Claire Marvel

by John Burnham Schwartz

  “Slim to none.”

  He smiled with evident self-satisfaction and I saw that I’d just walked into his punch line. “That’s the problem with you Liberals,” he said. “No vision.”

  “Better blind than wrong,” I shot back.

  He paused; behind his glasses his eyes appeared to harden to sapphires. I waited with half-caught breath to see where my tongue had landed me.

  Finally, he reached out and laid a hand on my shoulder. “I have a car waiting outside,” he said in an avuncular tone. “Ride with me to the airport and we can talk details.”

  four

  HE WANTED TO MEET AGAIN at the end of the week, following his return from Washington. There was a book he was writing for Random House, currently titled Congress and the Constitution, and a possible memoir. He’d be lunching at the Faculty Club Friday but would have an hour free in the afternoon. Let’s meet for coffee, he said. I asked him where and with a challenge in his eye he told me to choose the place. My first test.

  Café Pamplona wasn’t at all the sort of place to take someone like Davis; not if you wanted to impress; not if you had an ounce of sense. It was a hangout for Euros and would-be Euros dressed in black. A certain Left Bank cool, not power, was the currency there. He would hate it on sight.

  I arrived an hour early. A Spanish-style café vaguely Moorish in decoration, low-ceilinged and cramped, down a few steps from the street. The narrow ground-level windows were all sealed shut and the air was thick with cigarette smoke. The round marble-topped tables were occupied by dark-clothed bodies and pale faces, Claire’s not among them. For three days I’d been unable to stop thinking about her. Now I found a spot in the corner, ordered a cappuccino, and sat watching the entrance, vividly imagining the moment when she might walk through the door and see me and break into a huge smile. Ridiculous, of course. Foolish, idiotic … still, I sat watching.

  There was plenty of time. Time to study an odd kidney-shaped puddle of water left on my table by the previous occupant; time to consider the question of my dissertation and how I should present myself to Davis.

  He arrived promptly on the hour. His entrance made the café smaller. It was his legacy to leave others with a diminished personal landscape yet still with some unarticulated sense of the heightened possibility of their lives. Today his suit was navy blue and his tie yellow. He might have been a CEO or even the Gipper himself. He approached my table refusing to bow to the architecture, his head passing just inches beneath the nicotine-stained ceiling. Handing me a legal folder of impressive girth, he declared, “My manuscript,” and eased himself into a chair.

  “Fifty percent done. I thought you should read what’s there before we move ahead.”

  The waiter sidled over. Davis ordered a double espresso and requested that the table be cleaned; with a swipe of cloth, the puddle disappeared.

  He took a look around. “Quite a little hellhole you’ve got here,” he said amicably.

  I grinned with relief.

  He told me more about the book he was writing. Even by historical standards, he argued, the Democrat-controlled Congress was overreaching in its attempts to thwart the president. All this smoke-and-mirrors bullshit about Iran-Contra was nothing but an excuse, he declared. A certain amount of partisanship was fine and expected, a product of human nature; but there was this slip of paper called the Constitution. We finally had a man in the White House who honored it and understood the ways in which it was designed to keep America strong. The current Congress wasn’t simply against Ronald Reagan, it was intent on distorting the literal words and institutional prerogatives expressed in the Constitution in order to bring him to his knees. His book, Davis claimed, contained a timely historical analysis of such irresponsible legislative gamesmanship and a powerful argument against it.

  He sat back, his face etched with certainty. I finished my cappuccino and dabbed at my mouth with a paper napkin. I was seeing, far more clearly than I had at our first meeting, the huge gulf that separated our political beliefs and our views of the world.

  He seemed to be waiting for me to comment and so I did.

  “One could also argue that it’s the president and his self-aggrandized view of executive power that’s out to bring Congress to its knees,” I said.

  Davis stared at me until a willowy flutter of doubt ran up my insides.

