Collected Fiction

by Irwin Shaw

  “To satisfy my curiosity, I would like to ask you several other questions. How did you happen to decide to tap my line? While listening secretly to another phone, did you hear my number called or my name mentioned? And whose phone would it be? Frances Motherwell’s, Mrs. Pokorny’s, Hutt’s, O’Neill’s? And how far have you gone in your supervision of my activities? Are you content with the morsels you glean over the wires or do you read my mail and have me followed by the clever young men I see in the movies? If I look behind me suddenly on the street tomorrow, will I see a figure turning into a doorway or ostentatiously inspecting a window thirty paces away? Have you had a skeleton key made for my front door and have you deftly entered and quietly and expertly gone through my papers some week-end, when the house was empty? Have you read my old, unproduced plays, neatly stacked on the shelf over there? What did you make of the play about Napoleon III, with its study of the tragedy of the weak man who believes he is powerful because he is in a powerful position? Did you think it was hopeless or did you think that with a little polishing, as they say in the theatre, it would run for a season? How complete is your surveillance and how deeply have you gone into my past? Do you remember that I belonged to organizations whose names I have forgotten which raised money or medical supplies or pity for the defenders of Madrid? Do you know for certain that I signed a petition to a Southern governor to stay the execution of a Negro boy who was convicted of rape? I remember vaguely that the mimeographed sheet was on my desk a long time ago, but whether I put my name to it or neglected it, I’m not sure. If I write to you or to your superiors in Washington, would you be good enough to send me a resume of my past, succinct, complete and more accurate than my own aging and fading memory can supply me? In the same letter, can you offer for my study the contradictory statements that I have made over the years on so many subjects? Or, to present a character that, in the field of the drama, would be called artistically consistent, do you conscientiously weed out the contradictions, so that the finished product is comprehensible and logical, a character who in Act III can be depended upon to do nothing that could not be predicted in Act I by any intelligent observer? Does your organization, as an agency of the Government, supply this information free of charge, as the Department of Agriculture supplies pamphlets on soil conservation and animal husbandry and as the Department of the Interior supplies charts of channels and sandbanks in inland waters to the owners of pleasure boats? I have seen posters inscribed ‘Know Your Government’ and when I was a schoolboy I sat through what seemed interminable lessons in a course called Civics, which were designed to teach me the mechanics of democratic rule. Legislative, Executive, Judiciary, the system of checks and balances, I still remember. For I’m afraid I’ve been lax about my civics lessons in recent years, for I actually know very little about how your organization operates. I know, of course, from admiring newspaper and magazine articles, about the wonderful file of fingerprints in Washington, and the movies have demonstrated again and again how courageous and ingenious your colleagues are in tracking criminals and bringing them to justice, but in these other matters I must confess ignorance. If, as an interested citizen, I were to write a polite letter to the head of your Bureau, asking for clarification and enlightenment, would I get a civil and informative reply? Or, being suspected of treason and espionage, as I must be to warrant the attention you have already paid me, have I forfeited my rights to information about my Government?

  “Finally, I must ask, one more question. Are you serious? Do you honestly believe that a man can commit treason or perform the duties of a spy for a foreign government without being conscious of it himself? Is there a new philosophy, created for these confused times, which is based on the concept of unconscious crime? Is this interesting and probably defensible theory the foundation of your activities in my case? Or is your vigil at some midpoint between my study-desk and the telephones of my friends and associates the result of that proliferating process of a bureaucracy which blindly and almost biologically enlarges itself by a constant increase in function, however socially useless that increase may be? So, having noted that I was called two or three times on some telephone that you had already tapped, did you conclude that I must be watched and listened to? And, continuing the process, do you find yourself forced to apply clips to the wires of all the people you hear me calling more than once or twice? And, going on from there, do you repeat the process to the instruments of those people who are called by those friends of mine to whom my calls have led you? Where does it stop? What does this gigantic, overheard, secret conversation teach you? What truth have you extracted from this humming torrent of talk? Can you bear it? If you revealed it to us, could we bear it?”

