Sins of the Fathers (31 page)

I heaved the concrete slab of my will over the grave of my memories and obliterated all thought of the past from my mind.

Sullivan, Scott. 624 E. 85, NYC
.

I relaxed. Scott was
my
boy, not a son exactly because he was only eleven years my junior, but perhaps a much younger brother. Steve had tossed him
aside sixteen years ago – sixteen years, seven months and five days ago, the same day I had discovered I would have no son
of my own. That was the day Steve had walked out on Emily to chase after Dinah Slade. He had had two sons by an earlier marriage
but he had junked them as if they were of no importance, just as he had junked his two daughters by Emily. The younger son
Tony had always been a problem to me but I had not seen him again after 1939 when he had gone to live in England, and in 1944
he had been killed in the war. However Scott had survived the war and Scott was quite different from both his brother and
his father; in fact I never even thought of Steve and Tony when I was with Scott.

Scott was no boisterous wheeler-dealer, tossing off God knows how much liquor a day and seducing every woman in sight. Scott
was low-keyed. And Scott was smart. He knew about all kinds of interesting things. Scott was quiet but he could put on a good
social manner which the clients liked, just as he could put on a tough front which made the clients respect him. Scott
was
tough. I liked that. Men who don’t drink, don’t smoke and (maybe) don’t have sex are usually degenerates with all their perversions
buttoned up, but Scott was normal – I was sure he was normal because I had spent so much time with him and I would have sensed
if something had been seriously wrong. I had looked after him all the way through adolescence, and I was proud of the way
he had turned out. In fact I liked him far better than either of my stepsons although I had always gone to extraordinary lengths
to conceal this from Alicia.

Scott was a night-owl, often up till two in the morning reading his latest highbrow book. I normally have no time for highbrows,
but Scott never made a fetish of all that useless knowledge, never showed off, never looked down on anyone who wasn’t as well-educated
as he was. Besides, one could talk to him for hours and never realize he was a highbrow because he could deal with realities
as ably as he could deal with some high-flown intellectual theory. I respected Scott’s grasp of the realities of life. The
reason why Sam was neurotic about Scott was because he totally failed to understand how realistic Scott was. Scott hated his
father and had long ago written him off. Scott liked me. I had cared for him, taken trouble over him, done everything possible
to ensure he would have a fine career – and that meant something to
Scott. In fact it meant everything. If we had been characters in one of Kevin’s plays Scott would have been harbouring some
huge grudge against me for ruining his father and retribution would be hovering in the wings, but that only goes to show what
junk even the best literature can be. Scott wasn’t waiting to nail me. He was too fond of me, and anyway even if he had hated
my guts his grasp of the realities of life was so firm that he would have abandoned all hope of revenge. There are some men
who just can’t be nailed. They’re too powerful – and that, in the final analysis, is what my kind of power is all about. I’m
communicating with people. I’m flashing out a message which tells people they have to get along with me and treat me with
respect, and Scott had got that message long ago, received it loud and clear, and now I knew I was free to enjoy my friendship
with him without any neurotic fears and anxieties. In fact I secretly relied very much on my friendship with Scott. My world
would have been a far lonelier place without him.

I picked up the phone.

‘Yes?’ said Scott on the first ring.

‘Hi Scott! Cornelius. Are you sleeping?’

‘No, I’m reading the Venerable Bede.’

That was what I liked about Scott. Every other person in New York was probably sleeping, making love, getting drunk or watching
television, but Scott was doing something truly stimulating.

‘Venerable who?’ I said, already enjoying myself.

‘Bede. He was a very literate eighth-century monk who lived in the north of England. I’m just reading his history of the Anglo-Saxon
church.’

‘Not exactly a book club selection!’

‘Maybe it should be. He’s talking about matters of universal human interest.’

‘Such as?’

‘The brevity of life and the ignorance of man.’

‘My God! Say Scott, come on over and tell me all about it – I’ll send a Cadillac.’

‘Spare the chauffeur. I’ll take a cab.’

I sighed with relief. The emptiness of the night was dissolving and for a brief time I could forget my troubles by pondering
with Scott on the wafflings of some poor old monk. Hurrying upstairs I flung on a pair of pants and a sweater, laced up my
sneakers and then returned to the library to wait for him.