  “Now listen,” he snapped. “We don’t have to agree on all the details. But we have to come together on the basic principles. My principles, to be precise. Otherwise, you understand, the deal’s off.”

  “I understand.”

  “And do we agree on those principles, Julian?”

  I hesitated. Looking at him, weighing the possibilities. Envisioning my father’s disappointment had he been witness to this moment. Disappointment not at the squandering of professional opportunity but rather at the unseemly desire to sell out. Though with characteristic reticence he would have abstained from passing explicit judgment on me.

  Then I told my new mentor what he wanted to hear.

  “Good.” Davis swallowed the last of his espresso and checked his watch. “So tell me a little about yourself.”

  I looked away. Through the closed windows I saw the disembodied legs of people walking in both directions. I thought how badly I’d wanted Claire to witness my collegial meeting with Professor Carl Davis of Harvard and Washington, and a mist of shame briefly clouded the bright vision of my future.

  “I’m from New York,” I said. “After Columbia I spent two years working at the Council on Foreign Relations. Then I came here.”

  “Right. Dixon told me.” Davis’ tone had turned buoyant; he seemed relieved to have gotten through the preliminaries and was eager now to close any gaps between us. “You must have studied with Gordon Klein at Columbia,” he said.

  “He was my thesis advisor. And I took his course ‘Legislating Freedom.’ ”

  “Gordon and I go back thirty years. He’s my son Peter’s godfather.” Davis’ expression was confidential. This minor personal connection we happened to share was significant to him. In an easier, more welcoming tone of voice he inquired, “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  “Peter’s a bit younger.” He paused, regarding me with an almost paternal eye. “The other day in my office you mentioned your dissertation.”

  I nodded.

  “Tell me about it.”

  I cleared my throat. “I intend to deal with various incarnations of the Progressive Party, their consequences and significance,” I began. “The elections of 1912, ‘24, and ‘48. Especially ‘48, with Wallace running for president—this time challenging the Democrats, not the Republicans. He gets endorsed by the Communists and the American Labor Party, attacks Truman for not working with the Soviets to end the Cold War, argues for repeal of Taft-Hartley and the reestablishment of wartime price controls. Political suicide, right? Still, a million votes in the general election made clear that without the Progressives there was no way in the world Truman would’ve made it by Dewey. Then the whole thing went bust. The Progressive Party more or less evaporated. Where’d the voters go? That’s what I want to get at. A million people isn’t small change. Professor Davis, I want to write about the continuing presence of a legitimate third-party political movement in America, an invisible, shifting group of voters that’s been waiting in the wings for forty years, looking for a viable option. The spring below the surface. I want to shine a light on that force and its long-term political consequences.”

  I sat back, breathing hard.

  “Interesting,” said Davis. “I think you might be onto something….”

  His tone seemed truly encouraging; a prospective protégé could have hoped for nothing more. It was his attention I’d lost, perhaps some time ago. He was staring past me, toward the entrance, and he was utterly absorbed in what he saw. I turned to follow his gaze. And so I discovered that while I’d been talking Claire Marvel had entered the café and stood, now, just inside the door. />
  five

  “WELL, IF IT ISN’T JULIAN OF THE STORM.”

  She was dressed as she’d been four days ago—sandals and faded blue jeans and an untucked cotton shirt. Though she was even more beautiful than I remembered. I stood up as if hauled by the collar.

  To Davis she said, “Your friend and I had the pleasure of meeting in a tempest. He was nothing short of heroic.”

  “What she means is she let me stand under her umbrella.”

  “I can think of worse places to be,” murmured Davis.

  He was looking at her intently, a faint smile working the corners of his mouth. With an odd feeling of reluctance I made the introduction. “Professor Davis, this is Claire Marvel.”

  He rose and took her hand. “A pleasure.”

  “You’re Julian’s professor?”

  “I am. And now, I guess you could say, employer.”

  “Really,” Claire said with a raised eyebrow; with a start I realized she was teasing him. “Are you somebody famous?” she went on in a jesting tone. “Should I know you?”

