The Troubled Air

by Irwin Shaw

  “Can’t go to funerals,” Barbante muttered, walking unsteadily toward O’Neill’s desk. “Can’t go to the St. Regis. Can’t go to the potty, because Lloyd Hutt says no.”

  “Barbante,” Hutt said sharply, “since you’ve decided you no longer wish to work for us, I think you can be excused from this conference.”

  Barbante stared at him drunkenly, thick-eyed. “The man in the Bronzini tie,” he said. Then he came over to Archer. “Clem,” he said, “a woman I never met coined a phrase. Name of La Pasionaria. Spanish lady. Red as the Russian flag, I wouldn’t be surprised. During that little old war you tried to win with your signature in Ohio, Clem. Eloquent old bag. Made a speech. Know what she said?” He peered owlishly at Archer, who was standing now, near the door. “I’ll tell you what she said—‘You can die on your feet,’ the lady said, ‘or you can live on your knees.’ Wartime choice. Oratory. Heard round the world. OK, while it lasted, Clem. Old-fashioned. Romantic. Other times, other choices. Not up to date. Shows signs of wear and tear, obso—” He stumbled on the word. “Obsolescence. Needs modernizing and I’m the boy to do it. With special permission of the copyright owner. Got it all brushed up for Mr. Hutt and 1950. Still preserve original form, original concision. Still preserve important element of choice. Here it is, the latest model—” He peered around him triumphantly. “You can die on your feet,” he said loudly, thinking hard, “or you can die on your knees. Hear me, Clem?” He touched Archer’s shoulder, briefly. “OK, OK.” he said pettishly, “I’m going.”

  He went out, walking carefully.

  There was silence in the room for a moment and then Hutt said, “Well, I’m glad we got rid of him.” Then, more softly, to Archer, “Well, I don’t think there’s anything more we have to discuss at the moment, Archer. I won’t keep you any longer. I’ll see you up here this afternoon at three. We’re using the Board of Directors’ room because we expect a lot of people.”

  “No,” Archer said, and he listened carefully to the words that were coming out of his mouth, as though they were surprising him, too. “No, you won’t see me up here this afternoon.”

  “What’s that?” Hutt asked.

  Archer saw O’Neill slowly lower his head and look down at the desk in front of him.

  “I won’t be here this afternoon,” Archer said evenly. “I’m not coming to your party. I’m busy. I have to prepare the speech I’m going to make at the St. Regis.” He picked up his hat and coat, throwing his coat over his arm. He felt very calm.

  “Archer …” Hutt began. Then he stopped. His shoulders drooped and his mouth twitched and he looked older and more human than he had five minutes before and for a moment Archer was sure there was something baffled and frightened and pleading in the well-kept, controlled, handsome face. Then Archer went out.

  “O’Neill,” he heard Hutt’s voice saying wearily, as he went into the outer office, “if you’ll be so good as to close the door, there are one or two things we have to talk about …”

  Archer went downstairs and called the number Burke had given him and told him he would be at the St. Regis early.

  22

  HE WANTED TO BE ALONE FOR AWHILE, SO HE WALKED ALL THE WAY downtown, even though the weather was threatening and it was cold and it looked like snow. He tried to think of what he wanted to say at the meeting that night, but all he could think of were sentences that began, “It is guaranteed in the First Amendment,” and “As the Bill of Rights puts it,” and “In the words of Voltaire …”

  Archer walked down Fifth Avenue, past the department stores, with their windows full of dresses, coats and furs, and the women rushing in and out of the doors, their faces lit with the light of purchase. It is the new profession for the female sex, he thought—buying. If you wanted to set up an exhibit to show modern American women in their natural habitat, engaged in their most characteristic function, he thought, like the tableaux in the Museum of Natural History in which stuffed bears are shown against a background of caves, opening up honeycombs, you would have to set up a stuffed woman, slender, high-heeled, rouged, waved, hot-eyed, buying a cocktail dress in a department store. In the background, behind the salesgirls and the racks and shelves, there would be bombs bursting, cities crumbling, scientists measuring the half-life of tritium and radioactive cobalt. The garment would be democratically medium-priced and the salesgirl would be just as pretty as the customer and, to the naked eye at least, just as well dressed, to show that the benefits of a free society extended from one end of the economic spectrum to the others. Eat, drink and acquire, because tomorrow the city may no longer be here or the price of rayon may go up.

