The Troubled Air

by Irwin Shaw

  “What about Pokorny?” Archer asked carefully, trying to figure out instantaneously how much to tell Barbante.

  “He called me today,” Barbante said, “and I went down to see him. He’s sick in bed.”

  “What’s the matter with him?” Archer said, stalling for time.

  “Cold, grippe, general dissatisfaction with life,” Barbante said. “Viennese weltschmerz.”

  “I’ll call him tomorrow,” said Archer, “and see how he’s doing.”

  “He’s really in bad shape,” Barbante said. “Not only from the cold.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “He told me you fired him,” Barbante said. “Is that true?”

  “Not exactly,” Archer said. He filled a pipe and took a long time lighting it, conscious of Barbante’s eyes on him, critical through the thick lashes. “We’re trying someone else. Temporarily.”

  “Who?”

  “We haven’t decided yet,” Archer said.

  “Amigo,” Barbante said, pretending to be hurt, “you are going into the old agency double talk. I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

  I wish he’d stop calling everybody amigo, Archer thought, resenting the short, richly dressed, self-confident man with his gold appointments and his familiar manners. We all know he comes from California and his family is of old Spanish stock; he doesn’t have to remind us in every sentence,

  “Actually, Dom,” Archer said, keeping his voice friendly, “Pokorny is a big grown man. He can take care of his own problems.”

  “Actually, amigo,” Barbante mimicked Archer’s tone, “Pokorny is not a big grown man. He’s a naked, unhappy child and he’s been through a lot and he has a tendency to fall to pieces over his problems, as you call them.”

  “Still,” Archer said stubbornly, angry with Barbante because everything Barbante had said was true, “I don’t see where you come into the picture.”

  “Well,” Barbante drawled, getting up and pouring himself some more of Archer’s whiskey, “for one thing, I’m his friend, if he can be said to have any friends. For another thing …” Judiciously he dropped a cube of ice into the glass and poured a few drops of water on top of it “…it’s to my advantage to see that the show does as well as it can.” He smiled agreeably at Archer. “From a purely crass, materialistic basis, you understand. When the rating goes up, I buy my hardware at Carrier’s. When the rating goes down …” He shrugged and seated himself, once more, crossing his legs deliberately, exposing a gold buckle on his garter. “I might have to start handling cattle again.”

  “Don’t give me that, Cowboy,” Archer said shortly. “You’re one of the top writers in the business and you’ll do all right, no matter what.”

  Barbante chuckled. “Don’t sound so gloomy about it,” he said. “You don’t begrudge me my sordid little success, do you?”

  “Of course not,” Archer said hastily. He looked at Barbante. The expression on Barbante’s face was cold and amused. He would gladly do me harm, Archer thought, if he had a little more ambition.

  “I have a more personal interest, too,” Barbante said, veiling his eyes. Fleetingly, Archer wondered, if Barbante, too, was mixed up in Pokorny’s politics. Oh, no, he thought. I mustn’t start that. “Pokorny and I,” Barbante said, “are collaborators.”

  “I know you are,” Archer said. “After all, I got you together.”

  “I don’t mean only on University Town. We’re writing a musical comedy together. In the spare time we steal from the air waves.”

  “I’d like to hear it when you get through with it,” Archer said politely. “I’m sure it will be very good.”

  “Maybe.” Barbante smiled deprecatingly. He took a long drink. “It’s about the West.” His smile continued into a chuckle. “You’d be surprised how Western your friend Pokorny can be. The spirit of Texas, New Mexico and Nevada in every bar. And he’s never been past Buffalo.”

  “He’s a very talented man,” Archer said.

  “He certainly is,” said Barbante. “That’s why I’m curious about his losing his jobs.”

  “What do you mean jobs?” Archer asked, noting the plural.

  “He had one other job. With Crowell and Hines. He lost that this morning, too. Temporarily.” Barbante put a mocking emphasis on the last word. “They suddenly felt the need for changes in their program, too. Isn’t the world full of coincidences this year?”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Archer said, sorry for Pokorny. “Why don’t you ask Crowell and Hines?”