  “Only if your world is politics and government.” Davis’ voice had assumed a grave rhetorical modesty.

  “Do you consider art political?” A challenging smile had come to her lips.

  “Not in any legitimate sense, no,” Davis replied.

  “Then we come from separate worlds.”

  “In that case I suppose it’s my good fortune to meet you under any circumstances,” Davis said with a smile of his own. He checked his watch and laid a five-dollar bill on the table. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid I have a meeting. Julian, if your choice of female company is any indication, you have a brilliant future ahead of you. In the meantime read the manuscript and get back to me. I’d like to push ahead full throttle on this thing. And with regard to the dissertation, the answer is yes.”

  “Thank you, Professor Davis.”

  “Carl. Don’t thank me. Just work your ass off and make us both look like winners. Please excuse my French, Miss Marvel.”

  “I always excuse the French, Professor Davis.”

  A look of admiring astonishment fleetingly crossed his face. Then he got hold of himself and, remembering to check his watch a last time, took his leave.

  We stared after him; he was one of those men who seemed to leave a wake. When he was gone we sat back down.

  “An ego the size of Wyoming,” was Claire’s facetious verdict. “Yet weirdly charming. I take it from his comment about art he’s not exactly a lefty?”

  “Let’s just say he counts Ed Meese as one of his closest friends.”

  “And you set him straight?”

  “He’s the one who generally does most of the talking.”

  “That’s not how it looked. I watched you delivering your pitch. Very impressive hand gestures.”

  “I was telling him about my dissertation. You make it sound like an act.”

  “Not an act. I’m just making a distinction between mind and body.” She reached for my hands, which were resting on the table. Her touch made the hairs on my arms stand up. “I’d trust these hands,” she said.

  Her gaze was direct. I couldn’t imagine hiding, even if I’d wanted to.

  “You’re blushing,” she said. “Are you always so easily embarrassed?”

  I didn’t answer. With an apologetic smile she released my hands. After what I hoped was a dignified interval, I removed them to the safety of my lap.

  The waiter appeared bearing a mug of peppermint tea and a large chocolate chip cookie. “Lunch,” explained Claire. It was three in the afternoon. She put a piece of cookie on the table in front of me and took a bite herself, chewing slowly.

  “How old were you when you first became interested in politics?” she asked.

  “Political science,” I replied. “There’s a difference—I’m not out to become president.” I ate the piece of cookie. “I was twelve,” I said.

  “Twelve? Shouldn’t you have been out playing stickball?”

  “I wasn’t any good at sports. Stickball included.”

  “Chess, then. Or looking after your pet rock.”

  “I wasn’t cool enough to have a pet rock.”

  “Seriously,” she said.

  “I’m being serious. Something happened when I was twelve. Something that got me interested in the meaning of politics and the political system in people’s lives.”

  “Something to do with a girl?”

  “At twelve? In my dreams.”

  She was leaning forward, listening. So against my better instincts I went on. I told her the strange unfashioned truth: that the way in for me—the witch in the wardrobe—was model rocketry. I’d been hooked at an early age. The whole shebang: Sputnik, NASA, Yuri Gagarin, Glenn and Armstrong. Then a minor home-equipment malfunction, a run-in with the police, a memorable old woman from Budapest. And so, ta-dum, was the course of my life changed.

  I glanced up: she was still listening. So I went on. I told her how at age twelve and a half, with money saved from a year’s worth of allowances and odd jobs, I bought an eighteen-inch balsa-wood rocket from a catalogue. I built and painted this interplanetary vehicle in absolute secrecy—everything geared toward a big spring launch out my bedroom window. The building across the street was a few stories lower than ours. And my plan—simple yet daring—was to aim the rocket above the opposite roofline so that after blastoff it would arc over all obstacles in its path and end up drifting down into the Hudson River on its little built-in parachute.