[6]

He arrived ten minutes later, a tall spare man of thirty-one with black hair cut very short and black eyes set deep in a pale
tough face. He had that look of someone who ought to be reckoned with. I liked it. I did not underestimate it – I never underestimated
the dangers of restless ambitious men bent on carving out a comfortable niche for themselves – but I had had nearly a quarter
of a century’s experience in dealing with such people and I knew how to keep them in line. I never mind the successful people
unless their dreams of grandeur get so far out of control that I’m put in the unenviable position of having to wake them up.
It’s not success I despise. It’s failure.

‘Hi Scott,’ I said smiling as I offered him my hand to shake.

‘Hi!’ He gripped my hand and smiled back, projecting both confidence and common sense along with his friendliness. ‘Are you
nuts or something? What’s the idea of hauling me over here at one in the morning to discuss the Venerable Bede?’

‘Hell, you know what millionaires are like! They’ll do anything for kicks, as the scandal-sheets are always telling us … Say,
after you’ve told me about Bede can we play chess?’

‘I might have guessed Bede was just the bait to lure me cross-town!’

In the library I went to the little liquor cabinet I kept tucked away behind the far bookcase and uncapped two bottles of
Coca-Cola. ‘Okay,’ I said, handing Scott his Coke and sitting down opposite him across the chessboard. ‘Tell me Bede’s views
on the brevity of life and the ignorance of man.’

‘Well …’ Scott offered me a stick of chewing gum, and as we sat chewing companionably together I thought how odd it was that
the two of us, living in a country Bede had never heard of, should be discussing his views twelve hundred years after his
death. The immortality of artists and thinkers struck me again and once more I felt restless at the thought of a power which
had passed by me.

‘Bede’s telling a story,’ said Scott, still chewing, ‘about the conversion to Christianity of one of the great English kings,
Edwin of Northumbria. Edwin was conferring with his thanes – his aides – about whether he should take the plunge and turn
Christian. Well, there they are, sitting around in the Witenagemot – the boardroom – and trying to figure out their options.
It’s a big decision because if Edwin turns Christian all the rest of them have to turn Christian too, but finally one of the
guys says: “Look, let’s try a new religion – what have we got to lose? We don’t know a damned thing. Human life is like the
flight of a sparrow when the sparrow flies into a lighted hall in the
depths of winter, pauses for a moment in the warmth and then flies out of the door at the far end into the night again.” Or,
to put it baldly: we don’t know where we come from, we don’t know where we’re going and our time in the lighted hall of life
is just a brief flash in comparison with the vast darkness of eternity.’

I tried to concentrate on the essentials. ‘Did Edwin turn Christian?’

‘Sure. They all figured any religion which offered increased enlightenment was worth a try.’

‘And what happened to Edwin?’

‘He got wiped out by his great heathen enemy Cadwalla and the English relapsed into paganism.’

‘So it was all a waste of time.’

‘But was it? We can’t know that for sure. Obviously there were people who turned Christian, because of Edwin’s conversion,
and remained Christian, despite Cadwalla’s victory. Don’t forget Christianity triumphed in the end.’

‘That can’t have been much consolation to Edwin when he got wiped out!’

‘How can you be so sure? Edwin died for something he believed in, for a belief he thought would ultimately prevail.’

‘Yes, but that doesn’t alter the fact that he died a failure!’

‘Doesn’t it? Doesn’t that depend on how you define success and failure? Doesn’t that depend on what things you consider important?
And aren’t you assuming death always represents failure although that’s not necessarily so?’

I immediately thought of my enemy Dinah Slade dying for her country at Dunkirk after a successful satisfying life.

‘Can’t think why you read all this depressing ancient history, Scott. Let’s play chess.’

We began to play. After a while I said: ‘Do you really believe that, Scott – that life’s no more than a sparrow’s flight through
a lighted hall?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘Well … Makes life seem kind of senseless, doesn’t it?’

‘Life
is
senseless,’ said Scott. ‘That’s why it’s so interesting to read the philosophers who try and shape the world into some kind
of order.’

