vote for, and I never met a Communist yet who said anything like that. And, finally, especially since you came back from the war, you seem—” Archer searched for the word “—frivolous.”

  Herres grinned. “I must ask you for a reference,” he said, “next time I look for a job.” Then he grew serious. He doused his cigarette and stood up.
He went to the window and stared out at the street. “Clement,” he said softly, “you don’t have to quit your job on my account. For whatever it’s worth—I’m not a Communist.”

  Archer felt his hands begin to shake. He put them in his pockets. “Thanks,” he said.

  Herres turned and faced him. “Any other questions, Professor?”

  “No.”

  “Clement, can an ex-student give some advice to an ex-professor?”

  “Listening,” Archer said.

  “In football,” Vic said, “there’s a play known as a fair catch. Ever hear of it?”

  “Yes,” Archer said, puzzled.

  “When the safety man is catching a punt and he sees the ends coming down on him ready to knock him down as soon as he gets his hands on the ball, he puts up his hand to announce to them that he won’t try to run with the ball after he gets it. Then they’re not allowed to tackle him and the ball is grounded where it was caught.”

  “Yes,” Archer said, wondering what Vic was driving at.

  “It’s a kind of surrender,” Vic said slowly, “brought on by the realization that for the moment you are in an impossible position. I think you ought to signal for a fair catch.”

  “What do you mean?” Archer asked, although he was beginning to understand.

  “Don’t try to run with this particular ball, Clement,” Vic said. “They’re too God-damn close to you. You’ll get hurt. And I wouldn’t want to see that. Maintain a delicate neutrality.” Vic smiled. “Pretend it all happened a hundred years ago and develop a cool detachment on the subject. Sympathize gently with all sides and cultivate your garden with discretion. If you hear shots being fired in the street, tell yourself it must be a truck tire blowing out. And if you hear burglar alarms going off at night, tell yourself somebody must have left his alarm clock on. …”

  “Do you think I could do that?” Archer asked, feeling himself grow angry at this estimate of himself.

  “I don’t know,” Vic said. “But if I were you I’d try. You weren’t mixed up in it when there were no penalties involved. Why dive in so late in the game when they’ll pile all over you if they catch you looking cross-eyed at a photograph of Herbert Hoover?”

  “How about you?” Archer asked.

  “The question doesn’t arise for me,” Vic said, his voice low. “They’re after me and I’ve got to fight for my life.” He grinned. “Actually, I don’t mind so much. A little fight now and then does wonders for a sedentary liver. Life on Park Avenue has been pretty placid for the last four or five years. This’ll put a new sparkle into the eye.”

  “It won’t be easy,” Archer said.

  “No,” Vic agreed. “I suppose they’ve got a case against me or what passes for a case these days and they’ll push it for all it’s worth. In my time I guess I belonged to a few organizations that had Communists in them. Maybe I still do. I’m not going to kid anybody. I wouldn’t hide it if I could. I hate the people who pretend they never met a real live Communist in their whole lives,” Vic said, “and that they wouldn’t know one if he came up and hit them over the head with a plaster bust of Karl Marx. For a long time the comrades were real valuable citizens and we were all delighted to give them a buck when they went off to get themselves killed in Spain and when they smuggled refugees out of Germany and kissed the Germans off at Stalingrad. And if they’re for low-cost housing and free milk for babies and giving Negroes a high-school education, I’m not going to spit in their faces now, either. I’m afraid of what’s happening, Clement. People feel that the best way to prove how loyal they are is to be as nasty and backward as they know how, and I’m not buying any of that, either, no matter what Mr. Hurt says. I’m no great shakes as a politician, and I figured out that maybe the reason I gave a couple of dollars here and there and a little of my time is because I felt guilty. I’ve been lucky all my life. I’ve had dough and people have been clubbing each other over the head for the privilege of giving me things on a platter ever since I was two months old and it’s made me feel a little better to pay up from time to time. If that’s treachery, then everybody who endows a new wing on a hospital ought to be sent to Leavenworth. And I saw the Communists in Europe, in the underground, and they did a first-class job and they didn’t have the USO and the Red Cross around to entertain them either. They were wrong a lot of the time, but they’ve done some very sticky jobs in the line of duty, too, and I want to reserve the privilege to cheer for them when they’re on my side, and kick them in the ass when they’re not. And if any two-bit patriot tries to make me kick them in the ass automatically and on sight, whether they’re stealing atom secrets or trying to get doctors to cure hillbillies of pellagra, he’s going to have a battle on his hands from me. The bugle will now blow assembly, after which we shall advance slightly north by left. Spectators are advised to buy their tickets early and to stay off the playing field at all times. …”

  “Thanks for the hint,” Archer said, “but it comes a little late.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m in,” Archer said. “I told Alice Weller I’d guarantee her job.”