  He moved into the zone of Oriental rugs and Chinese objets d’art. The men who went in and out of the stores seemed dispirited and beaten, as though they were trying, without success, to hide from themselves the fact that no one bought Oriental rugs any more and that the Chinese had long ago given up making vases, ivory fans and plump, glazed horses in favor of the more interesting business of destroying one another.

  The men and women who hurried past him on the avenue looked sullen and cold, as though they thought the bitter weather was a personal attack against them, unjustly delivered by a malicious and powerful enemy: Today, Archer thought, regarding the city, everyone looks as though he would rather be somewhere else.

  Washington Square was better because there were children there. They slept in carriages and they chased puppies on the dead grass and they played ball against the monument, unaware that the weather was bitter or that they would soon become adults who would feel the cold and be doomed to stand in shops and try to sell things that no one wanted any more. Washington Square was one of Archer’s favorite walks, but on one side workmen were tearing down a handsome old building, and it stood in jagged ruins, as though it had been prematurely bombed. And on the other side, New York University had spilled over into the beautiful row of mansions, and when you walked past you saw fluorescent lighting and people typing at crowded desks in lovely, high-ceilinged rooms where ladies and gentlemen should have been balancing teacups and speaking in deliberate sentences. Grace, Archer thought, is being superseded by ruins and institutions. Private sweetness is giving way to public need, or at least to what the public thought it needed.

  In five years’ time, Archer thought, the only people who will have the heart to walk in Washington Square will be law students and accountants.

  He decided to go home and try to write the speech he had to deliver that night. Maybe, he thought, putting it on paper would make it easier. As he walked toward his house he hoped that Kitty was out. It would be good to have the house all to himself with no questions to be answered, no disturbing domestic noises except the distant humming of Gloria in the kitchen.

  But when he opened the door, Archer heard voices from his study. As he put away his hat and coat he listened. Nancy and Kitty. He was surprised. Nancy seldom came down during the day and Kitty hadn’t said anything about expecting her. He toyed with the idea of stealing upstairs quietly and working in the bedroom, but the phone began to ring in the hall and as he picked it up, he saw Kitty coming out of the study to answer it. He waved to her and she stopped, waiting to see if the call was for her. “Hello,” Archer said into the phone.

  “I want to speak to Clement Archer.” It was a man’s voice, rough and harsh.

  “Speaking.”

  “You God-damn, Jew-loving, Red sonofabitch,” the man said evenly. “Why don’t you leave the country before we carry you out?”

  Archer hung up. He looked reflectively at the instrument, then smiled at Kitty.

  “Who was that?” Kitty asked.

  “Wrong number,” Archer said. He put his arm around Kitty and tried to get her to walk with him toward the study. But Kitty didn’t move.

  “Was it another one of those calls?” Kitty asked.

  “Which calls, darling?”

  “There’ve been nearly a dozen of them this morning,” Kitty said. She talked swiftly, but Archer c
ould see she was making an effort to be calm. “Men and women. Cursing you and me, too. Threats.”

  I mustn’t be angry, Archer thought. That’s what they want.

  “Yes,” he said gently. “I’m afraid it was.”

  “Don’t you think we ought to do something about it, Clement?” Archer realized Kitty was frightened. “Call the police?”

  Archer grinned. “What would you suggest they do—arrest everyone who has a nickel in his possession? Don’t worry, Kitty …” He propelled her gently toward the study. “Nobody’s been killed yet by telephone. It’s probably just a couple of cranks with nothing to do and some loose change in their pockets,”

  “It’s scary,” Kitty said. “Right in your own home. That’s why I called Nancy and asked her to come down. She says they’ve been calling Vic, too.”

  “I must ring my broker,” Archer said, determined not to take it seriously, “and tell him to buy a hundred shares of telephone stock for me this afternoon. Hi, Nancy,” he said, as he and Kitty went into the study. He kissed Nancy. She was standing against the desk. She had on a trim black suit over a white lace blouse. She was wearing a nice perfume, too. Archer sniffed deeply. “My,” he said, “you smell delicious.”