  The lamplight glittered on the telephone. Archer stared at the instrument, feeling almost hypnotized in the quiet, shadowed room by the reflection of light from the dial. He stood up wearily and switched off the lamp. He climbed the stairs slowly, looking at his watch. It was three-fifteen. Jane hadn’t come in yet, but he was too tired at the moment to worry about that.

  Kitty was sleeping soundly, breathing softly. Through the open window, in the distance, came the sound of a siren. An ambulance or a police car wailing on its errand of violence and pain along the dark streets of the city.

  Archer undressed quietly and got into the bed which was separated from that of his wife by a small table on which Kitty had piled a book, her glasses, a sewing basket. The siren sounded far off, anguish dissolving remotely in a sleeping world, as Archer closed his eyes.

  18

  THERE WAS A LULL FOR THE NEXT THREE WEEKS. THE PROGRAM WENT along in much the same manner as it had before, the only noticeable difference coming in the parts that Atlas had usually played, which were now being performed by a white man O’Neill had found who was acceptable but ordinary. O’Neill was as polite and agreeable as possible when Archer submitted the lists of actors he wished to cast each week and apologized gently when he told Archer the next day which ones were not acceptable. There were only one or two of those, and not in important parts, and Archer silently and without protest took the substitutes whom O’Neill offered him. Hutt was never in evidence, and as far as Archer could tell the program neither gained nor lost in popularity because of the shuffling of talent that had taken place. When Archer submitted Alice Weller’s name for the fourth week’s show, O’Neill made no comment on the choice and passed it. Shapiro had turned out to be hopeless in the music department and Levy, the musical director, had asked no questions when Archer had fired Shapiro and hired McCormick, Levy’s earlier choice. Barbante seemed to want to avoid Archer after the night of the play at Jane’s college, but he turned in clever enough scripts and didn’t seem inclined to press Pokorny’s case, for which Archer was grateful.

  For long periods of time, Archer even forgot that his telephone was tapped, and talked quite normally over it. Even when he remembered, he didn’t censor his conversation. Neither Alice nor Pokorny called him during that time, and Archer felt that there was nothing that he might ever say, himself, that could incriminate him in the slightest. From time to time he told himself that he should be angry about the tap and perhaps take steps to have it removed, although just what steps a man could take he couldn’t imagine—but finally, he found himself disregarding it, like a soldier in the army in wartime who ignores the fact that all his letters, even the most intimate ones, are being read by an anonymous lieutenant at base headquarters. The despair that had settled on him on the night of the play seemed to have vanished. The magazine that had threatened to expose the people on the program had not run the article, its editors probably placated by the disappearance of Motherwell, Atlas and Pokorny, plus whatever assurances Hutt must have given them. The alarms and disputations of the preceding month now seemed distant and almost unimportant. The question which was discussed most often at the dinner table was whether to go to Cape Cod or Long Island for the summer.

  Then, one morning, while Archer was still in bed, Pokorny called. Archer
reached over, noticing that Kitty was moving uneasily in her sleep, disturbed by the muted ringing. As he picked up the phone he saw that it was only eight o’clock. For a nickel, he thought angrily, any damn fool can annoy you at any time of the day or night.

  “Hello,” he whispered, trying to defend Kitty’s rest. “Who’s this?”

  “Mr. Archer.” Archer recognized the high, excited voice immediately. “This is Manfred Pokorny. I hope I have not wakened you, but I wanted to be sure to get you before you went out. I, myself, have been up since five-thirty.”

  “Yes, Manfred,” Archer whispered, annoyed at this customary excess of information. “What do you want?”

  “I must see you, Mr. Archer. Right away.” Pokorny’s voice sounded shrill and urgent, but he sounded urgent about everything, even when merely asking the time of day, Archer remembered. “I would like to come over immediately. I am just around the corner. I could be there in five minutes.”

  “Manfred,” Archer complained, “I’m still in bed.”

