The Devil Tree

by Jerzy Kosiński

  • • •

  Jonathan picked up a leather-bound volume of David Copperfield and opened it to a page with a bent corner. Someone, perhaps his father, had underlined a short passage in which the sight of Steerforth’s house starts David on “a long train of meditations . . . mingled with childish recollections and later fancies, the ghosts of half-formed hopes, the broken shadows of disappointments dimly seen and understood, the blending of experience and imagination.”

  He reached for a volume of poems by Robinson Jeffers and opened it to a page indicated by a bookmark. In a poem called “Shine, Perishing Republic,” the following was underlined:

  But for my children, I would have them keep their

  distance from the thickening center; corruption

  Never has been compulsory, when the cities lie at

  the monster’s feet there are left the mountains.

  On a page with a bent corner, in the poem “Dear Judas,” someone had underlined what Lazarus says to Mary about Jesus:

  Your son has done what men are not able to do;

  He has chosen and made his own fate.

  On the bottom of the page, Horace Whalen had scribbled: “Robinson Jeffers also wrote To His Father,’ a sonnet with this beginning:

  Christ was your lord and captain all your life,

  He fails the world but you he did not fail,

  He led you through all forms of grief and strife

  Intact, a man full-armed . . .

  Jeffers’ father, a Calvinist, was a professor of Old Testament literature at the Western (Presbyterian) Theological Seminary in Pittsburgh.”

  • • •

  Whalen heard footsteps on the stairs, and as he turned toward the door a tall trooper entered it with his gun drawn. Whalen jumped to his feet.

  “Don’t you move, buddy. Get your hands up,” said the trooper, motioning with the gun. Whalen raised his arms. “I found the other half, Sheriff,” shouted the trooper to someone outside the door.

  “Coming!” a man answered.

  “Don’t try anything stupid,” said the trooper, his gun trained on Whalen.

  “I’m not about to,” said Whalen.

  A stocky sheriff brought the black girl into the room. Her hands were handcuffed behind her and she looked as if she had been roughed up. When she saw Whalen with his hands raised, she managed a smile.

  “Search him,” said the sheriff, and as the trooper replaced his gun in his holster and moved toward Whalen, Whalen lowered his hands.

  “I told you not to move, you fucker,” yelled the trooper, stepping forward and slamming his fist into Whalen’s face. Stunned by the blow, Whalen staggered. Jamming his knee into Whalen’s back, the trooper pushed him against the wall, then quickly handcuffed him. He pulled out his pants pockets, searching for drugs.

  “Outside,” commanded the sheriff, waving his gun toward the door.

  The four of them walked slowly down the stairs. At the front door the trooper turned off the lights. Outside the sheriff pointed at Whalen’s car.

  “Is this a stolen vehicle?” he asked.

  “I rented it,” Whalen replied.

  “Rented or stolen, you left the key in the ignition. That’s against the law,” said the sheriff.

  “My car is in a private driveway. That’s not against the law.”

  “Listen, smart ass, don’t talk back to me,” snapped the sheriff. “I’ll drive these two back to the station,” he said to the trooper. “You follow in the stolen vehicle.”

  The sheriff ordered Whalen and the girl to get into the rear seat of his car and picked up the receiver of a buzzing shortwave radio. “I’m heading back with the robbery suspects. Two of them. Male Caucasian, female Negro.” Then he started the car and drove down the long driveway.

  “Are we under arrest?” asked Whalen.

  “What do you think?” said the sheriff.

  “But what for?”

  “This is still Sunday, and since we don’t book on Sundays, you’ll have to wait until tomorrow to find out. Till then, you and your girl friend will be guests in our newly renovated jail.”

  They passed through the center of Whalenburg. The streets were empty, the restaurants and bars were all closed. Whalen recalled driving along these streets with his father. “A proud town for proud people,” his father had said, pointing to the rows of new two-story houses built for the company’s workers.

  In front of the police station the trooper pulled up behind them in Whalen’s car. Inside the station the trooper removed their handcuffs. “Can I talk to you alone for a moment?” Whalen asked the sheriff.

