Neither Five Nor Three (Helen Macinnes) (17 page)

Paul nodded. He said gloomily, “Weidler would agree with you. He told me yesterday, when I went to see him, that he felt he was fighting shadows. It was he, by the way, who first mentioned Orpen’s name to me. Blackworth was seemingly one of Orpen’s prize pupils. He was gradually ousting anti-Communist writers and planting articles by people like Orpen in their place. Did you know about this?”

“We guessed.”

“Weidler is hushing it all up like a fool.”

Brownlee said slowly, “Not so much of a fool.”

“But his silence plays right into their hands.”

“A frank statement of the case would also play right into their hands. Blackworth would sue to the hilt. And he would get away with it—unless his Communist Party card was discovered, which it won’t be. And unless the FBI caught Blackworth breaking the law in some way, there’s nothing they could do.”

Paul was silent.

“You see,” Brownlee went on, “the fellows like Blackworth are cowards. They run no real risks, they can’t be arrested and tried. They sit in a nice cosy job, take capitalist money, and talk very bravely against capitalism when there are no capitalists around to hear. The most we can do to them is to expose their hidden propaganda. We pull their teeth, in other words. Whenever they write or publish an article—or a speech, or a review—pretending to be just ordinary American Liberals, we write an article on the same subject and give the full facts. That’s the job we have to do; just show the misrepresentations and lies for what they are.”

“There’s another job we have to do, too,” Paul said.

“We?” A smile of real pleasure came over Brownlee’s thin worried face.

“Yes. I’m in on this,” Paul admitted.

“Well, what’s the other job?”

“We have to find out any men who are in a position, as Blackworth was, to destroy other people’s earning power. He had obviously a list of anti-Communist writers who were to be suppressed and sabotaged. They have no comeback at all against men like Blackworth.”

“Yes, that’s a problem. There we need the help of men like Weidler who saw what was happening to his magazine. Weidler will be on guard, from now on.”

“But Blackworth gets off pretty easily—he’ll find another job because of all this secrecy, while the writers he blacklisted probably had a hard time paying the rent. And what about a writer’s confidence if he keeps getting rejections? Take away his confidence, and his career is over. I suppose that is what the Blackworths hope for.” Paul Haydn frowned. “What do you want me to do?”

“I’ll send you your first batch of homework on Monday.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ll be allocated certain magazines and periodicals. Just read them thoroughly. When something needs to be answered, just let me know at once. We have to get a reply published immediately, if possible in the same magazine or periodical.”

“And if that isn’t made possible for you?”

Brownlee smiled. “That happens rarely. Most Americans are like Weidler: they don’t like being tricked by disguised Communists. But when we find any who seem to enjoy it, then we find them—interesting.” He rose, and stretched himself stiffly. He emptied the last crumbs of peanuts on the ground and watched the squirrels pounce boldly. “We get no pay, of course,” he reminded Haydn. “We are doing this work for”—he looked down at a daring squirrel now clinging to his trouser leg—“less than peanuts. That’s why we all have other jobs. So take Weidler’s offer. And you can start helping the non-Communist writers to pay their rents again. By the way, it is possible that Orpen may find you interesting as the future Feature Editor. Has he any other contacts at
Trend
that you’ve heard of?”

“There’s a man called Murray.” There was distaste in Paul’s quiet voice and open dislike in his eyes. “I met him at a party on my first night home.”

“Oh, you argued?” Brownlee shook the squirrel gently to the ground.

“No. I was still too dazed about being back in New York.”

“Lucky. Don’t argue with Murray.”

“Look,” Paul said defensively, “is this part of my homework? Because I shan’t enjoy it.”

“No. It’s a sideline.” Suddenly Brownlee’s voice was bitter. “I am curious about Mr. Nicholas Orpen. I think he’s much more than a glib propagandist. He lives comfortably, he travels a good deal. Who pays? He doesn’t write so much for high-priced magazines, he has no private income. So where does he get the money? And why?”

They began walking toward the nearest path, Paul was thinking about Milton Leitner’s story last night. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose Murray could lead me to Orpen eventually. The only trouble is that I don’t like Murray and he doesn’t like me.”