‘Why bother? God invented the world and that’s that.’

‘But do you believe in God, Cornelius?’

‘Of course. All sensible people do. There must be a starting-point in creation and that point’s God.’ I casually captured
a pawn. ‘Your move.’

‘But that’s what’s so interesting, Cornelius. Not all sensible people
do believe in God. Before the advent of Buddhism, for instance, the Chinese had no concept of God at all. In other words,
a quarter of the human race lived and died for centuries without feeling the need to believe in a supreme being.’

‘Well, the Chinese are odd, of course. Everyone knows that.’ I poured myself some more Coke. ‘Personally,’ I said after he
had made his move, ‘I don’t think life’s so senseless at all, in fact it seems very well-arranged to me. I certainly know
what
my
life’s all about. I’ve been put in charge of great wealth and I have a moral duty to use it to benefit as many people as
possible. This I try to achieve through my Fine Arts Foundation and my charities.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘I have a wonderful family, I love my work and I lead a successful rewarding life. I’m very fortunate and happy.’

‘That’s great,’ said Scott warmly, ‘but personally I think it’s a waste of time to ask yourself if you’ve led the good life
because few people can be objective enough about the facts to reach any valid conclusion. I think the great question a man
should ask himself is not: gee, just how wonderful am I? but instead: has it all been worth it?’

‘Okay.’ I thought it was time to turn the tables on him. ‘You’ve been leading an ascetic life for years, Scott – has it all
been worth it?’

Scott laughed. ‘Sure! I decided long ago that I wasn’t interested in transient pleasures. They’re not important. I wanted
to study the supreme achievements of the human mind so that when I ask myself: “Has it all been worth it?” I can give an unequivocal
“yes”. The world only really exists in the intellect, so if you refine the intellect you refine the world you’re forced to
live in.’

‘You’ve lost me, Scott. All this intellectual garbage is beyond me. Your move.’

Scott edged his knight away from my bishop. ‘Okay, forget me – let’s turn to you. Has it all been worth it, Cornelius?’

‘Of course! I’d do it all again! I’ve always done my best to lead a decent productive life, and one can’t do more than one’s
best.’

‘Indeed one can’t! Your God must be pleased with you, Cornelius!’

‘Yeah … well, to tell the truth, I don’t see God as a father figure peering over my shoulder the whole time. I see God as a
force – a form of pure power.’ I saw a brilliant opening for my queen but it was three moves ahead. ‘I see God as kind of
impersonal,’ I said, debating whether to knock off his knight. ‘Like justice.’

‘Ah, justice!’ said Scott. ‘Yes, justice is a fascinating concept. Your move.’

My fingers closed on his knight. ‘You mean revenge?’ I said casually,
very casually, the chessboard wiped clean out of my mind. ‘Old Testament justice? An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth –
that kind of thing?’

‘No, I’m not interested in Old Testament justice and I find revenge intellectually boring. To chase one’s enemy with a meat-axe
presents no challenge to the mind at all. Revenge is man playing God. I’m more interested in God playing God – or, to put
it in non-theological jargon, in natural justice.’

‘How do you mean? Are you talking about so-called “poetic justice” – “we reap what we sow” and all that garbage?’

‘Cornelius, I’m just as ignorant as King Edwin and his thanes – it’s no good looking to me for enlightenment! I guess what
I’m saying is that I’m interested in finding out more about the meaning of life – like a medieval knight on the great allegorical
quest for the Grail. Do you know anything about the Arthurian legends, Cornelius?’

‘Yeah, wasn’t there a movie with John Barrymore? You know, you ought to get married or something, Scott! All this talk about
Holy Grails makes me think you’re getting as eccentric as what’s-his-name, the guy who went looking for it – Galahad. Wasn’t
there something wrong with him?’

‘He was celibate. In the Middle Ages chastity was supposed to give a man superhuman strength.’

‘A nervous breakdown more likely. You’re not really celibate, are you, Scott?’

‘Are you asking me if I’m a virgin?’

‘Not exactly. I’m sure you’ve—’

‘Tried sex? Of course. Doesn’t everyone?’

‘With girls?’ I said in a sudden panic.