  “I’m not a confessor. Talk to me here,” said the sheriff. The trooper and the three policemen in the station chuckled.

  “You might need to know what I have to say,” Whalen said quietly.

  “All right,” the sheriff agreed, “but no tricks, understand?”

  They went to a small side room. “Now, what is it?” asked the sheriff impatiently.

  “We’re in Whalenburg, isn’t that right?”

  “We sure are.”

  “Did you look at the name on my driver’s license? I’m Jonathan Whalen.”

  The sheriff froze. Then he said, “A lot of Whalens in this country.”

  “But only one in Whalenburg. My father, Horace Sumner Whalen, founded this town. Now I own a lot of it.”

  The sheriff reached in his shirt pocket for a cigarette. “You’re our Whalen?” he asked uneasily. “How do I know you’re not lying?”

  “My family’s portrait is hanging on the front wall in the main lobby of the Town Hall. I am Jonathan, the boy between Katherine and Horace Whalen. I’m older now, but I haven’t changed that much.”

  The sheriff extinguished his cigarette. No longer uncertain, he stared nervously at Whalen. “If you’re Whalen’s son, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You didn’t give me a chance,” said Whalen. “Only this.” He pointed at his swollen jaw.

  The sheriff paced the room.

  “I’ll telephone the mayor from here,” said Whalen. “I want to tell him I’m back—and how I was welcomed.”

  The sheriff stopped in front of him. “I know you’re upset, Mr. Whalen,” he said. “And you have good reason to be. Look, I’m really sorry all this happened. I’d be glad to—apologize.”

  “Apologize? I’m not offended; I’m in pain,” said Whalen, touching his chin.

  “We’ll take you to the company’s hospital.”

  “No need for that. But you can do something else.”

  The sheriff livened up. “Anything, Mr. Whalen. I sure want to make up for the inconvenience.”

  “Good. I want to give back to your deputy what he gave to me. I want you to hit him just as hard as he hit me.”

  “If I do that,” said the sheriff, squirming, “he’ll sue me.

  “But if you won’t do it, I will sue you. Let me call the mayor first,” he said.

  Without a word the sheriff led him back to the main room. “Hey Bob, would you come over here for a minute, please?” he said, looking sheepishly at the floor.

  The trooper walked over and stood before him. The sheriff hesitated, then swung his right fist at the trooper’s face. The trooper staggered back, and blood ran over his lower lip. The desk officer rushed over to steady him. The other policemen were stunned.

  The sheriff rubbed his fist. “That’s it. No more trouble!” He nodded pleasantly to the girl, then turned to Whalen. “You and your friend are free to leave now, Mr. Whalen. Sorry for the mess!”

  • • •

  Today I received a long letter from Walter Howmet. As my godfather, he clearly expects that I should seek in him a father substitute. I decided that his advice to me was given to further the interests of the company rather than my own, so instead of writing or calling him personally, I summoned Miss Berger, his executive secretary, who had taken down his letter to me, and asked her to make notes of what I was about to say.

  Miss Berger
, a gray-haired, well-dressed, soft-spoken spinster, felt out of place in my hotel suite and so ill at ease in my presence that when she was not looking at her notes, she could hardly look me in the eye.

  “In his letter Mr. Howmet volunteers several suggestions,” I said. “He thinks I should find a more permanent residence than a hotel suite, perhaps a town house large enough to entertain in, or, in case I should marry, a country estate large enough to start a family in. He suggests I sell the various houses I have inherited, but in order to strengthen my ties with the company, he advises me to keep the house in Whalenburg. He also advises me to dispose of my mother’s yacht and the villas in Italy, Switzerland, and France. He assumes that I might like to spend some time in the company offices, either in Pittsburgh or New York, getting acquainted, as he put it, with the company’s inner workings, or that I might wish once again to enroll at Yale.”

  “Yes, Mr. Whalen, I am familiar with those recommendations,” said Miss Berger.