“If he is told to make friends with you, he will,” said Brownlee. “It may only be to persuade you that certain writers are worth publishing. To Murray, you’ll be just another fool to have your head turned by parties where people are obviously impressed by your brain power. Don’t flinch when they claim you as a true intellectual with real Liberal sympathies. They mean it to be flattering. And in some cases, flattery works.”

Brownlee sidestepped two boys roller-skating along the path. He watched them go, their arms flailing rhythmically, their feet flashing in the sunshine. A gaggle of small girls played “run sheep run.” A father showed his young son how to feed pigeons. Three young mothers pushed baby carriages and gossiped leisurely. Two old men sat on a bench with a chessboard spread between them and debated their next moves slowly, while the little group standing around than watched in silence. Brownlee looked at all this and his face tightened. “Don’t get me wrong,” he added unexpectedly, “if any other group in America starts using those Communist tactics for their own purposes—if any ex-Bundists or hidden Fascists begin propaganda or infiltration, we’ll be after them too. If anyone wants to spread his ideas let him do it openly, not hide under false pretences.”

Paul Haydn, marking the intensity of Brownlee’s face as he spoke, said, “You’ve declared war, I see.”

“No. War has been declared on us. I’m just taking up the challenge. And so are you. And so are most of us.” He smiled, then.

They said goodbye at the Sixty-seventh Street entrance to the Park. Brownlee continued up Fifth Avenue toward the Metropolitan Museum to have a look at the visiting Hapsburg Collection before it left New York. Paul Haydn turned south, following the continuous row of trees that stretched along the Park side of the avenue. He walked smartly, as if a lot of his worries had dropped from his shoulders. His decisions were made, and he felt they were well made. The lazy holiday in the Southwest, which he had planned in Berlin, would have to wait. He would start work at
Trend
as soon as possible. And instead of admiring the mesas, he could wonder at New York’s changing skyline.

He looked at the new buildings on the east side of Fifth Avenue, at some with pleasure, at others with criticism. From architecture it seemed that his thoughts slid naturally back to Rona. But it didn’t take much to make him think of her, these days. I’m just the man, he thought bitterly, who didn’t know what he was throwing away until it was too late. When he was back at
Trend
, he would have to avoid her. It could be done; the staff was larger now, the offices were more spread out. He would avoid her. She would never notice, and he would, at least, not be reminded so constantly of what might have been. And with that decision, he buried his last hesitation about joining
Trend
again.

He was now approaching the southernmost limits of Central Park. Before him lay the canyon of Fifth Avenue. The afternoon sun caught the different colours of its buildings, the sky—now high and blue, with the early morning clouds all drifting out to sea—emphasised their varying shapes. The rows of windows gleamed; the flags drifted lazily over the heads of the masses of people who jammed the sidewalks; the river of buses and taxis flowed slowly, steadily. He hesitated when he reached the Square, where General Sherman sat on his bronze horse with Glory, womanlike, leading him firmly toward Bergdorf Goodman’s jewellery counter. Then, following General Sherman’s direction, Paul crossed over to the Plaza. The fountain wasn’t playing, and the smoothly shaped nude on its pinnacle was now a Nymph Surprised by a Drought, but the bright tulips and promenading pigeons and the gaily dressed children told everyone this was a holiday: this was Saturday afternoon, almost three o’clock.

Saturday afternoon, and what the hell do I do? Paul Haydn wondered. It was too late to go out to a ball game. It was too late to call up his friends—most of them would be trying to find spring in the country, anyway, planting rose trees, painting porches, going fishing and catching their first sunburns, or trying to lower their golf handicaps.

Across Fifty-eighth Street, he saw a new movie theatre. It was showing a Jean Gabin film. He walked toward it, past the placid rank of elderly horses and ancient carriages waiting for young men to take their girls for a ride in Central Park, past the couples strolling slowly arm-in-arm. Well, Paul Haydn thought, as he looked back at the Plaza, he could always spend a Saturday afternoon in finding out how much French he had forgotten.

II. ANTITHESIS

9

It was the end of April, a cold wet Sunday that covered the churchgoers’ spring clothes with heavy coats and umbrellas. Scott Ettley arrived at Rona’s apartment at eleven o’clock. “A filthy day to go apartment hunting,” he said gloomily, as he hung up his raincoat in the hall closet.

