Adler, Warren - Banquet Before Dawn
Page 28
"I'm glad my father didn't see it." Mrs. Margolies sighed. Her voice trailed off into a sob. "His buildings were for people to live in, not die in."
The camera eye slid down the hulking ruin to the street, and the announcer reappeared on camera.
"Twenty have died, with more than nine people still among the missing. A campaign aide to Congressman Sullivan, Marvin Perlmutter, witnessed the inferno." The screen filled with the pale, anguished face of Perlmutter, his eyes narrowed by the glare, his hair disheveled, a
portrait of a distraught man.
"I never saw anything like it. People crushing and abusing each other. It was all so senseless."
"Didn't the Congressman know that a mass rally of this sort could trigger a riot?" the announcer asked.
"Know? If we can't have political rallies in this country without this happening, then no one is safe. Contemplate a democracy where the political leaders are cowed by threats of violence and assassination. That's the end of democracy. The law of the jungle becomes the law of the land."
Perlmutter's harrowed face disappeared from the screen, and the news program gave way to a series of commercials.
"I know they'll blame _me,_" Mrs. Margolies whispered. "They'll say it was _my_ fault."
"Stop it, Mother," Sandra said impatiently. "What does it matter? Landlords are always blamed anyway."
When the news program returned to the screen, a man in a studio was giving campaign results, a computerized version. Aram watched the man talking, barely listening.
He felt an overwhelming sense of aloneness — not depression, only isolation, a kind of sustained singleness. He felt that way in the little room at the Winters house all those years ago, lived mostly in forebodings, dreams, and fantasies. Nothing, it seemed, had changed within himself since then, not at the hard core, the quintessential essence of himself. It was important to know that, he thought, and to preserve the sense of knowing it. Otherwise he knew he couldn't possibly go on playing at dreams of glory. He was becoming quite skilled at it, as his television image attested. Some of the roles still needed lots of work, but the principal one, the public kind, had lots of energy. He'd have to work harder on the one-to-ones. He was playing those a bit close to the bone.
"Shhhh," Sandra said, as if there were conversations to be hushed in the room. She leaned forward, staring at the television screen again. "The Eighth District results."
"Extremely low turnout, as expected," the announcer droned. "Unusual circumstances. Results purely academic. Ten percent of the precincts are reporting Yomarian sixty percent of the vote, John J. Sullivan forty percent. We give the race to Yomarian."
Sandra jumped up and squealed. "We won. We won." Then she bounded onto Aram's lap and hugged him closely. He could feel her lips making wet smacking noises on his face and neck. A telephone rang persistently in the distance.
"On the nose," Alby exulted. "Right on the money."
Aram felt his heart beating wildly. A tingle of exhilaration danced down his spine, to the very center of his body. He felt a joyful twinge at the base of his crotch. It was not at all as he imagined it would be. Victory was, after all, quite sweet.
Sandra continued to hug him, whispering in his ear, tickng him.
"All the way now, baby," she said. "We're going all the way."
A bottle of champagne was uncorked, and they all sipped and toasted each other repeatedly, talking excitedly about the campaign, about the coming general election, about plans beyond that for the move to Washington, all the time keeping one eye on the television set as spot announcements reported Aram's lead firm and even improving.
"Better get dressed, Sandra," Alby said at last. "It's nearly time. We've got to get moving."
"Where to?" she asked.
"To the party."
Aram's reluctance seemed dissipated. Of course, the campaign workers were expecting an appearance.
Later Aram sat back in the softness of Mrs. Margolies' chauffeured car
and sipped champagne from her best crystal glasses. He sat between Alby and Sandra. They reached across him to clink glasses. Thankfully, Mrs. Margolies had declined to join them. "I'd better not," she had said, embracing Aram. "But I am very proud."
"We'll swing by Brooklyn General Hospital," Aram had told the chauffeur. He avoided Alby's eyes, deliberately. The decision was irrevocable.
"Perfectly appropriate," Alby volunteered. "Noblesse oblige." He chuckled, his Adam's apple twitching.
Cameramen waited at the entrance to the hospital as they stepped out of the car, Sandra and Alby nudging Aram in front of them.
"How did they know?" Aram asked.
