Dark Palace

by Frank Moorhouse

  She waited until he had read it.

  He folded the directive and replaced it in its envelope.

  He did not hand it back to her.

  That was important.

  He put it on his desk.

  It was delivered, read, and received.

  She held out the flag to him.

  The ultimate submission.

  Crossing Niagara. If he took it, he was done.

  She held his gaze. Her trembling had stopped.

  He looked at the flag in her hand, hesitated, and then took it.

  Snap.

  Time for reconciliation. ‘Thank you, Arthur. I take full responsibility.’

  ‘You?’ His poise had crumbled before her very eyes and the crumbling was there in the limp tone of his voice.

  She was about to repeat the wording of the directive about ‘acting in the name of Auguste Bartou’, but she held it back. She was a thousand miles from Geneva.

  She was Johnny on the Spot.

  ‘Do it, Arthur.’ She said it in a voice the like of which she had never heard from her mouth. It was not harsh but it was inflexible. It was soft as well, maybe the voice of a strong mother. Or an elder sister.

  He stared at her, flag in hand.

  ‘I take it that I have your compliance, Arthur.’ The voice which said this was also inflexible but not hard. And it was not a question.

  ‘Compliance?’

  ‘Compliance.’

  He wiped his face with the back of his hand.

  It was almost over.

  He moved his head as if refitting it to his shoulders and said, ‘Because we have no time to take this to Geneva, I will do as you ask.’

  It had happened!

  She said in a firm but placating tone of professional courtesy, ‘Thank you, Arthur. Find a Boy Scout.’

  ‘The flag won’t stop the Nazis,’ he said.

  She looked at him. ‘A million diverse deeds will stop the Nazis, Arthur. This is but one. We never know which deed brings the victory. Every important word we speak and deed we do designs our future. Or as my uncle, the shire president, would say, “Enough maggots can destroy a horse”.’

  That lightened things a little.

  He sniffed. ‘And you take responsibility if there’s a backlash about this in the press?’

  She knew that he had to say this.

  ‘Absolutely and totally,’ she said.

  She wondered if it were a tactical error to leave the flag in Arthur’s hands. Was Sweetser capable of retortion?

  She thought not. It was also now his duty. And perhaps more importantly, she’d relieved him of responsibility.

  ‘I will get Ben and we’ll come back to get you. You stay here.’

  That way she could follow his every move.

  She left the office and went to the office of Ben Gerig, the Pavilion Manager.

  He would be a pushover. She was giving him the directive simply as a matter of bureaucratic tidiness.

  She found Ben leaving his office, locking the door as he left, spruced up for the Opening.

  ‘Ben, I’ve just issued this directive to Arthur. I am now issuing it to you as Pavilion Manager. It’s about the flag.’

  She handed Ben the directive. He took it, opened it with his finger, and read it.

  Staring at the document and not looking at her, he said in a small voice, ‘Did Arthur agree?’

  ‘It’s not a matter of agreement, Ben. It’s a directive.’

  ‘I’d better talk with Arthur.’

  ‘There’s no time to talk to Arthur. More importantly there is no point in talking to Arthur. He has the flag and he has accepted the directive.’

  Ben stared at her.

  ‘It is a directive to both of you.’

  She saw disbelief on Ben Gerig’s face.

  ‘And Arthur agrees?’ he said again.

  ‘Ben, this is not a matter for discussion among us any longer—this is a directive.’

  ‘I see.’ He made as if to read it again. ‘Very well,’ he said, glancing at her, perplexed.

  ‘Fine,’ she said, ‘That’s that. Now let’s go to the ceremony and greet the guests. Let’s enjoy the party.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ he said, his voice sounding dazed. He didn’t know where to put the directive. He unlocked the door of his office again, and went back inside.

  She wondered if he would try to call Arthur on the intercommunicating device. She stood at the door looking in just in case.