  “I intend to,” Barbante said. “But I thought I’d ask you first. Since we’re such old friends and since we’ve worked together so happily for so many years.” His voice was flat and artless and he stared candidly at Archer as he spoke. “You’re not particularly fond of me …” Barbante said surprisingly.

  “Now, Dom,” Archer began to protest.

  “You’re not particularly fond of me”—Barbante waved his hand to silence Archer—“and I know it, but I’ve never gotten anything but a square shake from you. And I’ve never heard that you’ve double-dealt anyone else, either. You’re a bloody monument in the radio business, Archer. You have to be seen to be believed.”

  “Thanks,” Archer said. “I’ll put it in my scrapbook.” But he felt uncomfortable and tongue-tied.

  “I want a square shake now, Clem,” Barbante said soberly, “for Pokorny. He’s on the verge of breaking up. He’s defenseless and he feels persecuted. What the hell, he is persecuted. God persecuted him in the beginning when He made him look like that and made him a Jew in Vienna in the twentieth century.”

  “Now, don’t bring that up, Dom,” Archer said, grateful that at least on this charge he could feel righteous. “You know that has nothing to do with his being dropped for awhile.”

  “I don’t know anything.” Barbante drank again. “And Pokorny doesn’t know anything. And he fears the worst. Pokorny is a man who automatically fears the worst all the time, because up to now, the worst has almost always happened to him. At least if he finds out that he’s been rejected now for one specific sensible reason, he can localize his depression.” Barbante smiled a little at his own phrase. “He won’t feel that it’s a general, nameless attack on him from all points of the compass. Do you understand what I’m talking about?”

  “I understand,” Archer said.

  “Now,” Barbante said, “are you going to tell me that Pokorny is being dropped, ‘temporarily,’ just because you think some vague changes ought to be made in the program?”

  “Yes,” Archer said, after a little pause, “that’s what I’m going to tell you.”

  Barbante finished his drink. He stood up and went over to the bar and put the glass down. It made a little damp click on the chromium surface. “You’re not leveling with me, Clement,” Barbante said gently. “For the first time. I regret it.”

  He turned and faced Archer silently. He looked serious and intelligent and friendly and there was a sense of reserved emotion in his dark face. For the first time, Archer got an inkling of what it was in Barbante that made him so attractive to women.

  “I’m sorry, Dom,” Archer said quietly. He stood up and made a task of knocking his pipe out. “In a few days,” he said, knowing as he said it that it was unwise to promise anything, “in a few days maybe I’ll be able to tell you more.”

  “I’ll be around,” Barbante said more lightly. “With questions. Never fear.”

  “Here I am.” It was Jane, at the door. “Wasn’t I fast?” She came into the room, presenting herself a little uncertainly in her grownup black dress for Barbante’s approval.

  Barbante looked at her gravely. “You look very tasty,” he said.

  Archer glanced sharply at the writer. That’s a stupid thing to say to an eighteen-year-old girl, he thought, in front of her father. But Jane was smiling widely, delighted with what she obviously took as a compliment. The dress was cut low, Archer noticed, and showed quite a bit of bosom. Jane was qui
te full in front and for the first time Archer realized that it was not just the healthy robustness of a child that was being displayed there. Who the hell picks her dresses, he thought. I have to have a conversation with her mother on that subject.

  “Do you like the dress, Daddy?” Jane asked, coquetting. Disagreeably, Archer thought. “It’s new.”

  “It’s all right,” Archer said.

  “Aren’t you glum!” Jane said, pouting.

  “It’s beautiful,” Barbante said. “You look as gay as a florist’s window. Never listen to fathers about things like that. Fathers don’t know anything.”