  “Fine. Now I want you to let Mr. Howmet know my wishes. First, I don’t intend to work for the company. No one could possibly make sense of the whole operation, so no matter where I began I could probably never master anything beyond the most immediate concerns of one department. Furthermore, Mr. Howmet either doesn’t know or doesn’t remember that, as a result of my failure to fulfill Yale’s scholastic requirements, I was asked to leave.”

  “I think Mr. Howmet assumed that you would want to make up for past errors in judgment,” said Miss Berger.

  “I’m too old to want to make up for what others consider my failures. Another thing: had the trustees in charge of my estate, including Mr. Howmet, been truly concerned about my financial situation, they would have long ago sold all those houses and villas and collections and boats and God knows what other useless, unoccupied, highly taxed properties I’ve inherited from my parents. I intend to sell them now, immediately, even if it means a financial loss, and live in Manhattan, on the East River, in a small town house with windows and terrace facing the river and the United Nations. However, until the house is vacated by its present occupants, renovated, and furnished, I will remain in my suite in this hotel. And one more thing: you may also tell Mr. Howmet that from the house I will have direct access to my boat.”

  “Your boat, Mr. Whalen?” Miss Berger asked.

  “Yes. I have bought a small boat. It sleeps two.”

  “Is there a marina in front of your town house?”

  “No, but the building is right near the embankment, so I could easily get down to the boat by means of a ladder.”

  “Isn’t it against the law to pick up or discharge passengers at an unauthorized place on the East River?”

  “Too bad if it is. I’ll have to break the law, then. The boat will be kept at the midtown marina, and each time I want it the captain will deliver it to the embankment in front of my building.”

  “May I ask why you need such immediate access to a boat?”

  “Why shouldn’t I have it? Manhattan is surrounded by rivers and by some of the most beautiful ocean beaches in the world,” I said. “I also like to take long car trips, so I have obtained a car and an underground garage. Mr. Howmet buys only American goods; he will be pleased to know I’ve bought a Ford.”

  “Mr. Howmet was also concerned about servants.”

  “Maids, a cook, a guard, and two—maybe three—other people will live in the house with me.”

  Miss Berger checked her notes. “Mr. Howmet was delighted by your show of good business sense in acquiring Executive Heliways,” she said, forcing a smile. “You must know that the price of that company’s stock has gone up by thirty percent since you purchased it.”

  “I bought Executive Heliways for sentimental reasons, Miss Berger. They were the first people I did business with when I got back to America. And also because I like to fly in helicopters.”

  • • •

  Sometimes, when I know Karen is with Susan, I feel that I am disposable, but today I took them both to dinner and now, a few hours later, I am absolutely calm, even though the meal itself was unrelentingly depressing. Susan and Karen talked for an hour while I ate and said nothing. Nevertheless, I feel as if I have finally faced something I’ve been avoiding for weeks.

  They talked about sex as if they had never discussed it before. Susan said she finds that very few people are sexually aware. Even if they are on the make and looking for signals, she said, even if they listen to what you say, talk to you, and carefully articulate their thoughts, more often than not they are too selfish to notice how and where you glance as they talk or listen. They don’t observe your posture and expression or the movements of your lips or hands, all of which indicate how you are responding to them sexually.

  For my benefit Susan launched into a lecture about Karen. She said that Karen’s sexuality is much stronger than her own and that Karen instantly picks up sexual feedback. Most people create sexual fantasies about others only when those individuals are not directly available, whereas whenever Karen meets a man, a woman, or a couple, she spontaneously pictures herself in bed with them. Susan speculated that men and women are drawn to Karen by her elusiveness, which makes them ever so curious about the unbridled sexuality they sense behind her cool exterior.

  “Karen would make an ideal lesbian,” said Susan, “because she has always been merely intrigued by men’s sexuality, never attracted to it. Also, in worshiping herself as a perfect woman, she has become, in the process, fascinated by femininity—by what makes a woman perfect. Though she may be willing to accept love from a man, Karen is probably able to return love only to a woman.”

