Adler, Warren - Banquet Before Dawn

by Banquet Before Dawn [lit]

  "And that," she said, "is that."

  "I'll check the poll-watch detail in the morning," Norman said, turning to face Aram. "We'll let the Congressman here sleep most of the day."

  "You sure pushed the shit out of me today," Aram said. For the first time since the campaign began, he felt a sense of release. He remained sitting, legs crossed, one arm resting on the back of a folding chair, and looked around the big room at the pictures of himself, which looked mindlessly back. Alby was probably right, Aram thought. All this busiss came down to numbers on a yellow pad, to perfect equations, predictably accurate. In Alby's brain it had been an obsession with numbers from the very beginning.

  "Let's split," Norman said, yawning and stretching.

  Outside, two men who Aram knew carried handguns watched them leave. Norman waved the bodyguards off duty and climbed into the driver's seat of the car. The motor rolled over quickly, idled while the others settled into their seats. Then the car moved smoothly away from the curb.

  "After tomorrow, Aram, I want us to get out, to go away," Sandra said. "Anywhere. Just two weeks out of this madhouse. Maybe a beach in Mexico, away from this filth, away from my mother…."

  "And away from us, eh, Sandra?" Norman said.

  "Especially from you guys." She tapped Norman playfully on the shoulder. "Win, lose, or draw."

  "I don't believe you can lose," Alby said, turning to face them.

  "You sound a little tentative about that all of a sudden," Aram said, surprised.

  "Everything in life is tentative, Aram. Losing is still a remote possibility."

  "How remote?"

  "Very."

  "What would you say the odds are?"

  "Five to one against your losing," Alby said quickly.

  "Now he's worried about losing." Sandra laughed. "Aram, you're a pill. What happened to all your compunctions?"

  It was true that he did not want to lose, not now. Perhaps he had conditioned himself to think of himself as winning. Or perhaps it was some strange change of chemistry in his mind. Suddenly the fear of losing superseded all else.

  "Well, it would be a shame to lose after coming this far," Aram said, knowing when he said it how discordant it might sound to them.

  "No longer worried about poor old Sullivan and that pig of an assistant? What was his name?" Sandra asked.

  "Fitzgerald."

  "Well, they don't deserve a single thought," she said. "They deserve their fate. Their rip-off days are over."

  She continued to talk, rambling on about the campaign as though the votes were already cast and counted. Aram barely heard.

  It was true that Sullivan mattered not at all, the more Aram worried over the possibilities of losing. The issue was, in the end, the winning and the losing. Alby was right.

  "You don't think the Sullivan rally will make any difference?" Aram asked suddenly.

  "It _could_ make a lot of difference," Norman said, " — all in your

  favor." He began to chuckle.

  "What does that mean?" Aram asked, suddenly alert.

  "Time will tell," Norman said.

  "Why do I always need an interpreter to talk to you? All these dramatic double meanings. I asked a question, simple and direct." Aram felt the irritation cut into him. He could not contain his edginess.

  "He means," Alby said, "that given the environment, the tinsel nature of the emotions in this area, the rally could turn out to be a disaster."

  "That's still not clear enough for me."

  "All right. All right," Norman said. "Keep cool. It comes down to this. A rally at night in the middle of a ghetto, this ghetto, is likely to attract _too many_ people. Free eats. Free beer. Inadequate crowd control. No way to shift the action like we did with the street rallies. People will crawl out of their holes itching for excitement, expecting some gigantic bust. It could turn into a brawl."

  "They'll have police protection, won't they?" Aram asked.

  "The police? In this hole? No way."

  "Well," Aram retorted, feeling the tiredness return, "it's still an assumption. We won't know for sure now until the votes are in."

  "I know," Norman said. "Take my word for it."

  "Next you'll be telling me you heard the drumbeats of your tribe.'

  "Hey, that's good, Aram, real good," Norman said. "I'd say it was well put. I know how these people think here. I listen when they talk, and I understand. They make assumptions about me based on my black skin. They think I'm one of them. The honky makes the sameistake about me. They talk to me. They confide in me. And yet I'm somewhere in the middle, a floater."

  Aram had noted this quality in Norman. The sense of exile, aloneness, the cutting edge of bitterness that, inexplicably, actually added to his effectiveness.

  "Kind of a roving double agent," Aram said.

  "Yeah," Norman said, closing up again, like a night flower, as though embarrassed by his unintended self-revelations. He became silent, but Aram could feel his agitation through the spurting movement of the car as it cut sharply into a side street.

  "Where the hell are you taking us?"

  Norman remained silent as the big car sped forward in the darkened streets. After a few blocks the car slowed, then came to a dead stop before a wooden police barricade that blocked across the street. On either side, they could see knots of people clustered in the open windows of tenements, peering outward in a single direction.

  "Stay in the car," Norman warned. They opened the windows and stretched their necks to see. A great glow lit the sky in the distance, and for the first time they were aware of the sound of sirens.