  “It’s very pretty,” Archer conceded, feeling that he had to compete with Barbante for his daughter’s good will and hating Barbante momentarily for it. Jane did look very pretty. She had swept up her hair and put on a lot of lipstick and her eyes were glistening, very blue and, deep, at the prospect of the evening. The dress made her look slender and graceful. She had borrowed two of Kitty’s rings and her hands glittered when she moved them. She might have been anything from eighteen to thirty, Archer decided, examining her. Girls these days, he thought resentfully, are impossible to classify. They all look as though they might be any age, of any virtue or experience. What has happened to the ideal of the virgin? Every child looks knowing, wicked, and cynically gay. If he saw her walking on the street beside Barbante, and didn’t know her, he wouldn’t have any notion whether she was the man’s wife, his mistress, the wife of a friend committed slyly to adultery … He looked down at Jane’s feet and saw that she was wearing low-heeled shoes. Usually, when she went out, she wore the highest heels she could manage. But Barbante was small and Archer knew Jane was surrendering, that much, in advance. Even so, Archer noticed with sour satisfaction, she’s taller than he is, even in low heels. But he was annoyed that his daughter had decided to alter herself in this tiny but significant way for Barbante’s pleasure.

  “Make sure,” he said, kissing her on the forehead, smelling her perfume, “not to come home too late.”

  Barbante chuckled. “The cry of the parent,” he said, “is heard in the land.”

  But Archer saw Jane’s mouth stiffen in resentment, although she said, obediently, “Yes, Dad.” She pulled away and started toward the door. “Will you help me on with my coat, please, Mr. Barbante?” she said.

  Barbante looked at both of them, knowing what was happening, silently amused. “Good night, amigo,” he said.

  “Good night,” Archer said. They didn’t shake hands. In a moment, Archer heard the door open and shut. He stood in the pleasant, rumpled little room, smelling the mixture of perfumes. Then he went to the window and opened it wide.

  The night air came in with a cold rush. Across the gardens he could see people sitting down to dinner at a table that was lit by candles. In the next garden a collie dog sat on its haunches, muzzle pointed to the sky, howling deep in its throat at an airplane that was crossing high above the city, its lights winking against the stars.

  Archer shook his head and slowly mounted the steps to his wife’s room.

  Kitty was sitting up in bed, wearing a pale yellow bedjacket with ruffles around the throat. She was reading a fashion magazine and she had her shell glasses on.

  “You look impossibly secretarial tonight,” Archer said.

  “I’m examining all the fashions,” Kitty said, waving the magazines, “and plotting to spend a great deal of your money once I get out of bed.”

  “That reminds me,” Archer said, seating himself on the chair near the bed. “Who bought that gown for Jane?”

  “It wasn’t expensive,” Kitty said hastily, “it only cost …”

  “I’m not complaining about the cost.”

  “Don’t you think it’s pretty?” Kitty asked.

  “It’s pretty all right,” Archer said. “Only I thinks it’s too … too …” He searched around for the word. “Too advanced.” It sounded lame, but it was the only word he could think of.

  Kitty giggled.

  “Don’t laugh,” Archer said, annoyed that Kitty was taking his opinion so lightly. “She’s just a child, and it’s ridiculous for her to go traipsing around looking like one of Louis the Fourteenth’s favorites …”

  “You think it’s cut a little low?” Kitty asked doubtfully.

  “I think it’s cut a damn sight too low.”

  Kitty chuckled again. “She’s very nicely built,” she said complacently. “Isn’t she?”

  “All right,” Archer said, exasperatedly. “I’m stuffy. She told me that, too.”

  “Girls have to make themselves look nice,” Kitty said mildly. “You ought to be thankful she’s so pretty.”

  “I’m thankful,” said Archer. “I’m delighted. It’s working out fine. It’s working so well she’s out tonight with one of the most notorious men in New York.”

  “Notorious!” Kitty pretended to be shocked. “Heavens!”

  “Now, Kitty,” Archer shouted, “will you please stop being so damned tolerant for a minute or two?”

  “I haven’t heard a man called notorious,” Kitty said, “since our preacher ran off with the telegraph operator’s wife, and that was in—”

  “You know what you are?” Archer asked, resigned to the fact that he had already lost this battle.

  “What?”

  “Slippery. I have what your daughter would call an utterly slippery wife.”

  “Don’t take it so hard, darling,” Kitty said. She leaned over and patted his hand comfortably. “I think Mr. Barbante is very nice.”

  “He is the most thorough woman chaser in the city,” Archer said gloomily. “He’s at least thirty and has the morals of a Turk.”