  Vic pursed his mouth thoughtfully. He picked up his glass, but didn’t drink. “Gallantry,” he said. “Admirable, old-fashioned, characteristic and dangerous, not necessarily in that order.”

  “Also,” Archer said, “I’m doing the same thing for you. Right now. When I leave here I’m going right up to Hutt’s office and put it on the line.”

  Vic glanced across at Archer, his eyes measuring and troubled. “Archer,” he said, “go to the locker room and get yourself a new uniform. The team colors are black and blue. I hope they’re becoming to bald men.”

  “Mr. Hurt isn’t here,” Miss Walsh was saying, “He’s in Florida. He left Wednesday night.” Miss Walsh was putting on her hat, preparing for the week-end. The hat was very involved, with brightly colored artificial flowers on it and a dotted veil. But even the veil didn’t help her. Miss Walsh was the one plain secretary on the entire floor. Long years of loyal sitting at the desk outside Hutt’s office had spread her behind and made her skin the color of an old lampshade and her voice with everyone but Hutt was snappish and suspicious, as though defending his privacy against all comers had cost her whatever charm she might have had in her distant youth. If Miss Walsh ever thought about it, you knew she would have gladly accepted the sacrifice as a small price to be paid for the pleasure of guarding her master. “He went fishing,” Miss Walsh said. “A friend of his has a boat at Key West. He needed it, he needed a vacation very badly,” she said accusingly through her veil, as though it was because of the inconsiderateness of Archer and others like him that Mr. Hutt sometimes felt fatigue. “He’s a very tired man.”

  “When is he getting back?” Archer asked, looking away from Miss Walsh. He always avoided looking at her when he was in the office, fearful that she would see the distaste in his eyes.

  “I don’t know,” Miss Walsh said, whining. “I told him to stay away a long time. He was looking perfectly awful. Exhausted. I said to him, ‘Let the others do some work for once,’ I said, ‘You can’t carry the whole world on your own shoulders all the time,’ I said.”

  “Yes,” said Archer, patient and sourly polite, “but when did he say he’d come back?”

  “He didn’t say. When he’s thoroughly rested, I hope.” She tied the veil behind her hat with thick fingers. A thin smell of armpit came from Miss Walsh when she lifted her arms. Loyalty, Archer thought, sometimes comes rather high in a warm office building. She must be sensationally efficient.

  “He left word that Mr. O’Neill would handle whatever came up,” Miss Walsh said. By her tone Archer understood that she had little hope that Mr. O’Neill could handle anything at all.

  “Thanks,” Archer said. He left Miss Walsh to her artificial flowers, her week-end, her veil and her armpits. He walked through the empty office, past the cleared desks and the antique furnishings to O’Neill’s office. O’Neill’s secretary was gone and the door was open.
O’Neill was sitting at his kidney-shaped desk, bulking over it, his eyes closed, sleeping, sitting erect. Great, Archer thought, watching O’Neill, one fishing and one asleep. He felt a surge of strong, unreasonable anger at Hutt for going off at a time like this. The least he might do, Archer thought, is hang around this week. And O’Neill might have the grace to keep his eyes open.

  “Emmet,” he said loudly, “wake up. The building’s on fire.”

  O’Neill blinked. He looked up soddenly at Archer. “What’s the matter?” he asked thickly. “What’d you say?” He shook his head, recovering from sleep. “Oh. Clem. Forgive me. Saturday afternoon—nap-time. What’s new?”

  “I want to talk to Hutt,” Archer said.

  O’Neill yawned. He had very white teeth and when he yawned Archer could see that there were no fillings in them. “Excuse me,” O’Neill said. “Some day I’m going to take a vacation. Sleep for two months.” He shook himself vigorously and stood up, rubbing his hands briskly through his hair. “Hutt’s in Florida.”

  “I know,” Archer said. “I spoke to the exquisite Miss Walsh.”

  “On a boat. Sailfishing.”

  “How do I get in touch with him?”

  O’Neill shrugged. “Beats me. Put a note in a bottle.”

  “Will he be back this week?”

  “Ask Miss Walsh.”

  “I did.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “He’s exhausted, she said. He’ll be back when he stops being exhausted.”

  “That’s what he told me,” O’Neill said. “He called me two o’clock Thursday morning from Palm Beach. The reins’re in my hands, he said, until further notice.” O’Neill extended his hands and gazed at his palms soberly. He flexed his fingers.

  “Just this week,” Archer said. “The bastard.”

  “President of the concern,” O’Neill said complacently. “One of the biggest men in the business.”

  “The reins are in your hands,” Archer said. “What did he mean by that?”

  “Depends,” O’Neill said. Archer could see that he intended to be cautious. “I don’t imagine I can sign checks for more than ninety thousand dollars or hire Lana Turner for a year or anything like that. In a moderate way, I guess you could say the reins are in my hands.”