  They all sat down, Kitty on the couch beside him, holding his hand.

  “How’re things uptown this bright morning?” Archer asked.

  “Confused,” said Nancy. “The kids’re staying home from school today and our nurse left and …”

  “What’s the matter?” Archer asked. “They sick?”

  “No.” Nancy shook her head. She was wearing a little hat with a veil that was modeled on a bullfighter’s hat and she looked as though she ought to be going to an elegant restaurant for lunch. “Our calls started to come in early. Five-thirty. Then every fifteen minutes from then on. I told Vic to have the company disconnect the phone, but he says he likes to hear what his public has to say. He just stands there and chuckles and calls them the most horrible names back over the phone.”

  “That’s an idea,” Archer said. “The technique of counter-terror. Tell them they don’t fool us, they’re Jew-lovers, too.”

  “People’re insane,” Nancy said. “Just because you went to that funeral yesterday. And Vic didn’t even go.”

  “It wasn’t just because of the funeral, baby,” Archer said quietly. “And people aren’t insane. They’re just horrible.”

  “That awful magazine,” Nancy said, sighing. “Did you see the last issue?”

  Archer shook his head. “I made a decision this week. No reading matter that has been written later than the eighteenth century.”

  “I saw it,” Kitty said. “Those people ought to be put in jail.”

  Archer grinned and patted her hand. Nice, simple Kitty, who still thought she lived in a world in which you could call the police.

  “Somebody sent a copy to Miss Tully, our nurse,” Nancy said, “and she came in and told me she was going to quit. She wouldn’t even stay overnight. She’s been with us five years and she wept when she said good-bye to the boys, but she said she couldn’t stay in the house of a man who was an enemy of the Church. She’s very devout. The kids howled bloody murder and she must have used five handkerchiefs mopping her own tears, but she wouldn’t even take two weeks’ pay as a bonus from Vic. She said it was dirty money. Happy days in the nursery,” Nancy said grimly. “After I leave here I have an appointment at an agency to interview some more nurses. That aren’t so politically sensitive, I hope. Anyway, we decided to keep the kids home from school today. I was afraid somebody might annoy them on the way. Vic says there’s nothing to worry about and he was all for sending them along as though nothing was happening, but I feel better with them in the house. I must confess I don’t take those calls as calmly as Vic does. Those people sound …” She hesitated. “Demented.”

  “I’m sure there’s something that could be done,” Kitty said firmly. “Even if you had to go to the Mayor. It can’t be legal to call up a perfect stranger in his own house and call him the foulest words anyone could imagine. You have no idea, Clement …” She turned to Archer, her lips trembling, “Some of the things they’ve called me over the phone this morning when I told them I was Mrs. Archer.”

  “You stay away from the phone from now on, baby,” Archer said. “I’ll answer it or get Gloria.” He grinned. “I’ll tell Gloria she’s free to say anything that comes into her head. They’ll think twice before calling again.”

  “I think we all ought to go away some place,” Kitty said. “To the country. Away from phones. Away from these horrible people. Clement …” She appealed to him, holding his hand, “Can’t we get into Vic’s car tomorrow and go out to Connecticut and find a little hotel or even a house? It’s out of season and I’m sure you could get one for almost nothing for a month or two.”

  “There’s a little question of work, darling,” Archer said lightly. He felt guilty and cowardly because the idea attracted him so much.

  “You could come in on Thursdays,” Kitty said. “Or even two or three days a week. And the rest of the time you could rest and forget about this. You look terribly tired, Clement, and you’re sleeping so badly. I hear you moving around and groaning in your sleep all night long.”

  “Vic’ll be able to spend a nice, long spell in the country,” Nancy said grimly. “They dropped him yesterday from Griffith Theatre.” Griffith Theatre was the other program that Vic did regularly. “And he hasn’t been offered a new job in three weeks.”

  “We’ll see,” Archer said. “Maybe it’ll all blow over by tomorrow.”