  "Move that vehicle out of the area at once," a voice boomed through a bullhorn.

  "What's going on?" Sandra shouted.

  A policeman in a white helmet and a thickly padded jacket ran toward them and peered into the car. They could barely see his face through the plastic face mask. He held a walkie-talkie with antenna extruded.

  "Get this vehicle the hell out of here and fast," he shouted to Norman.

  "Officer, what is it?" Sandra shouted.

  "Fire. Riot." He turned to Norman. A shift in light revealed that the policeman was black. "Move it. Get these people out of here at once." They heard sudden static on his intercom, deflecting his attention.

  "On my way," the policeman said into the walkie-talkie.

  Norman gunned the motor and began slowly backing the car into a U- turn. He flicked on the radio to an all-news station.

  "…looting has been largely confined to the area immediately

  surrounding the hotel, police report, but two looters have already been shot. A one-mile tight security cordon around the area has been set up by police, who report that activity within the cordon is now diminishing. The fire in the Grand Dutchman Hotel continues to burn, and the fire department's efforts now are restricted to keeping it from spreading to other buildings. One fireman is reported in serious condition, and four others have been felled by smoke inhalation. It is not known how many are still trapped in the hotel, and Congressman John

  J. Sullivan is himself unaccounted for…." "Oh, my God," Sandra gasped, putting her hands to her ears. Alby flicked off the radio. Norman braked the car, and they all turned and looked back again toward the glow. Aram felt his chest constrict. His breathing seemed to come harder.

  _"You knew_ it could happen," Aram said.

  Norman was silent for a long time.

  "Yes, I think I knew it."

  "Then why the hell didn't we warn them?" Aram asked. He felt the high strained pitch of his own voice.

  "Knowing, sensing, that some disaster could happen doesn't make you responsible," Norman said. "I don't bleed anymore for the animals in the jungle, Aram. Not anymore. I'm on this side of the police cordon, and I intend to stay that way." He turned in his seat and looked for a moment into the darkened interior, searching for Aram's eyes.

  "I don't feel responsible," he said again.

  The way he said it, the authority he gave to it,
seemed to foreclose the subject in his mind. But not in Aram's. Had they been responsible somehow? Could they even have hired thugs to foment a riot? Aram objected within himself even to the articulation of the question.

  "If anyone is to blame, it's Sullivan," Alby said. "Believe me, Aram," Alby said as though sensing Aram's unthinkable fears, "this far we _wouldn't_ go."

  With deliberate, calculated speed, Aram flicked t lock of the car door and let himself out. From behind him, he heard their fading cries of entreaty as he sprinted toward the police barricade, ducked quickly under it, and ran toward the reddish glow in the sky.

  He was scared, he admitted to himself as he sought justification for his compulsion. _It is necessary for me to do this_, he said to himself, feeling exhilaration in the sharp decisiveness.

  As he moved quickly forward, activity increased. Tight, anxious faces moved past him. Police in glistening white helmets were everywhere. "Clear the streets," they shouted into bullhorns. "Go immediately to your homes. You must leave the streets." The sound washed over everything, an engulfing wave.

  "That goes for you too, mister," someone said behind him. He turned, saw the mask of a helmeted figure, and ran on. He was moving against a tide of people, who stumbled against him, shouting and cursing. Some carried odd burdens, household objects, lamps, chairs, pictures.

  Finally, Aram could see the burning hotel, a grotesque, expiring monster, spewing smoke in great gasps, belching flames from framed eyes. He stopped for a moment and leaned against a brick wall, transfixed by the sheer power of the building's agony. Huge plumes of water speared with no noticeable effect into the grasping fingers of the flames. Comprehension all but eluded Aram. He had never been in a war, had never experienced similar situations, and he could feel the sight engraving itself in his mind.

  He pressed foreward again and as he came closer, began to search faces. He had to find Sullivan.

  Ambulances passed, sirens screaming in the chaos. Aram picked his way carefully over strewn canvas fire hoses. Men carried bodies on stretchers. People leaned against nearby buildings, their faces masked with soot.

  "Get the fuck out of here," he heard someone shout gruffly, as a hose at his feet, like a live snake, banged him in the legs, nearly upending him. Moving still closer, he searched for some symbol of authority. _If Sullivan has died, it will all be a waste, without meaning. The quest for power, empty. Power for what? Over what?_ "Have you seen Congressman Sullivan?" he shouted at a passing fireman. The man stopped, strained for comprehension, a flicker of humanity in the turmoil, then shrugged, not understanding. At the far end of the street, in the light of still-powerful flames, he saw a group of ambulances and teams of doctors administering to the injured. He ran toward them, looking into their faces.

  "Have you seen Congressman Sullivan?" he asked a tired nurse.

  "Who?"

  He passed on. Then he did see a familiar face, vaguely remembered, somehow associated with Sullivan.

  "Sullivan," he shouted at the man. "Is Sullivan okay?"