  I told her how, after weeks of prep, the big day arrived. A clear day with no wind; perfect conditions such as have stirred entire nations as they sit watching history made on their television sets. Careful not to fall out, I opened my bedroom window as far as it would go and aimed the launching pad. Then I lit the fuses and jumped back to watch from behind a chair. The fuses went squirreling rapidly up into the rocket like Roman candles—then a double explosion, and the rocket blasted out the window! My sense of triumph was indescribable—until I saw what was actually happening. The explosions hadn’t been simultaneous. The first had jolted the nose to the left; then the counterforce of the second had depressed the altitude. Now the rocket was flying directly toward the building across the street at warp speed. The noise, meanwhile, had brought people to their windows. Mostly old folks and housewives. It was afternoon. One old woman in particular was looking out her window on the sixth floor and observed what she thought was a flaming, heat-seeking missile zooming right for her heart. She began to scream. Who could blame her? She screamed so much one of her neighbors called the police. She was still screaming when the rocket crashed into the building just above her window and dropped, smoking, into the window box of pansies that, it turned out, was her pride and joy. It also turned out—all this my parents learned later from the policeman who interrogated me—that this woman was a Jew from Budapest who somehow had managed to survive the war, the Holocaust, and countless other tragedies and degradations; who decades ago had made it to America and the Upper West Side, wife of a camp survivor, the mother of two and grandmother of three, and, recently, a widow; who loved her neighborhood and the lox at Zabar’s and her window box of pansies with the kind of fervor and gratitude that can come only through a lifetime of suffering.

  “Oh no,” said Claire.

  That wasn’t all, I said. About a month afterward I spotted the woman on Broadway, outside Fairway. She was small and hunched, with a face so wrinkled that the sum of it all was a kind of radiance: from out of this thicket of tortured history her eyes, brown and deep-set, took in everything that moved. Her shopping bags she pushed slowly down the sidewalk in a wheeled wire basket. I followed for a couple of blocks, trying to gather my nerve to approach her. Not far from her building I overtook her, told her who I was and what I’d done. For some time she stood sizing me up with those eyes that had seen much of the worst that human beings have to offer. Finally with a nod she said, “You may push, if you like.” And so, pushing her
shopping cart, I went home with her. Into her building, up the elevator: she said not a word until we were standing outside her apartment in a hallway that smelled of cooked cabbage and vinegar. “You may come in, if you like.” And I went in: a railroad flat, long and narrow, stained with shadows like resin, one room leading into another, depressing, yet also homey, full of things—books, black-and-white photographs, stuffed pillows, candles stuck in dried pools of wax, many things I couldn’t even name. At the back the kitchen. She made tea with spoonfuls of jam in it and gave me three small chocolate rugelach to eat.

  “After that, I went back to see her fairly often,” I told Claire. “Some days her joints were so bad it could take her five minutes just to sit down. In Budapest before the war she’d studied piano and had a dachschund named Gustav. She never gave a thought to history or politics. But in New York she became an exemplary citizen. She read the newspapers cover to cover and knew the names of every local politician and never missed a chance to vote. The next November she asked me to take her to the polling station. By then she already needed help getting around. She was in the booth a long time. When she came out I saw she’d been crying. I asked if she was all right. She said, ‘One day you’ll know how important this is.’ ”

  I stopped talking. A knot of grief had lodged in my throat. I was surprised, all of a sudden, to discover other people in the room, conversations, the hazy drift of smoke; a man with a terrier on his lap; a woman dealing a deck of tarot cards.

  “What happened to her?” Claire asked.

  “One day I came home from school and there was an ambulance in front of her building.”

  Outside, there on the curve of Bow Street, we stood close, breathing the same fresh air, feeling the warmth of sunlight on our faces. Spring. My thoughts reeled. Was this the same person I’d met only days ago?

  Claire plucked a bit of brown fuzz from my cotton sweater; it floated to the ground like a minuscule toupee.