  Gloria came into the room. “Mis’ Archer,” she said, “the laundry-man is here in the kitchen. He says he ain’t responsible for putting those holes in the curtains. He wants to talk to you.”

  Kitty stood up, moving slowly. “All right,” she said. “I’ll talk to him.”

  Nancy and Archer watched Kitty walk heavily and ungracefully after Gloria. Archer rubbed the top of his head thoughtfully.

  Nancy lit a cigarette, pushing up her veil to smoke it. “Sorry you came to the Big City, Professor?” she asked. “Do you find yourself longing for the simple, uncomplicated academic life?”

  Archer smiled wearily. “I understand,” he said, “that many colleges are now equipped with telephones, too.”

  “Are you going to the meeting at the St. Regis tonight?” Nancy was flipping the pages of a magazine, not looking at Archer.

  “I believe I am,” Archer said slowly.

  “You going to make a speech?”

  Archer nodded. “By popular demand.”

  “What’re you going to say?”

  Archer shrugged. “Who knows? The usual platitudes, I suppose. The same thing that everybody else’ll say. Freedom of opinion, no censorship by accusation or by pressure groups. The same boring guff. What can you say? I suppose the important thing isn’t that you say anything particular but that you’re there.” He went over to the desk and filled a pipe. Nancy stood up, dropping the magazine. She pulled her skirt into place with deft, womanly little movements of her hands. Archer regarded her with pleasure. She looked pretty this afternoon, not worn and hungry as she had looked on the night of Jane’s play.

  “That’s quite a hat, Nancy,” Archer said, smiling.

  “Clement,” Nancy said absently, ignoring the compliment, “do you think it’ll do any good?”

  “What?”

  “The meeting.”

  Archer shrugged and lit his pipe. “Who knows? Who knows if anything will do any good? Maybe the only thing that would do any good would be if a hole opened up and Russia fell into it. Still, you’ve got to do something.”

  “Isn’t it possible, that it’ll do a lot of harm?” Nancy asked quietly, staring at Archer. “The meeting, I mean. Won’t the people who make speeches be attacked more bitterly than ever?”

  Archer puffed on his pipe. “Probably,” he said. “It sounds likely.”

  “Mightn’t it be wiser,” Nancy asked
, “just to keep quiet? Lie low for awhile. Not give them any more targets to shoot at.”

  Archer looked sharply at Nancy. “I don’t know,” he said, wondering what Nancy was aiming at, whether she was speaking for herself or whether she and Vic had decided on this together. “I’m a new boy in this league. I’m just an amateur victim. I haven’t got the fine points of martyrdom under control yet.”

  Nancy took a step toward him. “Don’t be angry with me, Clement,” she pleaded.

  Archer smiled. “I haven’t been angry with you one minute,” he said, “since the day you slipped Vic’s flask out from under the blanket in 1935. I wouldn’t know how to be angry with you if I wanted to.”

  Nancy smiled too, but it was nervous and hurried and polite. “They wouldn’t be after you at all,” she said, “if you hadn’t tried to help Vic.”

  Now, Archer thought, I have to be very careful. “I tried to help a lot of people, Nancy,” he said softly, remembering Weller and. Motherwell and Atlas and Pokorny. “With varying success. Some of the recipients of my charity,” he said harshly, “are already six feet underground and others may be observed at this very moment hurrying with old wedding rings to the nearest pawnshops.”

  “But you went all out for Vic,” Nancy said stubbornly, almost as if she were accusing him. “You risked your job for him. You were going to quit if they fired Vic, weren’t you?”

  “I don’t know, Nancy, darling,” Archer said wearily, leaning back against the desk. “It was so long ago, when I was a brave and ignorant young man.”

  “I know,” Nancy said. “I know all about it.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t for Vic,” Archer said. “Maybe it was for what they call in literary saloons a principle. A medium-sized, old-fashioned principle.”

  Nancy came close to him. He could smell her perfume, fresh and not cloying, and see the small lines around her eyes. Her eyes were blue-gray, still very clear and almost childishly bright and wide-open. “Clement,” Nancy said softly, “I wanted to tell you how grateful I am.”