  Throughout the lecture Karen behaved as if she weren’t with us—or as if, in Susan, she had found an echo for her own ideas.

  As an afterthought, Susan remarked that she finds many of Karen’s involvements incomprehensible; they are all truncated, lacking in either spiritual or sexual energy. It is sad, she went on, that Karen has never found a lover as complicated and adventurous as herself, a man or a woman through whom she could finally discover herself.

  • • •

  Susan finds Karen’s unpredictable eroticism synonymous with being adventurous; she sees it as an indication of complexity, of sexual obsession. The truth is, Karen is merely impulsive.

  I envy Karen’s temperament, even though I’m frightened by it. She is never indifferent, she is seldom withdrawn, and she is always ready to change her mood. I’ve witnessed so many of her explosions, and her subsequent remorse, that when she swears they won’t happen again, I can’t believe her. She is critical of my restraint, claiming that I’ve been emotionally programmed by the patterns demanded by my addiction and my withdrawal, and she says it with a straight face, unable to realize how much in her own life she relies on self-imposed arbitrary patterns. Isn’t she aware that unless she is well tanned she feels insecure? That while having sex, with me and apparently with others, in order to speed up her excitement and potentiate her orgasms, she more and more often depends on inhaling Onsense, the illegally manufactured and dangerous derivative of amyl, alkyl, and butyl nitrate, which, mindless of her lover, and right in the middle of her lovemaking, she will greedily breathe in straight from an ampule she breaks under her nose? That by her own admission, in search of easy sexual diversion, more and more often she joins casually met twosomes and threesomes? That at social gatherings she can no longer do without several vodkas on the rocks, which slur her speech? And what about her chain smoking? Sex with me is probably the last domain where patterns don’t yet rule: after all the days and nights we have spent together talking, making love, staring at each other, and falling asleep in each other’s arms, I still don’t know what triggers her need of me. In every other woman I’ve made love to, sexuality has been a channel to her mystery, but Karen’s sexuality shields her from me.

  The last time I saw her she was recovering from a virus and the side effects of antibiotics. She prowled naked around her apartment, watering her already sodden pla
nts, smoking one cigarette after another, washing a dish or spoon as soon as she used it, and from time to time glancing at me. She had just discovered, she said, that the dry cleaner had lost the sash to her new Oscar de la Renta gown. Then she said, “I’ve been without sex for so long now that I can’t wait to start playing around again!”

  I felt a cold intake of breath. Was I to be a partner in her “playing around”? Or did she merely feel that I deserved to know of her playing around with others, since for her to have sex with others was indeed to play around—around me. Reminded of her need of other lovers, I felt defeated, as if I knew in advance that each one of them would take her away from me on a path I didn’t know. Later Karen took a bath, but I, immobilized by her calm and unable to master her mood, remained dressed, staring at her lean form in the foam. Each time she closed her eyes I assumed she was far away, already getting laid in her mind by her new lover.

  • • •

  I’ve been in bed for three days, unable to move, to read, or to think. The high fever is gone now, but my eyes are still tired and my body aches. The hotel waiters and maids silently come and go, feeding me, cleaning the place, doing all those chores that are usually performed for the sick person by family members or trusted servants.

  I’ve had these symptoms before: once when I was about to leave the country and once in Rangoon after my mother’s detectives found me. In those days I used to panic at the approach of the symptoms, but now I refuse to give in to them. Wednesday was the worst day. My doctor sent two nurses from Doctors Hospital to look after me, but what I needed—tender care and human concern—they couldn’t give; they just sat all day in the living room giggling, watching TV, listening to music. Meanwhile, alone in the bedroom, I fought off my fear of sudden death. My heart raced and I could barely feel my pulse. Then my blood pressure seemed to drop and it was difficult for me to breathe. Still, even then, part of me refused to become engaged, so in part, at least, I was able to remain fascinated by my own terror. Then, a moment later, I was calm and no longer even felt the need for a doctor.