  “Oh. I am so sorry. A thousand apologies. I have been up since five-thirty and I. … Go back to sleep, Mr. Archer. I will call you later. I didn’t mean to …”

  “That’s all right, Manfred,” Archer said crossly. “It’s time I got up anyway. What do you have to see me about?”

  “I need some money,” Pokorny said shrilly. “I am desperate for funds. Today. I have borrowed from everyone else. You are the last one I can turn to.”

  Archer hesitated before answering. He looked down at the phone, remembering that every word of the conversation was being recorded. Kitty turned over in bed and opened one eye, frowning.

  “Tell him to call later,” Kitty said, pressed into the pillow. “Whoever it is.”

  “Mr. Archer, Mr. Archer …” Pokorny was almost screaming into the phone. “Are you still there, Mr. Archer?”

  “Manfred,” Archer said, “it’s eight o’clock now. Give me time to dress and have breakfast. Come here at nine o’clock.”

  “Oh, God,” Kitty groaned into her pillow.

  “I knew it,” Pokorny said earnestly, “I knew there was one man I could depend on. Good appetite, Mr. Archer.”

  “What?” Archer asked, puzzled.

  “Good appetite. For breakfast,” Pokorny explained. “I will be there on the dot. Promptly.” He hung up.

  Archer put the phone down slowly and looked longingly at his bed. He had been up late the night before reading, and his eyes felt hollow. He stood up, sighing.

  “Go to sleep,” Kitty whispered, out of her doze. “You’ll be dead all day.”

  Archer didn’t answer her. He went into the bathroom and took a cold shower and for a little while he felt wide awake.

  He ate his breakfast quickly. He didn’t want to be at the table when Pokorny came and have to offer the musician any food or drink. He felt bad enough, Archer decided, without having to watch Pokorny eat so early in the morning.

  He was reading the newspaper in his study when the front doorbell rang. The newspaper was no help. Spies were being arrested in Philadelphia and Hungarian officials were disappearing from Budapest, the usual Congressmen were calling the usual Cabinet officers Communists and traitors and the officers were making the usual replies. The jails were slowly filling with college graduates and people you had met at nice parties in the East 60s and 70s.

  “I’ll get it,” Archer called in to Gloria as he stood up and went to the door. The bell was ringing wildly, as though Pokorny felt that he was being pursued and had to get into the house before his pursuers caught up with him.

  Pokorny was wearing his pink raincoat and black velour hat. Behind him the day was cold and gray. It was windy and Pokorny was holding onto his hat as he stood outside the door.

  “Come in, come in,” Archer said. Pokorny took off his hat and trotted in, his face red from the cold, his hair long and uncombed, his eyes, behind the little glasses, nervous and searching. He was carrying his brief case, and as usual it was bulging.

  “Thank you, Mr. Archer,” Pokorny said. “It is so good of you to …” He blew on his hand. “The warmth is welcome,” he said. “It’s going to snow.”

  Archer glanced out into the street. All the houses were shut tight under the weight of winter. An old man was walking slowly on the opposite side, blending into the dead colors of the old houses. Archer shivered a little and closed the door.

  “Let me have your coat,” he said.

  “I don’t wish to absorb your time,” Pokorny said anxiously. “You are, of course, very busy, and what I have to say will only take a minute.”

  “Give me your coat, Manfred,” Archer said irritably. “We can’t stand here in the hall.” He went behind Pokorny to help him. Pokorny put his hat and brief case down carefully and wriggled fatly out of the trenchcoat. He took the brief case with him when Archer led the way into the study. Pokorny stood in the middle of the room uncomfortably, looking out of place, like a man who knows he is not welcome in most of the rooms he enters.

  “Sit down,” Archer said, indicating a chair.

  “After you,” Pokorny said, bowing insanely.

  Archer repressed a sigh and sat down behind the desk. Pokorny seated himself on the edge of a stiff wooden chair, keeping his knees together primly, his pudgy hands holding onto the scuffed brief case on his lap.

  “This nice room,” Pokorny said, looking around him and nodding his head swiftly. “So warm, such evidence of culture … I always enjoy coming into this room.”