  Perlmutter looked up. His myopic eyes were heavy and moist. Aram detected the sense of disgust that emanated from him. He followed the squinting eyes to the open door of an ambulance. Running to it, he saw first a sheeted body, blood smears soaking through. He felt his own shaking hand reach for the sheet.

  "Don't touch him," a muffled voice cried, and his hand recoiled. In a darkened corner of the ambulance, a man feebly moved an oxygen mask away from his face. He was half reclined on a stretcher against the side of the ambulance. Two women slumped near him, faces covered with oxygen masks.

  "Leave old Fitz alone," the voice whispered hoarsely. The face was caked with black ash, and the hands that held the oxygen mask were bandaged.

  "Move aside, please," a doctor in a white coat said with authority. Aram started, then moved back as the doors slammed shut and the light at the top of the ambulance began revolving. He turned and saw Perlmutter standing beside him.

  "Will he be all right?" Aram asked.

  "Why should it matter to you?" Perlmutter said with spite.

  "It matters," Aram said.

  "You'll get over it," Perlmutter answered.

  ———— *24* ALBY had come after him, lving Norman and Sandra in the car. He found Aram wandering along the street away from the fire, drifting almost aimlessly, chilled and exhausted. It took hours to get home, and Aram barely managed to stumble into bed on his own power.

  Now they all slumped in the big easy chairs and sofa in Mrs. Margolies' den, their eyes on the flickering images of the television screen.

  The networks had relegated primary coverage to only spot announcements, and the group in the den had wound up watching an old Cary Grant movie, Aram trying to lose himself in the thread of the story.

  From somewhere in the apartment they heard the ring of a telephone, persistent, urgent. One of the maids would take it, put off the caller, take a message. Unless, of course, it was Norman calling in from the storefront headquarters from which he was supervising the teams of campaign workers.

  Twice Aram had slipped away to the bedroom and called Brooklyn General Hospital, where Sullivan had been taken. They described his condition as "fair," much to Aram's relief. _I must visit him today,_ he kept urging himself, almost as a test of mettle, and thinking at the same time that the idea somehow lacked grace. Would the visit, after Sullivan's defeat at the polls, be a depressant for the man? Would the visit be taken with good grace for the sincerity that prompted it? The debate continued in Aram's mind as he peered without comprehension at the television screen.

  At Aram's insistence, his mother-in-law had agreed to cancel the victory party she had planned for the evening. They had mollified her somewhat with assurance that she could throw a big party following the general election — and that there would be plenty of opportunities for parties later on, in Washington. But as for tonight, Aram had argued, with Sullivan both soundly defeated and hospitalized, a big party would appear to be in bad taste. Norman had been persistent about going through with the party for the campaign workers and staff. It was a traditional election festivity, and they would want the same workers for a show of activity leading up to the general election, no matter how meaningless the opposition.

  Suddenly Aram's own image appeared on the television screen, and he stiffened, watching himself intently. He could remember little of what he had said the night before, caught in the harsh lights of the television crews. The reporters had recognized him, corralled him just after he had seen Sullivan. His knees felt weak as he stood in the semicircle of sudden brightness, a microphone held impertinently before his mouth. Through his agitation, he remembered Alby's urgent ubiquitous instructions: "Remember, it's a record. Think of playing it ten, fifteen years from now. Make it stand."

  As Aram watched the scene, he concentrated on objectively evaluating his performance.

  "This is the district you hope to represent, Mr. Yomarian," the television reporter had said. "What do you think about the events tonight? Why do you think they happened?"

  "Well, I'm thankful that Congressman Sullivan is all right," he began slowly, "and I'm sure he would join me in extending condolences to those injured here tonight and to their families." Aram knew he was waffling, gathering his thoughts cautiously.

  "Why did it happen?" he asked, suddenly forceful as he found the right tack. "Frustrations. Pent-up feelings of inadequacy. Hopelessness. Human beings have to have alternatives to living under these conditions. The rally tonight pricked the balloon and released hostilities. We need programs to open doors, bring in fresh air, restore hope. Isn't this the final test of leadership?"

  "What programs would those be?" the announcer asked.

  "If we're elected, you can be sure those programs will be presented before the forum that will act upon it."

  Aram had, of course, no programs to offer. "You fucking liar," he told his image on the television screen.

  "You were damned good," Alby said. "Damned good. I t
hink you ce across sincere as hell. Don't you think so, Sandra?"

  "Terrific," she answered. "Considering the pressure you were under, it was a great performance."

  Then the scene on the television screen shifted to the fire: chaos; people stumbling from the entrance of the burning hotel, some being whisked away on stretchers; fire hoses spraying upward against crackling flames; screeching sirens. Finally, the narrator paused, and the scene shifted again, this time to a daylight examination of the smoldering hulk of the Grand Dutchman, a blackened, smoking ruin. Somehow the structure still stood, although each window seemed like a gaping charred hole.