  Ben had a clean desk and hesitated about putting the directive on it. He put it neatly in the in-tray.

  Out in the corridor, she said, ‘Come on, Ben, let’s have a good time.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, looking at her. His face showed the relief of submission.

  Ben Gerig was glad to be told what to do.

  Impulsively and tactically, she linked her arm through Ben’s, and said gaily, ‘We’ll join up with Arthur.’

  His body was less than willing to be entwined with hers but he did not pull away.

  So linked, they went down the corridor.

  They opened Arthur’s door to find him examining the couplings on the flag.

  ‘Come on, Arthur,’ Edith said, with Ben still entwined, holding out her other arm in an inviting way. ‘We’re going to the party.’

  Sweetser looked at them with their arms linked. Edith felt Ben Gerig about to disengage and pull away from their physical alliance. She held him lightly with her arm.

  Taking him with her, she went around the desk and entwined Arthur with her other arm.

  The linking of their arms was instinctively the perfect move.

  Here we go gathering nuts in May, nuts in May.

  ‘Here we go gathering nuts in May, nuts in May, nuts in May,’ she sang.

  Arthur was an unwilling dance partner but she hooked him up firmly and led them out into the corridor.

  She kissed both men on the cheek.

  They moved along the corridor together out into the sun.

  Nearly all the seats were full.

  Dutol the architect was there, and she saw Sweetser’s daughter and tried to remember her name.

  Duncan Hall, also from Information Section, the only other Australian in the Secretariat, came over.

  He saw the flag under Sweetser’s arm. ‘You’re going ahead with the flag idea, then?’

  Before the men could speak, Edith said simply, without granting any room for discussion, ‘The flag will fly.’

  Duncan Hall looked at her. She saw that he was about to say something flippant and Australian, but her gaze stopped that too.

  ‘I’ll find a trooper or scout for the flag,’ said Sweetser with a small, businesslike voice

  ‘Good. Ah, what a fine and glorious day for it,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it?’

  She made them all agree.

  She looked across to the part of the Fair known as Gardens on Parade.

  ‘In this world, we live in parks which grow in dangerous jungles,’ she said, but no one heard her.

  The general public were coming over to stand behind the reserved chairs.

  The trumpeters were arranging themselves for the Chorale from Beethoven’s Ninth.

  American federal government cars arrived.

  Roosevelt had promised to send three personal representatives, the Secretary of Agriculture, the Assistant Secretary of Labor, and the Surgeon-General.

  She moved over with Ben to greet them, and out of the corner of her eye, and with a shock she caught sight of the figure of Robert, lounging in a chair at the back of the assembling crowd, hat down on his forehead, legs outstretched. He could’ve been asleep.

  Her heart jumped with surprise and caution. She made herself disregard him and concentrated on the duties at hand.

  What in God’s name was he doing here?

  As the ceremony began, she again glanced over at Robert who gave her a small wave.

  Secretary of Agriculture Wallace began his opening address. ‘Perhaps no other edifi
ce on the grounds of the New York World’s Fair is more symbolic than that of the League of Nations building—here, as nowhere else, is symbolised the hope of man in the world of tomorrow.’

  An Art, a Cause, and Motley Friends

  After the formalities of the opening of the Pavilion were finished, she turned to look for Robert, half-expecting him to have disappeared as strangely as he had appeared.

  He was standing alone off to the side, staring across at the crowds in the Court of Peace.

  She took a deep breath—in a day of arduous duty she now had yet another—and went over to him. He took off his hat politely.

  They shook hands.

  ‘Surely not your line of thing? Fairs?’ she said.

  ‘Might cable a line or two.’

  ‘No wars left?’

  ‘No wars left. There was no fighting in Prague.’

  ‘Poor old you.’

  He played with his hat and then said, ‘Could I invite you to dinner?’

  She explained that she was engaged in an official function that evening. She looked at her watch. ‘I have to go to my hotel and change now.’