“Perhaps it will clear.” Rona was looking cheerful in spite of the weather. She pointed toward the living-room, neat and welcoming. A small table covered by a gaily-checked cloth was set for breakfast beside one window. The azaleas Scott had sent Rona for Easter were now planted in the window box, and still in bloom. “See, I’ve everything ready. I’ve just made the toast and coffee. You’ll feel much better once you’ve had something to eat.”

“How did you guess that I hadn’t had breakfast?” he asked, beginning to smile as he followed her into the little kitchen.

“Because you never look after yourself properly.”

He caught her in his arms and kissed her. “Darling, it’s good to see you. Even a wet Sunday morning seems different, then.”

“It’s funny...” Rona began, and then concentrated on heating a pan for the eggs. “Scrambled?” she asked.

“Perfect. But what’s funny?”

“The way everything smoothes out when we are together. I wish people and things would leave us alone. We do very nicely by ourselves, don’t we?”

He nodded. Then, half-smiling, “What people and things, Rona?”

“Oh—just life.” She beat the eggs, added a drop or two of water, salt and pepper. She watched the nut of butter foam in the pan, and poured the eggs into it. “Just work, and duties, and work, and people. Perhaps we ought to go and live in Alaska or some place.” She reached up suddenly and kissed his cheek. “Cheer up, darling.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t see you last night,” he said. “Last week was damned busy.” If only we could be left alone, he thought. Rona is right. There’s too much duty, too many people in this life.

“Oh, Scott, I wasn’t grumbling. Please, don’t think...” She said no more, but the smile had left her eyes. She stirred the eggs, and pretended to be very busy.

“You don’t grumble,” he said quickly. “Only, you can’t like the way we have to disappoint each other. I don’t enjoy it, any more than you do.”

“I know you don’t.”

“What did you do last night?”

“Oh, very prosaic! I did some laundry. And I read up on that architecture test.” She kept her voice cheerful, although it hadn’t been exactly her idea of how to spend a Saturday evening.

“Still serious about becoming fully qualified?” he asked.

She dished the eggs neatly. She said, “Why not be qualified, anyway? I’m more than half-way through the course, you know. Or don’t you want an architect in the family?”

“Might be useful,” he said with a laugh, and carried the plates into the living-room. Rona took off her apron, and brought the coffee and toast.

“Some day,” she said, “I can design our own house, and then we needn’t go apartment hunting any more. I’ll do a study for you that will really knock your eye out.”

They sat down to eat.

“Meanwhile,” said Scott, “what lousy apartment at what extortionate price have you found?”

“Let’s wait until we reach a cigarette and our last cup of coffee, shall we?” Rona kept her voice gay, and started talking about yesterday’s parade down Fifth Avenue. But she was thinking that the few apartments on her list didn’t sound too hopeful. Perhaps they ought to live in the suburbs or in one of the new outlying housing developments. But Scott had already pointed out that if they lived any distance from Manhattan, then he’d be away from home a good deal. What with his work and all that, he might even have to spend several nights in the city each week. Not a pleasant prospect, he had said. And she had agreed.

“How is
Trend
?” he asked suddenly.

“Still holding up. The great excitement is that Miss Guttman has got engaged. She’s going to live in St. Louis.”

“I hear Haydn’s back.” His voice was too casual.

“Yes, he came about two weeks ago or more,” Rona said, just as casually.

“Is he bothering you?”

Rona looked up at him, startled. “Oh, darling,” she said, beginning to laugh, “I haven’t seen him at all, except once in the elevator. His office is in a different corridor from mine, you know.”

Scott still looked worried.

Rona said, “I think he’s avoiding me, to tell you the truth. Doesn’t that amuse you?”

“Not very much, frankly. Why the hell did he come back at all?”

“Scott, he’s done more than his share in Germany. You couldn’t expect him to go on volunteering to stay in the army forever, could you?”

“The army’s just his level,” Scott said angrily. “But why did he have to go back to
Trend
!”

“Why should he turn down his old job because I’m going to be there for another five months? That wouldn’t make any sense.”

“I just hate his guts, that’s all,” Scott said gloomily. “I don’t trust him one bit.”