  “Manfred,” Archer said firmly, to lead Pokorny away from his role of the effusive guest, “what were you talking about on the phone?”

  “Yes. Of course. Once more I must apologize for the hour. I trust I didn’t awaken Mrs. Archer …”

  “That’s all right,” Archer said, trying to keep the note of impatience from his voice. “Don’t worry about it. Now, let’s have it …”

  “First of all, Mr. Archer,” Pokorny leaned forward, his short legs curving under him so that only his toes touched the floor, “I would like you to understand that it is not a loan. It is an investment. It might be a very good investment, you might look back on this morning and say, ‘Thank you, Manfred Pokorny for giving me this excellent commercial opportunity.’ ”

  “What are you talking about?” Archer asked.

  “It is true I need some money. I need two hundred dollars. This morning,” Pokorny’s voice began to rush and go into the upper registers again. “But not as a gift. No. Not as a loan. No. Value given for value received. You are my friend and I do not wish you to say in the future Manfred Pokorny is a man who imposes on friendship. I wish it to be strictly business, an up and up transaction.”

  “What do you need two hundred dollars for this morning?”

  “The lawyers.” Pokorny rocked on the edge of his chair and looked mournfully up at the ceiling. “Lawyers are a bottomless pit. Every paper they prepare is another fortune. Of course,” he said hastily, placating all lawyers, “I know they have their expenses, the offices, the clerks, the research, the education, the cost of living. I do not begrudge it to them. But they have swept me clean.”

  “What’re you paying lawyers for?” Archer demanded.

  “My action,” Pokorny said. “My investigation. The Immigration. Tomorrow morning at ten, I have to go there. The Government wishes to deport me. There are appeals to be filed, briefs, depositions from witnesses, character statements. There is a man in Chicago who knew me in the old days in Vienna and my lawyer says it would be useful if he could fly there today and get an affidavit from him. He knew me well, he knew I dropped out of the Communist Party in two months. He used to play the oboe, but he gave up the art. He is in the insurance business now, very respected. You and I together should have his bank account. My lawyer says his word will carry a lot of weight. For two hundred dollars, maybe, Mr. Archer …” Pokorny’s eyes blinked nervously behind the thick glasses and his chubby hands pulled at the lock of the brief case on his knees. “For two hu
ndred dollars it is a good chance I stay in America …”

  Pokorny sat up stiffly, facing exile at a cut-price. “I know,” he said, “two hundred dollars is a great deal of money. A man has to work hard these days for two hundred dollars. And I know you are a man with responsibilities, a family man, with a beautiful home to support. You can’t be expected to give two hundred dollars to every fellow who comes into the house. It would be unreasonable to suppose that …”

  Two hundred dollars to him, Archer thought. Three hundred to Burke. One hundred, as of this date, to Alice Weller. The anti-Communist purge of non-Communists in the radio industry is going to break me finally.

  “So,” Pokorny was saying, “I wish to put it on a fair business basis. An investment basis. Not to take advantage. I have a certain property and in return for the two hundred dollars, I give you a share in it. A large share. Whatever you think is right, Mr. Archer …” Pokorny was pleading now and the sweat was rolling down his cheeks into the collar of his dark-blue shirt.

  “What is the property you’re talking about, Manfred?” Archer asked gravely.

  Pokorny took out a key ring and fumbled with a small key. He put it into the lock of his brief case and wrestled clumsily to open it. “It is not the usual thing, of course,” he said, his head bent over the lock. “Naturally, I do not own large apartment houses or shares in an automobile company.” He laughed nervously at this and Archer tried to smile in reply. “I am a composer and my property is music.” Finally he got the brief case open. He reached in and brought out a sheaf of music paper and some typewritten sheets. “Here …” He waved the papers anxiously at Archer. “It is not quite finished, but you know how fast I can work when my mind is clear, when I am not troubled. In four weeks, two months, I guarantee it will be done, and Mr. Barbante has promised me he will be ready, too …”