  ‘Where’re you staying?’

  ‘The Algonquin on 44th Street in midtown Manhattan. Not that far by the Fair train.’

  She rather liked saying the American address, the glitz of it.

  ‘Lunch tomorrow then?’

  She made herself firm. ‘Do you think getting together’s a particularly good idea? You have the papers from the lawyer in Geneva?’

  ‘They found me. I see in the settlement that you’ve been generous to me.’

  ‘I own the assets. The Swiss have rules about these things—about the division of assets within a marriage.’

  ‘I’m the penniless reporter who married a millionaire.’

  ‘I’m hardly a millionaire.’

  ‘You didn’t have to admit to adultery. I’ll do that.’

  ‘How gentlemanly. But it’s done now.’

  ‘I’d like to discuss the divorce with you.’

  ‘Shouldn’t all that be done by the lawyers? We pay them so that we don’t have to talk about sordid things. At least to each other.’

  ‘Don’t be so hard, Edith.’

  ‘Not hard—busy.’

  It occurred to her that he might have come to New York from wherever just to see her. If so, what did that mean?

  He persisted. ‘I thought we could have a grand lunch or dinner and see the sights together.’

  How could he possibly think that she would want to see the sights with him.

  ‘Never knew you as a sightseer, Robert,’ she laughed. ‘Thought you were above all that.’

  ‘Wouldn’t mind seeing the city from the Empire State. Radio City. I’m not absolutely blasé. Maybe you’d prefer a supper club?’

  He was trying to ‘date’ her, as they said in New York. That’s what he was trying to do.

  ‘I believe we have a supper club here at the Fair—Le Pavilion, no less—but thank you, no. No time for supper clubs.’

  ‘Lunch for old times’ sake then?’

  She’d observed that associates—even ex-husbands—who one met in exotic places such as New York did seem to be less mundane, more appealing than when back in their everyday lives. In Robert’s case, even less threatening. Worth an effort, she supposed.

  ‘I’ll check what I have on tomorrow. Let’s go into my office.’ She was buying time, trying to think what to do with him.

  They went into the League Pavilion, behind the exhibits, and to her office.

  The desks were tidy, the typewriters covered. Frances gone.

  ‘Did you see our flag?’ she asked him.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘Did you make it? I’ve never seen you work a sewing machine.’

  She laughed. ‘Sweetser had it made and then lost his nerve, worried that it’d offend the American Congress if we flew it—would ruffle Roosevelt.’ She laughed to herself about her victory that day. ‘That’s not for publication.’

  She found her diary. Robert browsed through publicity material stacked along the wall, picking up the leaflet publicising the League.

  He read it and said, ‘Did this go through the Council?’ waving the leaflet at her.

  ‘I doubt it. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I don’t think they would all agree with this statement. ‘The sweep of history through the clan, the tribe, the mediaeval state, the nation, towards federation …’ I didn’t think world federation was what the League had in mind? Don’t think the Americans would like that.’

  He would pick on that. ‘It was the American League of Nations Association who printed the leaflet and wrote it. They didn’t check it with us.’

  ‘Surprises me. Wouldn’t go down well here at all.’ He read out something else from the leaflet, ‘ “Mankind’s common action against common ills”? Sounds like the search for a cure of the common cold,’ he said.

  The old tone of scorn was there.

  Did she have the stomach for that?

  In her diary she saw that she was free for dinner the next day.

  But she had no wish to sit through a meal in which he sniped. Nor did she want to discuss the divorce papers.

  She went over and took the leaflet out of his hand. ‘They’re amateurs—they were doing their best. I’m sorry, I’m not free for dinner. Give me the telephone number of where you’re staying and I’ll call you when I have a free moment. As you must realise, I’m shockingly busy.’

  He stared at her. ‘The Americans have an expression for this.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For what you’re doing.’

  ‘What am I doing? And what is the expression?’