  “I’m sure Jane will behave very well,” Kitty said primly. “I’m not at all worried about her.”

  Archer knew that this was meant as a rebuke for his lack of faith. “Neither am I,” he said quickly. “Not really.”

  “It’s all good experience for a girl,” Kitty said. “Let them see the whole line early so they won’t be surprised later in life.”

  “If I weren’t so tired,” Archer said, “I would be shocked.”

  “Why don’t you try to take a cold shower before dinner?” Kitty asked, instantly solicitous.

  “I don’t want a shower. Also—she put on a whole batch of disgusting airs with him and she wore low-heeled shoes because he’s a midget.”

  Kitty smiled. “Girls have to grow up sometime,” she said. “You’ve got to try on an air or two when you’re eighteen years old to see what the effect is. And I always wore low shoes myself when I went out with a short man. Don’t be so stern.”

  “Anyway,” Archer said, with grim satisfaction, “I told her to come home early. From now on, I’m going to take over Jane’s instruction, and I hope that that one”—he pointed to Kitty’s stomach—“is a boy.”

  “My,” Kitty said, wrinkling her nose, “you must have had a bad day. Did you have a fight with O’Neill?”

  “No,” Archer said. For a moment, he thought of telling Kitty the whole story. It would be a relief to unburden himself, get someone else’s advice, share the painful interior monologue of the last twenty-four hours. He regarded her thoughtfully. She looked fragile, childish and helpless in the pillowed bed. Then he decided against it. Not now. Not yet. Not until it couldn’t be avoided. He would leave Kitty’s protection intact as long as he possibly could. “No,” he said, “I didn’t have any trouble with O’Neill. Just the regular routine,” he said carelessly. “I spoke to Nancy on the phone. Clement has the measles. I told him I’d come up soon and tell him a story.”

  Kitty looked at him strangely. “You don’t plan to go into the room, do you?”

  “Of course I plan to go into the room. You can’t tell a four-year-old child a story by coaxial cable, can you?”

  “Oh, Clement …” Kitty looked at him reproachfully. “Measles’re so catching.”

  “I had the measles,” Archer said, “when I was five years old. And I’ve
known young Clement since before he was born and I’m his godfather. What do you expect me to do—stand at the doorway and make him feel like a leper?”

  “Now you’re angry at me,” Kitty said. Her voice began to tremble. She had developed an unhappy tendency toward tears in the last few months. “You think I’m unfeeling toward the child.”

  “I despise the idea of being frightened of sickrooms,” Archer said. “It’s so cowardly and. …”

  “You despise me,” Kitty began to sob.

  Archer put his arm around her to comfort her. Her shoulders felt frail and young under the frilly bedjacket. “Now, darling,” he kissed her neck, “I don’t despise you at all. You know that.”

  “It’s not for me,” Kitty said. “Or even for you. But even if we don’t get it ourselves, we can carry the infection and then when the child is born. …”

  “I know, I know,” Archer said. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll be enormously rugged. I guarantee.”

  “I feel so queer these days,” Kitty said wetly into his shoulder. “You have to forgive me.”

  “Of course I forgive you.”

  “It’s not like when we were young. I knew nothing bad could happen then. …”

  “Nothing bad is going to happen now. And we’re not so old,” Archer said. “Stop making us sound as though we’re both ready to fall apart.”

  “I don’t have any confidence any more,” Kitty whispered. “I have such terrible dreams. …”

  “Don’t cry. Kitty, darling, please don’t cry,” Archer whispered, holding her. “And from now on, whenever you have a bad dream, wake me up and we’ll put on the light, and you can tell me about it if you think that’ll help, or we’ll just sit up and read. …”

  Kitty stifled her sobs and rubbed her face against his coat. She kissed him. “I’m all right now,” she said. She smiled wanly. “Is it dreadful, weeping like this? I’m ashamed of myself.”

  Archer stood up. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “You cry all you want for the next four months.”

  “The perfect husband.” Kitty even managed a chuckle.

  The phone rang on the bedside table and Archer leaned over a picked it up. “Hello,” he said.