"I called them," Alby answered almost before the question was out. "I figured you must have learned something by now."
Aram shrugged.
"Of course." He chuckled. "Part of th e game, I suppose."
The cameramen followed them as they entered the busy hospital lobby.
"Second floor," Alby said. He had done his homework.
When he saw the forlorn face of Perlmutter, who sat dejectedly on a bench in the corridor, Aram's sense of victory drained from him. Perlmutter stood up and placed himself in front of the door to the Congressman's room.
"No cameras, please," he said quietly to the little knot of cameramen who followed Aram with their portable lights. His face seemed gaunt in the white light. Somewhere he had found another pair of glasses.
"Will he see me?" Aram asked, catching himself from almost stammering.
Perlmutter nodded, a tight half smile revealing that he had observed Aram's discomfort.
"Alone, please," Perlmutter said.
Aram started to move forward, then hesitated.
"Does he know the election results?" he asked.
"Of course."
Relieved that he would not be bringing the message of defeat, Aram pushed open the door.
Congressman Sullivan was propped up on the pillows. Beside him, like a pale, fragile doll, sat one of the women who had stared back at Aram from the ambulance. She looked up at him indifferently. A tall, slender young man stood in the shadows against the wall.
"Timmy, bring Mr. Yomarian a drink," Sullivan said hoarsely from the bed. His gray hair had been neatly combed. His clean-shaven Irish face was faintly florid against the whiteness of the pillows.
"Scotch okay?" the young man asked.
Aram wanted to decline but checked himself. He nodded.
"This is April Garner," Sully offered. Aram nodded awkwardly. He had no frame of reference for the grace of victory. His tongue felt heavy. Handing him a straight hospital glass with two fingers of amber liquid, the young man repeated the process of pouring and gave a glass to Sullivan, who took it with bandaged paws and lifted it in a ritual of toasting.
"To the victor belongs the spoils," Sully said, looking into his glass for a moment as though for confirmation. He upended the glass and savoring the taste, held it briefly before swallowing. Aram felt compelled to finish his drink in one gulp. It burned his throat going down, making his eyes tear, almost making him gag.
"I hope I can call on you in the future," Aram began when he recovered himself, conscious immediately of the enormitf the platitude.
"You mind if I don't sit by the phone?" Sully returned sharply.
Aram could sense the man's irrepressible feistiness. It steadied him.
"You know what I mean, Congressman. A young pup can learn from an old dog."
Sullivan smiled.
"The king is dead. Long live the king." He paused. "Except the kingdom's finished. Take a good look out that window, Yomarian. It's all kitty litter."
"There are lots of problems." Again Aram felt the hollowness of his response. He knew that if he sniffed, he would smell again the sweet stench of squashed halvah. _I showed the bastards, Pop,_ he thought, knowing that Sullivan was looking beyond his empty words, into the soft sweet heart of the matter.
"Do you really give one flying fuck about their problems?" Sull
ivan asked.
"As a matter of fact, I do," Aram said firmly, keeping the words from sticking to his teeth.
Sullivan's laugh began as a rumble from the bottom of his gut, then erupted and reverberated in the room. His face grew red, as the laughter turned to hacking coughs. Aram watched him grope for control, the smoke- strained lungs finding breath again.
"You're beautiful, Yomarian. You're so full of shit you're beautiful."
Sullivan shook his head in feigned disbelief. He looked up toward the ceiling, and Aram followed his gaze. "You hear that, Fitz. The goddamned Arab thinks he can bullshit old Sully." Then he turned his eyes downward and looked at Aram. "Save that bullshit for the suckers."
"I will," Aram said awkwardly, fighting for control. He felt his discomfort strongly, knew that it was apparent to everyone in the room. He had somehow thought that Sullivan would be more forgiving, would make it easy for him.
"Well," Aram said, "I wish you a speedy recovery." He hesitated a moment, expecting some answer. Sullivan simply stared back at him and smiled thinly, without bitterness. Aram imagined he detected pity. Shrugging, he turned and walked toward the door.
"Yomarian," Sully called. Aram froze.
"You know, we're cut from the same piece of rotten cheese, the lot of us."
Aram opened the door of the hospital room and searched the crowd of waiting faces for Alby, the weight of his victory hanging in his gut like lead.
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