  ‘ “Playing Hard to Get.” ’

  ‘I know the expression. And I’m not. I’m genuinely busy.’

  And what presumption on his part.

  ‘May I take this?’ he picked up another of the leaflets.

  ‘Not if you’re going to make a song and dance out of it. But I suppose it’s a public document now.’

  He took out a notebook and wrote down his hotel and telephone number, tore out the page and gave it to her.

  She took it and walked back out with him.

  She almost relented at the door—perhaps for old times’ sake—but managed to hold to her policy of cutting all links with him.

  ‘We may get to see each other,’ she said, sweetly. ‘But don’t depend on it.’

  She held out her hand, which he held for a time, glumly smiled, tipped his hat, and disappeared into the crowd. She watched him go, noting how quickly he dissolved into the throng.

  Something from her childhood encyclopedia drifted across her mind as she watched him going. Deer have no permanent homes, dens or bedding sites.

  She went back to her office, disconcerted. Why was he hanging around in New York?

  She couldn’t believe that he would be writing about the Fair.

  And why had she kept looking at him and saying to herself, ‘Well, he is still my husband’? And why did she think that this should still determine her behaviour towards him?

  He telephoned three times.

  She was nonplussed as she picked up messages both at the Fair and at the hotel. She kept asking herself what he thought would come of such a meeting? Surely he didn’t expect to exercise his husbandly perquisites as a yet-to-be-divorced husband?

  When he did get through to her on the telephone, he again asked for a meeting with her. ‘Edith, you always believed that meetings incubate ideas.’

  She replied, ‘Yes, but ideas about what and to what end?’

  ‘About us.’

  ‘Robert, we are concluding our lives together. We are not in the incubating business anymore. That’s it.’

  He went on about the meeting being a tidy conclusion. And he mentioned sentimentality about old times.

  Finally she agreed to meet him in the lobby-lounge of the Algonquin Hotel for cocktails
.

  As she waited for him, she thought she’d like to be a smoker. It would give her something to do while waiting—and would look trés chic. She might take it up. She would have to find someone to teach her how to do it properly.

  He arrived looking dapper. His hat had been cleaned and pressed. He’d made an effort.

  She was still in her clothing from work and hadn’t bathed.

  Ye gods, he had flowers.

  He was courting her.

  She supposed that was flattering in its own ridiculous way.

  He presented the flowers and she was forced into exclaiming her appreciation. She kissed him on the cheek.

  After the drinks and nuts arrived she said she could only really stay for an hour or even less, she had yet another reception.

  He said, ‘Then I’ll skip the small talk and come to the point. Now that I have you face to face.’

  ‘Please do. We were never a couple for small talk.’

  ‘I don’t want to divorce.’

  She looked around the lounge while gathering her thoughts, returning her gaze to him. ‘And why on earth not?’

  She selected a single nut and ate it slowly, looking at him.

  ‘I believe once you marry, you marry and stay married. And more. I think we could make a success of it, still. We’re older now. Might even have matured. I’ll travel less.’

  What he said about the contract of marriage hit home. She too believed in the contract. And she also believed the marriage contract could be made once and once only. You could pledge ‘until death do us part’ once. Perhaps again after the death of one’s spouse but only after the death. But not after divorce. There should be a different form of service for divorced people.

  Did this count as the fourth proposal in her life? She believed that George had proposed to her. Ambrose had once, out of desperation when faced with incipient disgrace. And Robert had originally proposed to her. And that time, she’d accepted.

  She felt that he was proposing to her again.

  How odd. How very odd.

  She realised she hadn’t answered and that she was staring at him as she chewed the nut.

  Before she could speak, he said, ‘And we could have children. I want you to have my child.’

  She coloured slowly, overcome by a reaction which she’d never felt before in her life. And, indeed, no one had ever said that to her in all her life. No man had asked her to bear his child. Not even Robert in the early romantic days of it all. They’d broached the subject but never with conclusion or commitment.